Chapter 1 - The Object in the Sand

Chapter 1 

The Object in the Sand

 

 

I

look upon an orb. It’s sunken before me in a hole, here at this unmarked beach. I know this object; yes, I know it well. I’ve lived a great adventure with it, for it, because of it, and yet--I’m agitated to my gut--I can’t remember a thing of what happened.

I’ve been here before, in this exact spot. I can reconstruct some distant notion of having found it and removing it from its sandy bed.

After that, the image starts to fade.

I’m Gabe, of the pair Gabe and Daniel. We’re friends. He’s the one in the water. You won’t ever find me in the water--uh-uh. That’s the last place I’ll be. He’s splashing, boisterously in love with the stuff. …Does he know? He doesn’t appear to, although he was with me all through that lost wreckage of time. Why can’t I remember anything? It feels so recent, though oddly remote.

A little about myself. I’m light black, that’s to say, bi-racial. My hair is short, my face clean and shaven; and most would say I have a pretty good arrangement of parts. I’m in blue basketball shorts with white and black stripes down the sides, and wearing a plain white t-shirt. This is my outfit as far as I can make pains to dress myself.

Ah, but I’m straying from the point. The point I have to make is, the orb--I’ve got an orb here; you believe that? No? Well, give me a second. Refer to that ancient divination object called on by fortune tellers. They look into the crystal ball. It’s like that, but not exactly. This is one of a kind. I’ll rest my faith on it. Let me describe the scene, as it pertains to the moment.

We’re at a beach. I, myself, am very confused. It’s the summer after our graduation from Springhurst College down in seedy L.A. I was an English major and champion long jumper. Daniel retains the nerd category conferred on him by close college study groups and debate races. He’s near blind, wears round glasses over round eyes; he’s pale, and childless. Me too, for that matter. No girl, no fruit of my loans popped out on the earth. …Penniless. Same goes for the both of us. We’re rejects on this western beach-front Hemisphere.

 The town of Blue Haven was lucky to be rid of us for four swell years. In that time the slacker misconception weighed a little less heavily on its shoulders. Graduating, we came back; and here we are again to bump up your electricity bills and eat up your couches.

Now that I’m back, I’m never running or jumping again, or doing anything that would even remotely employ that athletic spring to my step. …Not doing it.

I’m sure it’s no coincidence we went to the same college, lived buddy-buddy for four consecutive terms. We’d feud occasionally, but could always refrain from any real bashing by letting our favorite videogame decide our bouts for us.

Shoot to Kill.

Sounds violent, I know. And it is, fantastically! It’s a first-person shooter; I’m sure you’ve seen the type. We link our computers, set up a nasty partition transforming the room into a two-way battle station, close our ears in dense headphones from other obscure noises…and the game begins. Rip, slash, goes the spirit of battle. Someone dies, and all hearts glory in a raised kill count.

Daniel has got me on our last two matches. Naturally, the winner is obliged to take swipes at the loser. It’s never fun losing. That’s why, this summer, I’m committed to getting good. Daniel has a pash for my father’s newspaper column, which I think should distract him just enough that I can claw my way to victory. The column…we’ll get to that later. I’ve got the computer station set up in my room in the basement. Right you are; I’m the underground cretin living in the dark abyss of my parent’s overhead life.

P.S. I’m not really a cretin. Figure of speech.

Perhaps I should hide it, the orb. Should be simple enough. It’s small, about the size of an orange, and light, unimaginably light. I’ve taken it out of the sand now. I hold it close, down in the folds of my shirt. Listen, I implore you, to this fact I’m sharing now, the most remarkable fact about the orb--and yet I receive it with simple understanding, a kind of complacent awareness of already having been blown away by this marvel in a glass shell.

Inside the orb--it’s transparent through into the interior--is contained a miniature world, with clusters of stars, a booming sun in the background. Half the planet is lit with the light of this blazing giant. The other half is completely dark. Two equal-sized moons orbit the planet. One is rust-colored, the other, a lusterless gold. That’s the orb in a nutshell: a microcosm of a double-mooned planet with a two-face persuasion. What a wild piece of work.

This discovery could sell tickets down the block and around again, and probably out to middle America. To be of such insubstantial weight, and yet possess this inner realism, so powerful in design--surely such an invention would boggle all humankind. I must keep it to myself, even though I think it’s become news already to some unspeakable entity.

Just now my temples throb with a deep indwelling malady, a claustrophobic fear shooting from the orb and straight to my brain. Why does my memory rear up such harm? What (anyone???) is this dark, ominous sensation that surrounds so delicate an object?

The orb spells danger. It offers intrigue.

I’ll wait to pursue it. Here comes Daniel. I’ll hide it in the nest of my legs, like a hen does her eggs.

He walks to his shirt, gathered to make a perfect apex point on which to rest his glasses. He sees to them first, slipping them on carefully up to the brim. Slinging his shirt over him, he’s ready and walking toward me.

His hair has that certain tinge like orangutan fur, a saturated stormy orange. It’s wet and falling at the moment. Traditionally, what he does, the bright orange poof he styles up into a crest of spikes; and the side of his head he leaves his normal black color, cut close.

Down low he wears a black goatee.

When he throws his glasses on, pinching his thin, Caucasoid face and nose, he can seem pretty cool from afar. Then he speaks. He always does. His vocal pattern chops with that severe head voice, betraying his strict unpopularity with female listeners.

“How we doin’ over here?” The head voice hits a high C, and Daniel’s word is heard all too well.

“Let’s go,” I say to him.

“What’s the hurry?”

“No rush. I just wanna get home to eat. And the sun’s about to set. You know how much of a shitstorm this place is at night.”

“Yeah, I remember last time; we were both reverted to infants and our moms weren’t there to help us. But infants don’t crawl. I was at one point crawling, and you were knee-deep in a wild bush and praying to Allah. We should go.”

Such is we. Don’t expect your normal bad boy biker duo, your savvy fashionista, not jocks, not Wallstreet players spinning deals around the clock. We are as out of touch with life as you know it as can be. Our idea of a Saturday night is lighting our faces up with the blood-splattered spectacle of an all-hours mercenary assault onscreen. Gunfire rings out in the night and Daniel and I are two happy keepers of the peace. An infantry frag grenade could mean a fiasco for the evening or a stunning triumph for weeks to come.

We make inroads home. The circuitous path we’re wont to take leads us to and from this secluded beach landing.

Not a soul can bother us here.

It was one day, years ago, that we stumbled upon this rustic bed, cut off for over a mile by formidable jungle terrain. We were in the park near my house"a large, hedged-in, factory-made sprawl of green grass, highfalutin trees, and Easter picnics tables.

Through this grand offering to stop and rest, we trudged on as adventuring soldiers on reconnaissance. What was the reason exactly? It may be that I kicked a ball, a soccer ball, and it went astray. No, it was a Frisbee, and I didn’t do wrong. The flight was quick and presentable. Daniel was slow and forgetful. He made a lame attempt to grab it, with the result being that he missed it; it spun on, and dove like lightning into the framework of hedges. I made a low joke. He clopped off to fetch it. And disappeared.

Where had he gone?

He’d gone and kept going. I thought he was hiding, or playing me for a fool. It turned out some inner passage showed him bright new avenues in what was seemingly a sound hedge. I called after him and followed his voice.

“There’s a trail back here!” Or something.

“Wait up.”

We tripped together over log and root, scoured our course for what lay ahead, and came out finally upon a beach--the beach today. From the obscure spot where it had grudged to be found, and the complete stillness of the sand, we knew this was something special. From that day on, we’ve retreated to this private beach to be out of the way of people, and act as irrationally as needs be for the moment. Many a bizarre character trait has been ousted in the all-too-quiet freedom of the beach.

It’s a blind beach, and just as blind is its means of approach. The hedges tell of nothing coming or going. Only when, suddenly, two tall graduates emerge into the park… We, of course, make sure no one can see us. We have claim on the beach and for anyone to know about it is strictly forbidden.

Everything looks normal until--Daniel and I walk out of nowhere and are back to civilization. Same random encounter happens when the two of us go in. Humans walking and now they’re gone. What a thing for study!

We walk out now, a little after 6 p.m., to an empty lot. A few streets we have to cross, swinging onto Cherry Brook Lane, and we’re home, at my house. It’s a squatty steeple barn, a blue and white homage to those classic pasty homes of the old boulevards of Hope Street.

We get inside. Oh, I almost forgot; what about the orb? Did I mention I brought a towel along? I must’ve missed that. Like I said, I prefer to sit out of the water and goad the poking sun rays; and where best to do this but on some fuzzy colorful rug. 

“Hey, Mom.”

We get inside. She’s sitting on the couch, reading.

Daniel applies a glossy smile that drips with too much lacquer.

“Turn it down,” I say, and slap him with a dog-nip punch.

“Ow”--rubbing it. “Hey, Mrs. Elison.”

She flips herself around. Two twin leather couches bask outside a centerpiece rug. A huge stone fireplace sends up an air of romance and lambent prosy passages. On the thick mahogany coffee table is a flaming cup of Joe.

She twirls her little finger around the handle, brings it up, sips. She closes her book and puts the book on the table.

“Hello, Daniel. How was the beach?”

“Overloaded with rocks,” he says. “I stuck my foot. …However! You will notice I’m getting a nice tan.”

He holds his arm out.

The woman who is mother to me, Gabe, is Keri Ellison. She’s in such contrast to me that she’s on better footing to give Daniel the what for in regards to his skin issue.

“Funny…you don’t look very tan. You’re lighter than I am.”

I laugh. “She’s right. Oh, but cheer up; you have the whole summer to work on it. …Never fails, though, that the plummeting basement should make ghosts of us all.”

Daniel shrugs. “Ah…goes with my look.” He sees her book. “Whatcha readin’?”

“The Millionaire’s Wife.”

“How is it?”

“Eh. I wouldn’t have bought the house in the country. Why primp yourself up and have Cleopatra’s wardrobe when there’s no one to see you in it?”

“I guess for the style points to earn with yourself.”

“What do you think, Gabe?” my mother asks.

“I think a good woman ought to limit her expenditures to afford every cent of her husband’s wants and needs.”

“You’re a tender fool if you think that.”

A pause. Daniel wins a peep show down my mother’s blouse as she replaces her coffee on the table. She looks up, falling loose and relaxed back on the couch. Her hair is silken black death, long and engrossing. He stares.

“Well, I should probably get dinner started”--getting up. She asks Daniel, “Will you join us?”

“How could I not? Your casserole’s impossible. Your alfredo has the power to preserve youth.”

“Gabe, could you tell your father I’d like his help downstairs? He’ll have reins on the meat portion.”

She takes her coffee and book.

“Women’s work,” I jest. “You coming?”

“I’ll meet you in your room. I’ll start up the game.”

“Okay. Don’t take any cheap shots!”

 

 

Author's Note

Would you read on to Chapter 2 if you were previewing this book in a store?

Reviews

[Greg Hanks]

This has some awesome writing styles in it! I really enjoy some of the descriptions of the characters. However, I felt a little lost in some sticky sentences and there were some redundancies such as "Ha." I laugh." You don't need the "Ha" if you state that he is laughing. Overall, it was a great read! The beginning was really engaging, the way that it is written. Great job! (Also, I guess I don't really have a better pen name haha. I don't really like my full name of Gregory, and my middle initial is J. I think I can swing it, though. I'm not too worried :) )

[Frank Rogers]

Yes, in answer to your author's note, I would and will read on to Chapter 2! Really very well written. About as much intrigue as you can possibly pack into a first chapter, without it seeming like overkill.

I only have one very, very minor suggestion, but it's really just a matter of personal preference. I think in general, Gabe sounds very contemporary - so his use of the word 'upon' in the first line seems a little out of place with the rest of the piece. It might be a slightly archaic turn of phrase for such a vibrant opening chapter. But that is honestly just personal taste, and I don't know yet how the character will develop - but I will soon!