X. Elucidation [1?]

X. Elucidation [1?]

A Chapter by Writer #00

X. ~E~lu ~ci ~da ~tion 

 

            Chad almost always answered the door when my mom dropped me off for piano lessons. My finger would raise to ring the doorbell, then the door would swing enthusiastically open and Chad would be on the other side of the threshold, dark eyes smiling brightly as his pearly grin carved genial crow’s feet directly below his brows. 


            “Harrison, my favourite pupil!” he’d say, bowing low to the ground and stepping aside so I could enter his glorious abode, “welcome, what shall I learn from you today?”


            I’d smile, a copy of Chad’s Learning the Piano is as Simple as Black & White (for all ages) tucked under my armpit, and the part for whatever song he’d sent me home to start learning last lesson playing in my head.  We’d walk into the great room, perhaps his wife had some snacks already laid out for us in there to enjoy before we began, and we’d sit down at that beautiful glass piano of his and “let her teach us”.  Only once do I remember being able to ring the doorbell.


            It had been the day following a robbery (which I later discovered had been a home invasion).  Chad’d called late the night before, sounding frantic and voice slurred, telling my parents he wouldn’t be able to meet with me the next day, as he usually did, because he was getting a security system installed.  That last part was true but, in hindsight, it was probably a cover-up for how distraught the burglary had made him.  As far as I knew (and as far as I presently know) Chad’d almost never drank (libations, of course), but, by the sound of his message that day--and I remember it so clearly, as if the trauma Chad’d felt had somehow seared itself into my subconscious as well--he’d nearly drowned in a sea of wine.  I could imagine he wouldn’t’ve wanted his favourite pupil to have seen him in such a state.  I insisted, however, that we go see him at my appointed time and, when both of my parents refused to take me, I went wandering out that morning (which, in retrospect, means my parents weren’t any better parents than they are now--hopefully they’ve been keeping an eye on Salem), not realizing that I wouldn’t be able to reach his house by foot considering it took us forty-five minutes by car.


            Aside from that little time factor, I also had no idea where he lived (I always fell asleep during the car ride), so I was sort of just meandering the nearly unpopulated streets of our neighbourhood aimlessly, following the compass of my misled intuition into a vast field of undeveloped land.  It was early morning--around six or seven--so the fog had settled in nicely, merging forms and evincing misshapen hulks from vegetal silhouettes.  I was lost, but I distinctly recall not being afraid, as if the thought of Chad and the feeling of his book in my hands were enough to ensure my safety.  Man, I wish I possessed that kind of bravery now.


            Eventually, my father found me (about an hour or so later, I think) and he was simultaneously angry, relieved, and downright blubbering. 


            “What were you thinking?!” he’d shouted, “Something could’ve happened to you!” (which, by the way, has always seemed a strange, humorously vague statement--of course “something could have happened to me”, that’s how things work, by happening and transpiring and interacting with other happenings).


            And I responded: “I was thinking of seeing Chad.  I want to make him feel better.”


            Then: “We were so worried, Harrison, you don’t know how worried we were.  Let’s go home.”


            “No,” I’d replied simply, turning around and intending to continue my journey through the fog when my father grabbed my little wrist.


            “Come on, Harri,” he had said, his voice tinted with anger, “Mom’s at home bawling her eyes out and Weston’s the only one there to calm her.  Let’s go home.”


            I declined what I’d perceived to be an offer a few more times before my dad decided to take me to Chad’s place.  About half an hour later, I was stepping out of Sputter, the raucous of backyard landscaping or construction greeting me instead of Chad’s usual, frenetic welcome.  I rang the doorbell.  It felt cold, like that morning.  I rang the doorbell a few more times, then, dejected and confused, turned down the marble steps to where dad had parked Sputter just as a few landscapers came into his house through the backyard gate carrying a tank of what looked to be slimy, black worms.  Though I would have gagged at that sight today, I followed the two workers into Chad’s backyard.


            I found my piano teacher seated, worn and badly dressed, on a recently planted stone bench.  I looked about his vast backyard, the pond had been concreted until it was shallow and rosebushes were being planted along the back wall.  Before that day, his backyard had always been a rather gloomy looking place, paint-chipping gazebos circling a single, empty pond, a barren landscape of rocks and concrete pathways encompassing the pondside motif.  Remodeling the backyard--adding something to the pond--was something Chad’s wife’d always strongly advocated he do, but Chad had always replied with a romantic “I don’t want to change a bit.  This is how we found it when we first moved in here, and I don’t want to change our past--it’s  something so perfect and beautiful it needs no alterations made”.  Now, he was sitting back, watching as his hired gardeners and irrigationists (is this a word? Or are they just called plumbers?) tore that perfect and beautiful past asunder.


            “What’s going on?” I asked him, plopping down (or up, as the case may have been) beside him.


            He’d seemed startled, but I suppose he was too inebriated to expound on that feeling, and merely answered in a soft, white whisper, “My security system.  I’ve got an army of rose warriors lining the back and, if anyone gets past them, I’ve got a whole menagerie of sea monsters waiting in the pool.” (leeches, if you must know--and I believe you must).


            At this moment, the tank I’d seen brought into Chad’s backyard was emptied of its contents--a parade of clumped-together, black, slimy parasites fell into the shallow pond.


            He watched the workers pour the leeches into the pond, his eyes red-rimmed and hair unkempt, as he mumbled to himself.  “It won’t happen again, I promise you, it won’t happen again.”


            He was clutching something in his hands, holding it close to his heart, some sort of trinket or amulet, as if he couldn’t bear to lose it and holding it was the last thing he could do to make sure “it wouldn’t happen again”, whatever “it” was.


            It began to rain.  It was odd, miraculous, and fantastic as there were no clouds in the sky.  Yet, the rain poured heavily down on us, soaking the workers and Chad and me, causing Chad’s dark curls to paste to his scalp like wet paper to almost anything.  The workers rushed inside or out to their trucks, dismissing themselves and advising Chad and I do the same as the rain increased its magnitude. 


            It fell rapidly, like a meteor shower of liquid comets tumbling down from the bluest of skies.  Neither of us moved as the pond overflowed and the leeches washed out onto the grass, the rainwater pushing them closer to us.  I wanted to turn to Chad and tell him to leave, but I was suddenly incapable of movement, my heartrate quickening and sweat beading my face despite the cold…cold?  No.  it wasn’t cold, not at all, but warm, almost tropical.


            The grass grew up at the same rate the rain fell down, in perfect concert, their green lessening into a kelplike yellowish-brown.  I tried to get up, but the grass-kelp assumed a life of its own, sprouting from the house’s wall behind me and wrapping my arms and neck in their thick, slippery tendrils.  I wanted to flail, I wanted to scream, I wanted to turn to Chad for comfort or call for my dad, but none of that was possible as the water rose and the rain fell and all scenery dissolved in what now seemed to be an expanse of leech-infested water. 


            Soon, I was completely submerged in the water, my eyes closed shut in terror as the stone bench, as the ground beneath me, corroded like sugar in tea.  I couldn’t breathe.  Kelpy hands materialized out of the murky, tepid flood, slithering all over me and wrapping me in yet more seaplants.  The temperature of the water increased, moving warm to hot to scalding and back again, a cycle in flux.  I felt as if I were a piece of rice jostled around in boiling water…not really, but, you get the picture, right?  And, as the water reached scalding again, it became so much so that the water evaporated into air and the kelp withered up and dried into dust.  I must have floated into someone’s bed during the flood, because damp sheets were soon all that dominated my tactile regions, the linen politely wrapping themselves around me, constricting me in a breathlessly familiar away.


            Now that the rushing waters of the spontaneous, miraculous flood had disappeared, the momentary silence gradually filled with a soft, melodious soprano:

ςαέσηΘ ο ςωπό ετσίε αΝ

αέγι�' ετσύοκ�'


            It took me a moment to recognize the voice as that of the mysteriously hypnotic song from the beach…


ςήμρΕ  ο ςωπό ετσίε αΝ


            …but once I did, I was panicking like crazy, my palpitation quickening to that of a hummingbird’s, hot sweat dampening the linen even further.


ςαμ  ιδύογαρτ ησοδάραΠ

 

            The lyrics scrolled themselves across my mind’s eye as they sang, as if whatever these creatures were (and, yes, at this time I was still too shaken and traumatized to figure out what they were) were somehow branding my brain with a curse.

υομ ΣΟΙ�'ΡΩ αΝ

ηπάγ�' ανέμ εσ αλΈ

 

            How close were they?  The song seemed to crescendo, the words becoming louder, clearer, and faster, as if imbued with a sense of urgency, repeating the same phrases over and over again:


ςαέσηΘ ο ςωπό ετσίε αΝ

αέγι�' ετσύοκ�'

ςήμρΕ  ο ςωπό ετσίε αΝ

ςαμ  ιδύογαρτ ησοδάραΠ

υομ ΣΟΙ�'ΡΩ αΝ

ηπάγ�' ανέμ εσ αλΈ

 

            I want to say it drove me crazy but, to be honest, it sort of faded into the back of my mind, a calming mantra to meditate on; Greek elevator music.  And I didn’t feel compelled to sing along--no more than with a song on the radio.  I actually began to appreciate it, (I mean, that note on “ςωπό” was way up there on the righthand side of the piano!) recognizing the beauty in the singer’s voice, how smoothly it slurred into the next note at such a fast tempo.  I could understand why people wanted to follow it, but I still thought it was a crazy thing to do.

 

            The song stopped, fading out into a faintly echoed memory.  A persistent, white light probed my eyes open as the sensation of warm water spread from my toes to my neck, as if I were sinking and my head desperately gasped for air above water. 

 

            I was in a porcelain tub, water up to my chin, soothing the scorching pain in my neck.  My first instinct was to jump up and out of the water, away from the horror I associated with it, but I was too weak and too confused to act on instincts (for some reason, I did not think to ask why I was in a bathtub).  I felt sick and mildly feverish, my vision was blurred and coming, fragmentedly, into focus as I tried to discern my whereabouts.  White smudged with pale green.  The silver blur of a showerhead.  How long had I been out? Had the police arrived and taken everyone to safety?   Was I back home? 

 

            “Ya’ve come to, Laddie!” Felix’s relieved cry came from my left.  Ugh.  Nope, guess not.

 

            The counselor was sitting on the closed lid of a toilet to the left of the tub in which I was soaking (luckily, still clothed, but unluckily, too, as now that meant I’d have to change).  The lyrics to the song of my dream still floated in my head, but when I tried to translate them all I got was meaningless gibberish (yes, as opposed to meaningful gibberish), just like the Greek message I’d found above JJ in the bike shed.

 

            “Did you hear that?” I asked Felix groggily, wondering if the song had a source in reality.

 

            “Hear wha’?”

           

            “Nothing,” I answered.  Guess I was going crazy.  It was bound to happen sooner or later.

 

            “How’re ya feelin’?” he interrogated, deciding to ignore my question (or being prompted by it to ask as to the nature of my well being) leaning over me with a smile, “ya feelin’ well ‘nuff to make it a bit longer, ‘til help arrives?”

 

            I furrowed my brow suspiciously (because help definitely should’ve arrived by now).  “How much is ‘a bit longer’?” I  inquired, sitting up in the tub, finding that the pain in my neck was lessened in the water, and sinking back to my original position again.

 

            Felix made a face that said: “I don’t want to lie to you, but the truth is so hard to take” (you know, when people grit their teeth, draw their lips back taut, bug out their eyes, and look at anywhere but you?  No?).

 

            “Oh, no’ much longer, say, ‘bout,” he paid a quick glance at me, then mumbled,  “afewdaysorso.”

            “WHAT?!”  I wanted to shout, bolt upright, and throttle his neck (well, okay, maybe not that last part), but all I could manage was an exasperated sigh.

 

            “Well, to be fair,” Felix continued, “I’m no’ act’lly qui’ sure ‘ow much longer--jus’s go’ a pre’y good ‘unch.  More ‘f an’ estimation, really--help could arrive befo’ tha’.”

 

            “Or after,” I mumbled, my hope of survival dwindling, “What happened to the police?  They were only an hour or so away not to long ago, now they’re saying it’ll take a few days?”

 

            Felix nodded before clarifying: “Weeeeeeell,” (I groaned as I anticipated yet another drawback about to leave Felix’s lips), “no’ exac’ly.  Ya see, laddie, the police can’ find us.”

 

            He must’ve read the quizzical befuddlement on my face, because he then elaborated.  “We gave ‘em th’ coord’nates ta th’ Islan’, an’ th’ guards ‘emselves typed ‘Icthyes islan’” inta th’ GPS, but they can’ seem to fin’ us.  So, I looked at a sat’lite sys’em on th’internet an’ foun’ tha’ we were’n’ on th’ globe…”

 

            He looked up at me, as if to see if I was buying his story.  Believe me, after everything that’d happened, I would’ve believed fish could walk on land.  Nevertheless, Felix decided to switch the angle of his explanation.

 

            “D’you rememb’r th’ story Mrs. Diaz tol’ you a’ th’ bonfire a couple nights ago?”  He asked me. 

 

            I nodded, how could I forget?

 

            “Well, there’s mo’ t’it than wha’ she tol’ya.”

 

            “I know.”  Woops, sorry to ruin your whole air of importance, Felix.

 

            “Wha’ d’ya know?” he asked, almost relieved.

 

            “Kami and I found a story about Oraios,” I explained, trying to suppress my nausea long enough to clear up what was going on.

 

            “Did it tell ya ‘bout the Phantomsea?”

 

            “I think so.  Oraios was momentarily lost in it, he met one of Fylax’s manifestation--“  I felt a chill run through me in spite of the tepidity of the bathwater as a haunting thought occurred to me, “Are we stuck in the Phantomsea?”

 

            Felix combed his hands through his mop of curly black hair, trying to come up with a way to answer what was apparently not a simple “yes-no” question.

 

            “Yes an’ no: ya see, we obviously aren’ in th’ realm o’ th’ flesh anymore since we can’ be registered by any ‘uman technology, but we aren’ exac’ly in th’ realm o’ th’ spirits, either, or we’d be seein’ ‘em lef’ an’ righ’.”

 

            “Are we stuck in some weird transition realm?” I asked, trying to be of use.

 

            Felix shook his head.  “No, it doesn’ take very long t’cross over--“ (oh, yeah, totally a good idea to use death-related terms) “--regardless o’ th’ size o’ th’ thin’ crossin’ over.  My theory is tha’, somehow, th’ Phan’omsea has materialized aroun’ the Islan’ like a forcefield’, creatin’ a barrier betwen th’ outer realm o’ flesh an’ th’ islan’, cloakin’ us from mortal detection.”

 

            “So… the Phantomsea just does something like that every once in a while?”

 

            “No.  Th’ Phan’omsea is lit’rally wha’ i’ soun’s like: an expanse o’ spirit’l wa’er, an’ Merida, like any wa’erspirit, is able t’manipulate the wa’ers of the Phan’omsea.  She’s prob’ly th’ one behin’ this.  She’s makin’ sure the’s no way for Trogon t’escape.”  He averted his gaze from me as he said this last part, and I remembered what he’d said to me right before the bikeride earlier today (or yesterday, depending on the duration of my unconsciousness).

 

            “How do you know I’m Trogon?” I asked, then, remembering how eagerly he’d protected me on arrival, I added “How did you know from the beginning?”

 

            “I did’n’, t’be hones’, but I ha’ a hunch.   I fel’ a connection t’ya th’ firs’ time I saw ya,” he told me, the tone of his voice eerily reminiscent of someone in love.  I shuttered.  Eckk.  Not happening.  No Lolita for me, please and thank you.

 

            “I cou’ feel ya radiatin’ spirit’l energy--a sort of magic--as if ya’d been in contac’ with a spirit sometime in a pas’ life.  I knew this is th’ islan’ o’ th’ angler’s wife, an’ I knew th’ angler she sought was cursed t’return’ t’this islan’ once ev’y reincarnation, so I figu’d th’ on’y reason I’d be able t’reco’nize yer spirit was if I’d dealt with it before,” he looked up at me as another aspect of those ghost stories began to merge with my reality, “‘Ave ya figu’d out who I am, ye’, Laddie?”

 

            I gulped, nodding in the affirmative.  Indeed I had.  Felix, Fylax.  Fylax, Felix.  They were one and the same.  Okay, so maybe that didn’t come as such a surprise to you, if at all.  I mean, it probably seemed pretty obvious.  Why else would he have been protecting me?  And his name way basically the same as the water spirit’s but, in my defense, if you meet a politician named Jeorge, you don’t assume they’re the reincarnation of George Washington, do you?  (Do you?)  To assume my presumed pedophilic counselor was actually a guardian water spirit from a ghost story I’d heard only recently is not  a logical course of action.

 

            “Yer prob’ly wonderin’, then, why I can’ lif’ the Phan’omsea cloak Merida’s put over th’ islan’, an’ why I ‘aven’t been protec’in’ ya with magic ‘n stuff--“ (heheh, that sounds like a toy shop; also: nopety nopety noo to that one, Felix, err, Fylax, I wasn’t wondering that in the least, actually…maybe I should have been?) “--well, d’ya remem’er wha’ ‘appen’d t’ th’ fam’ly I’d  vowed to protec’?”

 

            “They died.”

 

            Perhaps this was too blunt for him, because he stiffened before continuing, “Ya, tha’s righ’, Merida and Trogon were murdered by th’ sirens and their son committed suicide.  Well, d’ya know wha’ ‘appened t’Fylax aft’r he failed t’ fulfill his contrac’ with ‘em?”

 

            I shook my head ‘no’, but only slightly because too much movement worsened my nausea.

 

            “All o’ th’ forms I’d split myse’f up int’ t’guard each member of the fam’ly--th’ two wind spirits and one water spirit--rejoin’d as one in th’ body o’ this Irish guy an’ my powers receded int’ the expanse o’ th’ Phan’omsea.  I’m basic’ly mortal in this body, mortal an’ trapped, an’ I can’ regain my powers ‘til I redeem myself, ‘til I fulfill my contrac’ once more.”

 

            “And you plan to do that by saving me, err, Trogon, from Merida,” I deduced, feeling a pang of sympathy as I imagined Felix searching high and low for a reincarnation of Trogon he could protect.  Suddenly, that sympathy was followed by guilt for having regarded him in such a negative light before now (but, hey, can you blame me?--he acted like a total pedophile!).

 

            “Nope, Bumblebee,” Felix said, a fiery determination blazing in his grey eyes like flashes of lightning across stormy skies, “I don’ plan to, I’m goin’ to--I can alrea’y feel some o’ my pow’r returnin’ from protec’in ya.  Trus’ me, Laddie, I’m defini’ly goin’ t’save ya.”

 

            “How?”  I thought knowing the plan of action would help calm my nerves, maybe subdue my growing nausea.

 

            “Merida isn’ ‘eartless--she’s still th’ same angler’s wife who ‘elped me out when I broke my wing all those years ago--so she tries t’maintain minor casualties when exactin’ her revenge.  Tha’ is t’say: ‘f she’s not sure yer her ‘usban’, then she won’ kill ya (intentionally).”

            “Didn’t she kill Mill, though?” I pointed out, the crack of his skull resonating from my memory.  I shuttered.

 

            “No, th’ song of th’ sirens di’ tha’.  Th’ sirens ‘emselves tend to stay near th’ cove at th’ South Beach, so I’m not too worried abou’ em.  I jus’ wish Coach’d lis’ened t’me an’ ‘adn’t taken you laddies down there, now they know we’re on th’ islan’.”

 

            Great, I thought ,another threat to worry about.

           

            “How would Merida be sure I’m Trogon?” I asked, deciding to ignore the subject of the sirens--best to fous on one problem at a time, right?  Like learning the melody of a song before learning both hands.

 

            “Remem’er th’ weddin’ rings Oraios ‘ad made for ‘is paren’s?”

 

            I nodded, not seeing the connection between jewelry and the current topic.

 

            “Th’ blacksmith enchan’ed th’ pendan’s Oraios’d paid fer but, since he knew the lad was in a hurry, he made th’ rings in th’ same flames as th’ pendan’s--one with each--so tha’ th’ rings were enchan’ed, too.  Merida’s allows fer spirits t’enter th’ body of the wearer, an’ lookin’ through it gives ya a glimpse o’ th’ Phan’omsea, while Trogon’s ring allows th’ wearer’s soul t’leave ‘is body an’ lookin’ through it le’s ya see peoples’ souls.”

 

            “So, if Merida had Trogon’s ring, then she’d be able to see his soul inside me?”

 

            “Exac’ly--but don’ fret, laddie, the’s a way t’disenchan’ th’ rings.  Since they were forged in th’ same flame as th’ pendan’s Oraios had made fer his dowry--d’ya know wha’ I’m talkin’ abou’?“ (I nodded yes.) “--th’ rings’ source o’ pow’r comes from th’ pendants, not th’ rings ‘emselves.”

 

            “We break the pendants, we break the rings,” I mused to myself, remembering all the rings Mrs. Diaz had on her fingers and the amber amulet she always wore.  If we could just get a hold of that amulet…

 

            The ague from whatever that creature’d done to me down by the river interrupted my train of thought, bringing with it wave after wave of hard-hitting, sound-evoking nausea that I could no longer hold back.

 

            “Oh no,” Felix panicked, “th’ venom’s effec’s ‘aven’ worn off, ‘ave they?!”

 

            “V-venom?!”  I stammered, feeling my neck for signs of infection (it was definitely swollen, or beginning to swell, and it felt or, rather, didn’t feel, numb…like, I touched it and could feel my fingers touching my neck but couldn’t feel my neck touching my fingers…does that make sense?) “Where’s Mrs. Diaz--and don’t say I can’t trust her, because, right now, I don’t think I have a choice.”

 

            “She’s gone, Laddie, wen’ with Ali an’ Rosa t’look fer Cane,” he answered frantically, now pacing the little bathroom and combing both hands through his hair in frustration, “what’re we gonna do, Trogon?”

 

            I was too sick and feverish and nau--I retched, turning my head to the left just in time to get the, erm, substance all over the toilet--to speak, but I managed to blubber out a worried “Cane?!  What happened to Cane?”

 

            “Oh, I dunno, Laddie,” Felix answered absent mindedly, still pacing, still messing with his hair, “th’ boy came to on’y abou’ fiften minutes ‘fore you, an’ he jus’ bolted, screamin’ gibb’rish like a madman.  He grabbed the closes’ thin’--I think it was a firepoker--an’ pushed pas’ ev’y one’f us.  No one could stop ‘im, he was like a warrior with th’ thin’.  The boy’d gone absolu’ly mad.”

 

            Mad.  Images of Cane writhing on the ground, clutching his ears in pain resurfaced as I recalled the first attack of music.  Gibberish.  The nonsense lyrics from my dream came to mind.  He must have heard the song, too--perhaps it’s what gave him consciousness, the music finding its way into his dreams and beckoning him to its source.  Or, maybe, commanding him.  But commanding him to do what?  And why could he and I hear it and not Felix?  I wished Kami were here…in the bathroom?...yeah, okay, not like that, but, you know what I mean.

 

            I guess thinking about Kami sparked my creativity because, suddenly, I had an idea.

 

            “Do you have a pen?”  I asked Felix, climbing out of the bathtub (and ignoring the pain in my neck which, luckily, had subsided into mostly-numbness) and nearly losing my balance.

 

            Felix eyed me curiously, producing what I’d requested from his pocket.  I took it in hand, tearing off a square of toilet paper, and wrote down the lyrics as they appeared in my head:

 

ςαέσηΘ ο ςωπό ετσίε αΝ

αέγι�' ετσύοκ�'

ςήμρΕ  ο ςωπό ετσίε αΝ

ςαμ  ιδύογαρτ ησοδάραΠ

υομ ΣΟΙ�'ΡΩ αΝ

ηπάγ�' ανέμ εσ αλΈ

 

            I’d noticed something strange about them, something that I am honestly surprised I didn’t notice earlier: the capital letters came at the end of a word, not the beginning, which isn’t how Greek--or any language, as far as I know--works.  With shaking hands, I lifted the square of sanitary tissue to the bathroom mirror and translated its reflection:

 

Να είστε όπως ο Θησέας - Be like Theseus

�'κούστε �'ιγέα - Listen to Aegeus

Να είστε όπως ο Ερμής - Be like Hermes

Παράδοση τραγούδι μας - Deliver our Song

Να ΩΡ�'ΙΟΣ μου - Be my ORAIOS

Έλα σε μένα �'γάπη - Come to me, Love

 

            The sirens may not have left their cove, but their song sure traveled far, and listening to it was going to lead Cane to his death.

 

            



© 2014 Writer #00


Author's Note

Writer #00
So, it's been about nine moths since my last installment to SOS and I have now given birth to chapter ten (yep, this chapter (or part, I'm not quite sure as of yet) is my baby). Let me know what you think of my baby, if you'd like, and be brutally honest. I'm not sure how well I made his transition from memory to dream to reality at the beginning (could you follow it? Does it make sense? Or did you seriously think kelp-grass had ensnared seven-year-old Harri?). Also, since Harri's supposed to be soaking his awkward neck-wound, I couldn't really put much movement in this chapter, so i decided to give a lot of explanations through dialogue--how did that work out? Was it too much/too confusing? Boring? And what about Felix's recounting of Cane's "coming to"? How was that? And Harri's being affected by the venom? Did I make that believable, or did he appear too calm?

Okay, I'll stop asking questions now and just let you, erm, react...I guess. Thank you for reading/viewing/keeping an eye out for SOS even though its been on hiatus/commenting, maybe?

Speaking of SOS's hiatus, it is still, technically, on hiatus...I just happened to find some free time to write this chapter, so I decided to post it (maybe I shouldn't have?), the hiatus will probably end when Summer holiday begins : )

Notes:
Elucidation--> the act of making clear/explaining
Lolita-->a 20th century classic, if you'd like to learn more, google it, otherwise, it's probably best you don't know

Thanks again for reading, obviously, I appreciate it! : )

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Added on April 17, 2014
Last Updated on April 17, 2014
Tags: SOS, song, of, the, sirens, fantasy, baseball, retreat


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Writer #00
Writer #00

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I'm participating in the Summer Writing Project through Jukepop.com, an online serial website, those entering had to submit a novella on Jukepop.com. The finalists will be decided by the number of +V.. more..

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