This is the Prologue and 1st chapter of my novel. I've yet to do some good revising, but hope you enjoy all the same! And yes, this is in the 3rd person, to avoid Q's later!
. . .
Preface
The fires of hell were chasing after us, and they were coming fast. Charlie Reynolds couldn’t see, he could barely breathe. This was nothing like he’d ever seen, and he’d seen many fires in his lifetime. But, it didn’t matter. Charlie’s firefighter instincts kicked in—he needed to get these people out! A young woman—around mid or late twenties, coughed violently. Charlie crawled over to her, and questioned, “Are you all right,” his voice was raspy, and his throat burned.
“M-my ankle,” she whimpered. Her hand was clutching it.
“What’s your name,” Charlie requested.
“J-Jessica,”
“Jessica, can you continue on?”
“I-I don’t know, it hurts,”
“Let me see,” Charlie demanded. Jessica let her hand slide away to reveal blood. Her ankle was encased with dark blood—and the bleeding wasn’t stopping. Charles stared in horror, and then commanded Jessica to give him her hand.
The bleeding needs to stop, but I can’t do it here!
He lifted Jessica up and onto his back. “No, don’t,” Jessica moaned. “I’ll be deadweight,”
“I’m not leaving you behind!”
With a grunt of effort, Charlie continued on and up the unending stairs. He could feel her panting and pain. Truthfully, Charlie’s strength was weakening, and it was getting harder to move with each stair they traveled. Charlie was suddenly reminded of Aaron, and all they’ve fought for.
But damn, I don’t know how much more of this I can take!
Abruptly, the woman murmured, “Stephanie, hold on baby, I’ll be home soon,”
Chapter 1
Aaron Adams felt old. He felt weak, and useless, and . . . old. His son no longer needed him. He could no longer bend over and lift the weights he wanted. He . . . he couldn’t do the things he used to. It depressed him—even more so today—his birthday. Today, September 10, he turned 49 years old! In one year, he would retire from firefighting. He would retire!
He re-checked his watch. It was 1:03 am. It was September 11—and Aaron’s birthday was over, much to his relief. The whole day had been about congratulations, pats on the back, and celebrations. He had been in a black mood all day and didn’t feel the cheeriness.
Aaron was in his back yard and sitting on the perch of a small hill. The grass was plush and a deep green. Here, he had an impeccable view of the stars.
Aaron was so engrossed in these thoughts that he didn’t hear the upcoming footsteps. It wasn’t until a high-pitched voice cleared its throat did he arouse. However, he was unsurprised to who it was.
“You left the party early,” commented the voice.
Not knowing what to say, Aaron acknowledged, “Yeah,”
“Is something keeping you down? You haven’t been yourself all month.” Linda inquired.
Linda, Aaron’s wife, was 46 years old, but still the same beauty she was 20 years ago, when they met.
“Nothing, nothing,” Aaron grumbled.
“Yes, there is,” Linda asserted with a forceful tone.
“I’m just . . . not feeling as young as I used to be.”
She pressed the conversation forward.
“It’s because of the baby . . . isn’t it?” Linda badgered.
Aaron sighed and scratched his hair. He didn’t answer, but turned his attention to the ground in front of him; shame-faced.
Sharply, Linda pointed out, “You’re being a bad father . . . and grandfather. Your son needs you.”
“No he doesn’t,”
“YES, he does! I called him yesterday.”
“You called him?”
“Yes, he’s feeling hurt. He asked me why you haven’t seen him.”
Aaron turned away.
“Well, what are you going to do about it?”
“I’ll call him tomorrow.” Aaron promised.
After sensing his sincerity, Linda reluctantly dropped the subject.
“Okay,” Pulling up a mock-stern face Linda sternly pronounced, “You better,”
Aaron stood up and offered Linda his hand. Linda took it and he hoisted her up. But Linda tripped and took Aaron down with her. They chortled with childish humor as they rolled down the hill.
. . .
Cassandra couldn’t sleep. Despite the fact that she was exhausted and her eyelids were the weight of tons, Cassandra’s nerves were too hyper for her to slumber. She pivoted to her side and faced her clock. It read 2:04 am. Groaning, she flipped onto her stomach. Her orange cat was unperturbed by her owner’s abrupt movement and dozed on. To pass time, Cassandra pondered.
“Look,” Cassandra’s best friend, Lacy, pointed. Cassandra, who had been staring at the floor, pirouetted to that direction. Lucy snatched up a piece of paper on a door and stared at it.
“Uh . . . a yellow piece of paper?” Cassandra teased. She stretched out her hand. “Let me see.” Lacy handed her the paper. It read:
Have a talent for writing? If so, sign up for this contest! Write an essay (with at least 100,000 words) on whatever subject you choose and earn your school new computers if you win! Get into the top 5 contestants and you’ll get a free flight to San Francisco---and with further judging, see if you win it all!
Below was a set of information. Cassandra gave a smirk and raised her eyebrows. “That’s a bit far-fetched isn’t it?”
With an idea, Lacy suggested, “Why don’t you write one?”
Cassandra burst out laughing. However, when detecting her friend’s veracity, she stopped.
“You’re serious? Lacy I’m not going to win!”
“But, aren’t like a . . . genius or something, you can win!”
“I probably won’t Lacy, and being a genius doesn’t have anything to do with it,”
“Really,” Lacy challenged, disbelieving. “Show me the numbers.”
Cassandra gave Lucy “a look.”
“Just give it a try . . . and if you don’t get in . . . I’ll buy us a brown bottle.” Lacy imposed.
Cassandra didn’t decline right away. Despite the fact it was quite a ludicrous idea, she began contemplating the subject anyway.
Why not? She inquired. What harm could it bring?
“Alright,” Cassandra agreed ungrudgingly. “I’ll try it out.”
They continued down the now-empty hallway. Cassandra folded the paper into her pocket.
After an instant or two of silence, Cassandra pointed out, “You do realize that if I do win, you’re still going to buy right?”
Lacy acknowledged, “Yeah, I know,”
After a second, they burst out laughing until their sides hurt. What did they laugh for? For youth? For their silly plan? For alcohol?
At that moment, it didn’t matter. They were young, they were best friends, and they had a bright future ahead of them. Nothing mattered then. Because they were together.
In present time, Cassandra’s eyes drifted. Blackness. She slipped into a deep slumber, unaware . . . that a piece of yellow paper would be her doom.
. . .
Ron Hastings was a pretty average man. He had a career he loved—firefighting, he had a wife and son, and he was middle-aged. There was nothing extraordinary that stuck out in his features—he had auburn hair, green eyes, and pale skin that irritated easily. He was 5’5 feet, and he ran to keep himself in shape.
At the moment, Ron was on his 12 lap—around his 10 mile. Ron’s endurance was wearing thin. Three more laps he told himself. Come on! Five minutes passed. One lap down. He pushed harder. 4 minutes passed. 1 more lap to go! Ron was sprinting his hardest; His heart was ready to explode in his chest! His breaths were shallow—he couldn’t breathe properly. 30 more seconds . . . 20 more seconds—he was panting with effort . . . 10 MORE SECONDS . . . when will this end??? 5 finally . . . 4 just a little more . . . 3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . . !
It was over. Ron slowed to a walk. He was gasping for air and he had a huge stitch in his side. For a moment, he paused, clutching his knees. He straightened and paced himself the rest of the way. Ron’s house loomed in the distance. He forced himself to jog the rest of the way—a light jog so he wouldn’t pull any muscles and cool down. Not too much later, Ron stood erected against the wall of his white house. He unlocked the door and creaked inside—so as not to disturb his family. By now his heart was at a regular rhythm, and Ron felt exhausted. He stretched, took off his shoes, and napped for a half hour. When he re-awoke, he showered and dressed into jeans and a firefighter T-shirt. Refreshed, and filled with a new energy, Ron scrambled eggs and bacon. While the food was cooling, he set the table and fetched the newspaper from his doorstep.
He returned to the table and set his plate. He took a sip of orange juice and flipped open the paper. He was just started on his bacon when his wife and son emerged in the room. Ron glanced up at his family, and greeted, “Good morning,”
Ron’s son, Damon, took most of his features from his mother. They both were tall with a dark shade of brown hair and eyes. Damon had small feet—like his father and Ron’s long nose. Ron’s wife, Katherine replied just as brightly, “Good morning,”
Ron’s son, Damon, remained silent. Determined to keep the conversation going, Ron chatted. “So sport, are you doing anything today? I was thinking that maybe we should throw the ball this afternoon. What do you say?”
Damon was wolfing down his eggs.
Damon responded, his voice barely distinguishable over his chewing, “I’m going over to Robby’s this afternoon,”
He bit off a chunk of his bacon and chugged half of his orange juice down without breathing.
“Maybe I could drive you to school?” Ron requested.
“Nah, it’s your day off. Besides, I can drive.”
Damon finished his plate and went to clean it at the sink.
Katherine, quite the contrast to her son, was drinking her juice slowly and quietly. However, in Ron’s view, he could see quite plainly that Katherine’s eyebrows were furled in disapproval and her jaw was clenched. But before she could utter anything, Damon announced, “I gotta go, or I’ll be late for school.”
He yanked up his backpack that was on the floor and headed out.
“Bye son, I love you,” Ron declared.
“Yeah, okay . . . bye,” And Damon was gone.
Now, there was just Ron and Katherine. Ron stared at Katherine who was silently eating breakfast calmly.
“Now, what is it you want to say?” He inquired.
Katherine put down her fork and glowered at Ron. “I can’t believe you let your son talk to you that way!”
“It’s fine Katherine,”
“No, it’s not, that boy needs to treat you with more respect.”
Ron threw down the paper in frustration and put his head in his hands.
“Katherine . . .”
“Don’t Katherine me, Ron. You need to spend more time with him!”’
“Okay . . . I’ll spend some time with him this weekend.”
Katherine gave him a piercing look.
“I’m not going to bust his balls saying he can’t hang out with his friends today. I’ll spend some time with him this weekend.”
Katherine, somewhat satisfied, agreed, “Okay, I’ll see you this afternoon. I have to go to work,”
She gave him a kiss and strode out of the house.
Ron, thinking of a way to pass the time, picked up the house phone. He dialed in numbers and waited. His long-time friend, Aaron, picked up.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Aaron, I was wondering if you wanted to play Poker this afternoon,”
“This afternoon . . . how about five,”
“That sounds good. Hey um . . . how’s the son doing,”
This was wading into bad waters. Aaron was avoiding his son, and rarely spoke of him for an entire month.
“Charles’s doing fine. I was actually about to call him now, and um . . . spend some time with him,”
“Yeah, I’m doing the same with Damon this weekend,” Ron related. “How’s Linda?”
“Oh, she’s good,”
There was a moment of awkwardness.
“I’m going to call up Charlie, see you at five.”
“Hey, Ron,” Aaron interrupted.
“Yeah,”
“Bring lots of money. I predict high stakes tonight.”
They finished up the conversation with mock-insults and hung-up.
Ron called up Charlie Reynolds, another good friend of the duo. He acquiesced to the arrangement with much gaiety.
Ron advanced onto the back patio, where his very-professional canvas and paints were located. For a few minutes, he couldn’t think of anything; he had artist’s block. Suddenly, an idea sprang to him. He picked up his pencil and began drawing.
. . .
Jessica White was a single mother. She had been young when she married and inside a year—with child. She had been blissfully happy. But it was cut short when her husband, Harold, had been killed in a car accident. He had been on his way to the hospital (for Jessica) when a drunk driver rammed into his car. While Harold had died, the drunk driver had lived! For weeks Jessica had depressed, with just her mother and newly-born daughter for company. By now, she had cleaned herself up and forgiven the man who had killed her husband. Although, once in a while, Jessica still imagined what life would have been like if Harold hadn’t died.
Jessica parked her car in the dark garages under the South Tower of the World Trade Center—where she worked. She checked her make-up in the car’s tiny mirror, flattened her purple skirt and straightened her white blouse. Jessica’s almond color skin even coruscated. Beaming, Jessica left her small blue car and locked it. With her files in one hand and her coffee in another, Jessica precipitated up to the elevator doors. There, Jessica waited with some others in the dark of the garages until the elevator arrived. They crammed themselves in the already full space and Jessica pressed the floor number she worked on. Although the elevator was filled with people, it nonetheless hastened upwards outstandingly fast. Anon, the people who headed off multiplied as the floors ascended. When the elevator finally reached Jessica’s floor (the 93rd), Jessica and a few others stepped off and scattered to their work areas.
Jessica shuffled to the far back corner—next to a window and settled down into her comfortable reclining chair. Plopping her thick, full folders onto the desk, Jessica perched. She stored her purse to the floor and booted up her computer. Jessica’s desk was a light mahogany and shaped into a long L. On the desk, Jessica had stationed a couple personal pictures. One was in a dazzling golden frame—this one had a picture of a very pregnant Jessica and Harold as newlyweds. The other one was in a shimmering green frame of Jessica and her 8 year old daughter, Stephanie, at Stephanie’s school play. Stephanie was dressed in a purple fairy costume with yellow glitter, caramel hair wrapped into a curly bun, and her light brown skin covered in sparkles. Stephanie had opaque brown eyes. During the day, Jessica’s mother, Mona, watched over Stephanie while Jessica was at work. It had been boisterous raising Stephanie, but Jessica cherished the experience.
In bittersweet thoughts, Jessica worked.
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