He seemed to
have been born knowing things, like math for instance. His mind would grab on
to a concept on first presentation and then, while his classmates struggled, he
would be looking around for something to do. That something usually ended up
being disruption.
Storm was loved
by his parents, but school faculty was another story. He had a reputation with
the teachers for instigating pandemonium in the classroom. He was the triple
threat: smart, bored, and a natural leader. It wasn’t that he was a class
clown, nothing so obvious or exaggerated. He just quietly went about doing
whatever the hell he pleased and ignoring objections. In short, no one in his
life to that point had given him adequate reason to believe that anarchy was
not the best policy.
Peers wanted to
be like him. If that wasn’t possible, they would settle for doing whatever he
was doing. So Storm’s experience of the public school system was time spent in
the hallway, the principal’s office, or in trouble at home with his parents
agonizing over what to do.
At one point
they thought sports might be the answer. He had an extra helping of athletic
talent and one of those bodies that would have said yes to any physical demand.
Unfortunately he never saw the point. To him sports represented an endless,
mindless, repetition with some arbitrarily established goal that made no sense
when he broke it down and it turned out to be… well, boring. Put it all
together and he was a public school educator’s nightmare. He was also a
textbook ideal candidate for Black Swan.
One day he was
sent to the Vice Principal’s office under protest claiming that, for once, he
wasn’t doing anything wrong. He sat down in his usual chair to wait for the
usual carpet ride, but, instead, the door opened to reveal too many people
crowded into a smallish room. That included the V.P., Storm’s parents and a
tall, serious-looking guy with a piercing gaze and an unmistakable air of
authority. Storm sat up straight and had only one thought. Uh oh.
The stranger
wore slacks, highly polished loafers, and a sports coat. He guessed the man was old, thirty-five
maybe, but he looked hard all over like one of those athletes who can’t repeat
enough Iron Man triathlons to please themselves.
Engel Storm’s
father worked for the Randolph Moldavni vineyards as head winemaker. The work
was personally fulfilling and he wasn’t chained to a desk in a cubicle, but it
didn’t cut a path to either greatness or riches. His mother worked part time as
library receptionist at the local branch of the University of California.
Between the two they made enough to take care of three kids in solid middle
class fashion. They could eat steak, but not every day. They had good health
insurance with the vineyard. They could take a summer vacation if they drove
and stayed in motels. It was an upbringing no child should complain about, but
most do anyhow.
Storm’s
background hadn’t afforded an education on the finer points of better men’s’
clothing, but even to an untrained eye there was a vague sense that the
stranger’s style was expensive.
“Have a seat,
son.” Vice Principal Rodgers motioned to an ugly metal chair with green
leatherette seat and back. Storm noticed that there was a small tear in the
seat that showed a little white stuffing. His mind was racing, partially
occupied with the fact that Rodgers had called him “son”. He decided that meant
he was in even bigger trouble than he thought, but, on the other hand, his
parents looked serious, but not mad. The tall guy leaned against an old book
case and looked really, really out of place against the backdrop of venetian
blinds that were partly bent and a room that needed repainting.
Mr. Rodgers,
better known to the student body as “Tums” as it was said his tummy entered a
room five minutes before the rest of him, sat down with a plop that forced air
out of the vinyl cushion seat. Another boy his age might have had to suppress a
snicker, but Storm sometimes seemed more like an adult than a kid.
When the
wheezing subsided, Tums said, “Engel, this is Mr. Nemamiah.” Storm looked up
into flinty blue eyes that didn’t blink or apologize for staring. After a
couple of seconds he wanted to look away, but pride wouldn’t let him. So he
raised his chin just a hair and determined he wouldn’t give in first. Mr.
Nemamiah’s expression didn’t change at all, but Storm thought he saw a little
light flicker in those steely eyes. Nemamiah let him off the hook and looked
away first.
Tums continued. “It seems he’s taken an
interest in you and your education.”
Storm was
starting to panic. Not military school. Please. Please. Please don’t let it be
military school. It was then he started calculating how long it would take him
to be up, out the door, and hitchhiking on I80.
“It’s been
noticed that your test scores are extraordinary. To say the least.”
Wow. That wasn’t
what Storm had expected to hear next.
“Mr. Nemamiah is
in a position to arrange a scholarship to a private school that develops talent
such as yours for possible future work with a quasigovernmental agency. He
asked that I make this introduction so that you would know that he and his
organization are legitimate.”
“Develops
talent? What does that mean?” Storm demanded. He directed the question to Tums,
but Nememiah interjected answering in a gravelly voice.
“It means
specialized training. Highly specialized.”
Storm stared at
Nememiah for a couple of breaths and then barked out a laugh intended to imply
rebellion, irreverence, and a healthy dose of cynicism. “Spy school? You want
me for spy school?” He laughed with his whole body as only boys can – for a few
seconds. Then, in the time it took to draw another breath, Storm raked a gaze
up and down the older man sizing him up, reasoned through the bizarre nature of
the offer and decided that first, it would not be boring and, second, it might
be cool. “Okay. Sign me up.”
Mr. Nemamiah
almost gave in to the temptation to smile. While such behavior might be seen as
rash, impulsive, or even schizophrenic in the mundane world, the ability to
quickly sort through an equation and make hard decisions on the fly was one of
the traits his organization prized. Neither parent was particularly surprised.
With Storm they knew the one thing they could count on was
unpredictability.
Nemamiah talked
directly to Storm as if to say from now on this is between you and me. “Clean
out your locker and say your goodbyes to your friends. Let them think you are
going to military school. I’ll be by your house tomorrow morning at 10:00
o’clock. You and your parents will have an opportunity to ask questions. You
may consider it an interview if you wish. If, at that time, you are satisfied
with my answers, we will leave together. You may pack some personal things into
two duffel bags, but that is optional. Everything you need will be provided for
you from now on. You’re going to receive a first-class education, the kind
money cannot buy, from people who will be honored to teach you.”
Storm blinked and
his brows came together to form perfectionist lines that would be permanently
etched into his face by the time he was twenty five. People who would be
honored to teach him?
Mr. Rodgers
cleared his throat. “Well,” he stood and held out his hand to Storm’s father to
shake. “Thank you for coming.” He nodded to Mrs. Storm. “Give us a call
tomorrow and let us know what you decide.”
Everyone in the
room knew Tums would feel like he’d won the lottery if the troublemaker kid was
on the way to being somebody else’s problem.
Storm’s parents
waited in the car while he cleaned out his locker. In the few minutes that
took, he had already made a list of questions. He couldn’t keep himself from
peeking into the classroom where he would normally be looking for something to
occupy his restless mind and body. When the other kids looked up and saw him at
the door, he gave them a goofy smile and a wave, just so they’d know he hadn’t
been led away crying or something disgraceful like that. He wanted to leave
with his reputation intact.
Prune Face
Blackmon followed the eyes of her students to the classroom door which stood
open to the hallway. “Mr. Storm. Do you have someplace you need to be?”
He didn’t want
to give her the finger. He really, really, really didn’t want to give her the
finger. But he gave her the finger and trotted away grinning at the uproar of
laughter from the poor douches who were going to be stuck in that hell hole the
rest of the hour. “Not a bad exit,” he thought to himself. “Points shaved for
lack of planning, but…”
He didn’t know
where he was going or what he was going to do. But he would have felt really
good about the whole thing if he had known that Sol Nemamiah would have
laughed, on the inside, had he witnessed the teacher receiving a prime example
of bird as a parting shot. What you want at your back if you’re heading into a
nest of unknown fuck all is not a man who was afraid of a little authority as a
kid. That guy will just as likely freeze and shit his pants or vice versa.
Sol’s
philosophy, had he ever been asked, would have been something like, “Give me a
kid with a proud third finger and I’ll give you back a vampire slayer.”
The Storm family
stopped at McDonalds drive-through on the way home, then settled down at the
Formica top kitchen table with a yellow, legal pad and the goal of making a
comprehensive list of ask-now-or-hold-your-peace questions.
What was the
scope of this “first class education that money cannot buy”?
Did it include
geometry, foreign language, literature, biology?
Would he be
receiving a diploma?
Would it be
accepted by desirable institutions of higher learning?
Where would he
be going?
Could he leave
if he didn’t like it?
Would he be able
to call home whenever he wanted?
Could he visit
them?
Could they visit
him?
Would he have a
room of his own?
Would he get
spending money?
Would he have an
opportunity to spend spending money?
Would he be
signing up to get an education or pledging himself to pay off the investment in
service to a job that wasn’t his choice?
Would he have an
opportunity to interact socially with others his own age?
And, did they
know it wasn’t all mind-blowing test scores and high I.Q.; that he had been in
trouble at school pretty much nonstop since first grade?
By the time his
two siblings got home from school, Storm and his parents were agreed on which
questions were deal breakers.
He and his dad
pulled down two duffels they kept in the attic for camping. After packing
everything he wanted to take, he hadn’t even completely filled one. That
realization gave him pause, but not as much as the fact that he didn’t have any
friends worth lying to about where he was going.
He didn’t sleep
that night. At all. He didn’t know whether he should be excited or
apprehensive. So far the information he had was cryptic at best. What he did
know is that it was an adventure come knocking at his door and that this kind
of thing didn’t happen every day. In fact, he’d never heard of it happening to
anybody. Ever. The idea of a school that wanted him was so outrageous it made
him smile to himself in the dark.
The next morning
Storm said goodbye to his older brother and younger sister when they left for
school, then sat down at the kitchen table with his parents to wait. His duffel
was by the front door just in case. At precisely ten o’clock the doorbell rang.
Nemamiah was
invited in. He graciously accepted coffee and the four of them sat down in the
modest living room for a question and answer discussion about the future of a
very special boy. After all their questions had been answered, to everyone’s
satisfaction, Mr. Nemamiah clicked open an old-fashioned, battered, brown,
leather briefcase and withdrew a contract.
Storm’s dad put
on his reading glasses. Every one of the questions they had asked was covered
in the contract already. It spelled out what they would do for Engel Storm. It
spelled out that the initial choice of facility would be theirs, but that he
might be transferred at any time at the discretion of Saint Black’s which was
the parents’ code name for the organization. Storm and his parents agreed not
to say anything other than that he was awarded a scholarship to a private
school. When Mr. Storm was finished reading, he handed the contract to his wife
and asked Mr. Nemamiah to excuse him and his son. He took Storm into the back
room, closed the door, and gestured for him to sit on the bed.
“Your mother and
I want to do the right thing, the best thing, for you. If you decide to accept
this offer, we want to be sure that you’re doing it for you and not for… any
other reason. We love you enough to let you go if you’re inclined to think this
is the best thing, but we want you to stay if it’s not. Do you understand?”
Storm nodded and tried to swallow back the lump in his throat. That was the
longest speech his father had ever made, that he knew of, and he heard the love
in it loud and clear. “Alright. You know what you want to do?” Storm nodded
again.
So Storm and his
parents signed the contract. He gave his mother a big hug and tried not to
notice how hard she was working to keep the moisture in her eyes from spilling
over. He was already two inches taller and could look down on her when she
wasn’t wearing heels. He was more trouble than the other two put together… more
trouble to the third power. Even so, although she would never admit it even to
herself, he was her favorite.
He stowed the
half filled duffel in the trunk of Nemamiah’s understated black sedan and waved
to his parents who were standing in the front yard watching him drive away. He
had just turned fourteen.
They drove south
toward San Francisco. Nemamiah wasn’t big on small talk, but he told Storm he
was welcome to listen to whatever radio station he liked. He then rolled the
driver’s side window part way down and lit a little, thin, black cigar.
They kept
driving until they reached the naval base at Treasure Island. They were headed
for the compound in the middle surrounded by a twenty foot wall. They passed
three checkpoints where guards recognized Nemamiah and waved him through. As
they passed a gorgeous old, graceful mansion with lawns and tennis courts,
Nemamiah said it had once been an Admiral’s home, but that it was being used
for the school now, that Storm would eat and enjoy leisure time there.
They parked next
to a brick building, opened the door with a key card, and entered a long
dormitory-style hallway. Each door had a name plate. When they stopped mid way
to the end, Storm looked at the door. The name plate said Engel Storm.
He reached up to
run his fingers over the lettering. “Wow. You must have been pretty sure I’d
come.”
Nemamiah didn’t
smile, but his eyes did soften just a touch. “We’ve been doing this for a long
time, Mr. Storm. We know what we’re looking for.” He turned the knob and swung
the door open. “And you’re it.”
Creative Writing
A Guest Post:
People
ask me about "writers' block" more often than you might guess.
Honestly I don't know exactly what it is or how it feels. I’m into creativity
on several different fronts including art, music, and writing fiction. When I
need a dollop of inspiration, it’s always there for me
- KNOCK ON WOOD !!!!
My
process is that I get completely quiet and completely still, close my eyes, and
simply say, “Bring me a melody.” Or plot point or whatever. Fill in the blank. This
method is as reliable as my belief that the sun will rise tomorrow in the east
with or without me. I should add that a lifetime of "seeking" is a
factor in the sense that I have been practicing meditation for twenty years and
can achieve a state of concentration fairly quickly.
What
do I need to make that happen? Not props or tools or other people or magick
words or ritual or any other external thing.
EXCEPT silence. Of course those of us who live in or near a city never
experience true silence because our nervous systems are under siege by
thousands of refrigerators humming and thousands of motor rpm's grinding on the
roads, whether we're consciously aware of it or not.
Don’t
get me wrong. I love the advantages of living in a technological age as much
as the next person and even more than most.
Were it not for the internet I would not be sharing these thoughts with you now
because my first book wouldn't have taken off due to Amazon.com and electronic
reading.
My
problem is not with technology. Truthfully, I do love it and could probably
write love
sonnets about movies, TV, recorded music, the
convenience of internet research, not to mention electric guitars and fast
cars. I would hate giving up all that cool stuff and would fight to keep it. No. That’s not the problem. The problem
is that I feel like my choice is being taken away. Little by little, in a most
insidious fashion, I have experienced what I’ll call “noise creep”
which finally came to a head at the gas pump.
See the thing is that all I need to be creative is to be left the hell alone.
Give me a few minutes and I may have a great idea. Whether that idea is a book or song or painting isn’t important.
What’s important is the creative exercise.
There
was a time when I could get something else done if I was forced to be on hold. I
trained myself to “tune out” elevator music, but there’s just no way I can
“tune out” looped commercials. PLEASE, I’M BEGGING YOU, NOT AGAIN!!!
There
was a time when I could wait in line at the bank and keep the company of my own
thoughts. Now I get CNN on overhead TV
monitor.
There
was a time when I could wait for a plane in the boarding area with my book or
my thoughts. No more. Overhead speakers wired
into the fancy flat screens spaced at
regular intervals mean I’m held prisoner by
whatever is playing.
When
I was in Ireland, the pubs that had been a place of gathering and conversation
for literally centuries were being retrofitted with big flat screens for
football (soccer) and turned into sports bars. Progress? You decide.
For
me the tipping point was the new gas pumps with the viewing screen and
obnoxiously loud speakers with snippets of news and commercials. I started
pushing every button I could see. Eventually I found one that turned the sound off.
Thank the gods.
So,
with all this encroachment on our “alone” time and by that I mean the time when
we get to enjoy the companionship of ourselves sharing communion with
ourselves, how are we
supposed to be creative? How can we function
in this riotous new world that seems to CONSPIRE to keep us from thinking?
Don’t
think it hasn’t crossed my mind that, the more you can distract people and keep
them from thinking, the easier they are to lead. Shades of decades-old science
fiction. Do I think all these portals that are vying for my attention are
interlocked in a conspiracy with that old guy who runs G.E. at the helm? I’m
not willing to go that far, but, I will say that merchants are always looking
for a bigger, louder megaphone than the vendor in the metaphoric stall next to
them.
Can
we rise above this? Sure. But only if we’re aware of it.
Why
should you care? Because our one true expression of the divine is creativity.
All the other mammals eat, work, play, and procreate. This is the only thing
that sets us apart. Whether you find that expression in writing fiction or
sculpting mud pies with your kids is unimportant. What is important is finding
a path to that expression even when it gets harder.
Now
I really should say something about my books since I was given the opportunity
to guest post.
The
second book in my paranormal romance/fantasy/18+ series (heavy on the romance) is
now available on Amazon.com in print and ebook. Being the second book in a
series, The Witch's Dream draws from
characters and situation presented in the first book, My Familiar Stranger.
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