Love Bugs (excerpt of novel-in-progress) 3rd installment
Apologies for the late post—it’s been quite a week! But here we are with a new installment of Love Bugs. To avoid confusion (since today’s installment is a little different in tone and setting from the previous two), I’m re-posting the 2nd installment right before today’s, which appears in italics at the bottom.
If you read the previous installment before, this will be a little refresher. If not, just read this all as one installment. Once you get to the second part, you’ll understand why they work together.
As always, I appreciate your reading and would love any feedback you have regarding the story, whether it engages you, what you feel works/doesn’t, etc.
Enjoy—
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December, 2018
She was sure she’d be late. And she knew it was her own damn fault.
You just couldn’t allow Leslie to pick you up, could you? Damn pride, she thought.
Anastasia threw her purple notebook into the worn leather briefcase along with a couple of gel pens and a hairbrush. She hadn’t even had time to brush her mop, and now her wayward curls flopped this way and that without any sense of decorum. Anastasia didn’t really care, but Leslie would be apoplectic if she showed up at the publisher’s office like this.
She grabbed a scrunchie that had been abandoned on the mantelpiece and tied back her hair. As she moved backward, the oversized sleeve of her caftan caught on the armchair and almost pulled her off her feet.
“This had better be worth it, Leslie,” she said aloud as she tugged on the flowing fabric, releasing it from the armrest, and pivoted toward the door. She’d always hated these publisher’s meetings, and today was no exception.
Except today was even worse than usual, since Anastasia had nothing to show them. Of course, no one else knew this fact, not even her daughter. She’d been unable to write a word since Bradley died. And it was beginning to worry her.
By the time she exited the elevator, she could see the cab already waiting outside.
“Good morning, Mrs. Carr!” The doorman held the door for her. “Off to another press trip?”
“Not this time, Rupert, as lovely as that might be.”
She nodded as he took the briefcase from her and led her to the waiting taxi, pulling open the back door. Anastasia attempted to slide onto the seat in what she hoped would be a smooth, graceful movement, but her hips weren’t what they used to be, and Rupert caught her by the elbow just as she began to slip out toward the driveway.
“There you go, Mrs. Carr,” he said, proffering the briefcase and tucking the hem of her caftan onto the seat. “Well, you have a great trip, then.”
Anastasia frowned. “Such as it is,” she said, before the taxi took off.
Leslie waited for her outside the door of the building.
“I thought I’d walk up with you,” she said, taking Anastasia’s briefcase.
Whenever Leslie was solicitous like this, it meant she was worried about something. As Anastasia suspected, Leslie began by reminding her of the stakes for My One--how the readers had been patiently waiting for almost two years, their sympathy for Anastasia’s personal loss finally wearing thin.
They’d already deferred the release date by almost a year, and Paramount had purchased the movie rights over eight months earlier, which meant they were holding up production until the book was released. What Leslie didn’t realize was that Anastasia was already well aware of all this nonsense, and every word out of her agent’s mouth only intensified the existing sense of panic and dread in the pit of her stomach.
“It’s just us and Bridget today, Hon,” Leslie finished as they approached the publisher’s office.
“She wanted to hear a little about the story and how the process is going for you. And of course, how you’re doing since, well. . . Bradley.” She pouted and offered Anastasia an “I know it’s hard” look before knocking on the door.
Bridget was one of those tall, elegant women whom people described as “well put together.” Anastasia always marvelled at how Bridget could perfectly match the color of a pair of shoes--usually pumps with a fairly high heel--to some obscure shade in the pattern of her blouse (which, itself, was always perfectly coordinated with her designer suit). Today, it was a bright tangerine that made an appearance as one of the many checks in her blouse, and corresponding pumps.
“Anastasia, hello, so lovely to see you again,” she said, moving out from behind the desk to take both of Anastasia’s hands in her own. Her touch was dry and cool, like her demeanor.
“Come in, please, have a seat.” She swept her hand across the room.
Leslie took the chair by the window, which meant Anastasia had to sit opposite Bridget, who walked back behind her desk and sat down. She’d have to stare Bridget right in the eyes and tell her she still hadn’t been able to produce a single word.
The caftan had been a bad idea, even if it was Anastasia’s “signature look.” She’d never planned it that way, but over the years, the audience had just come to expect her long, flowy, brightly colored tunics with the kimono sleeves, after that first tour when she’d made such a splash in a real kimono that she’d brought back from Japan. Today, though, the silk sleeves kept snagging on the edges of chairs, making Anastasi even more uncomfortable than she already was.
“How are you holding up?” Bridget proffered a cup--a real, ceramic one--with tea and milk, just as Anastasia always requested it.
“Well, I can tell you, it hasn't been easy.”
Anastasia took a sip. “I’m grateful for my daughter, Cassie. She has been a godsend since Bradley passed. I honestly don’t know what I’d do without her.”
She saw Leslie squirm in her chair. “Not to mention my other savior, over here,” she motioned at Leslie--”who keeps me on the straight and narrow.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re adjusting,” Bridget said. “I know how close you were with your husband, and how much he meant to you.”
Tears sprang unannounced and without her consent to Anastasia’ eyes. She dabbed at them with a tissue, annoyed at her body’s reflex.
“Yes, he was my world,” she said.
Bridget leaned forward and patted her hand. “Anastasia, I would never want to pressure you,” she went on. “But as you know, we established these dates only after you insisted we could. And now that the release is set, there’s already quite a bit of buzz built up. . .”
“Oh, I know, those media types are like vultures.” She hoped they couldn’t see her hand shaking as she drew the tea to her lips. Then again, why care? She had earned shaky hands at her age.
Bridget nodded. “Oh, I know. But in this case, they kind of have a reason. I mean, everyone is on tenterhooks about the book!” She searched Anastasia’s face.
“But that’s a good thing! Your work is so beloved, Anastasia. It’s just people who care about the characters--and you.”
“Well, that’s nice,” Anastasia said.
She placed the tea on the desk, across from Bridget. “But I tell you what, dear, there’s no reason to worry about it. The book is coming along just fine.”
“Oh, that’s marvelous!” Bridget clapped her hands. Her smile broke open, showing Anastasia her perfect, white teeth.
“It’s just that Mr. Knox upstairs--oh, and legal, of course--have been asking me about it. And now I can tell them.” She waited, but Anastasia didn’t volunteer anything.
“So what can I tell them, exactly?”
“Well, tell them I’m about halfway done, and the rest of the book is in my head. It just needs to be transferred to the page.”
Bridget smiled again. “Splendid! And you’re sure you can complete it all within the next 6 months?”
“Of course I can, dear,” Anastasia responded. “If not before.”
What was compelling her to lie this way? But something in the back of her mind believed it.
Once she found her stride, she could write the whole damn thing, start to finish, in less time if necessary. Hadn’t she scribbled the full manuscript for Hills of Arcaea in only three months? There was no way this would be any more difficult. She had almost 50 years experience behind her now, crafting sentences, plumbing her memory for the exact right word, scratching outlines and ideas on restaurant napkins. Of course she could do it.
As soon as she got home, Anastasia marched over to her desk by the window. She pulled the purple notebook from the briefcase, smoothed it open, cracking the spine as she did. Oh, crap, she thought, maybe a little too enthusiastic.
She plunked herself down and turned to the first page, still pristine.
This was how she’d begun every novel since she was nine years old and wrote that first book, The Formula of Y, during a summer holiday from school. She’d done it before, and she could do it now. She pulled out the green gel pen and smoothed the page again, then wrote:
My One
By
Anastasia Carr
Now she was on a roll. She flipped to the following page and thought for a moment. The snow outside was soothing to look at, still white and glistening and soft and clean. The snow will invigorate me, she thought. She took a sip of tea and looked over to Bradley’s photo on the mantelpiece.
Bradley.
“Ever since she was a child, Satsana knew to fear the Sbarac,” she wrote.
Yes. This would be it. She was on her way.
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2478, Month 7
Ever since she was a child, Satsana knew to fear the Sbarac. It had become as natural as eating, as natural as petting her kitty, as natural as peering longingly at the ocean at night.
She remembered clearly the first time this terror had been instilled in her, when her father and mother took her to the Promenade, the outdoor park on the outskirts of their city, for the first time. She must have been around five or six.
The Promenade boasted the most lush and fragrant flowers anywhere on the planet. It was the one place flowers were available to see in person rather than on a computer screen or in a book. They’d been lovingly preserved by generations of botanists and gardeners who had devoted lifetimes to ensuring that some vestiges of beauty remained on the surface of the planet.
But the park also led to the shoreline, and the water beyond.
“You must never go beyond the barriers, Little One,” her father had admonished. “Even if you see a flower carried away on the wind and it will be lost forever. We must sacrifice our flowers if necessary to preserve our own lives.”
He didn’t explain, but Satsana knew immediately that something horrendous and evil existed beyond the craggy border of the sandy beach.
The Sbarac had landed on Relpek so far in the past that no one alive knew their origin; they knew only that the reptilian beings, standing over 8 feet high when upright, had been there for centuries. With a revolting appearance that rivaled their personalities, they walked as if on springs, their 4-jointed legs causing them to bounce lightly as they moved forward, almost like a rat’s tail as it scurries away.
But their gait belied their true natures: vicious, remorseless and ruthless. They attacked without warning, sometimes snatching little girls like Satsana from their play, ripping them to pieces with their shark-like fangs and tossing the remnants of bone and hair into the air as if playing with a child’s ball. They’d emit a strange and blood-curdling screech as they gleefully sucked at the blood spraying into the air.
Satsana’s family, like the other Replekians on the planet, had learned to live always on alert, accepting the constant threat as part of their life alongside the Sbarac. They tread cautiously wherever they went, always glancing side to side, quick twists of the neck to look behind them. Through careful avoidance and an army trained to attack and destroy, they’d managed to carve out an uneasy co-existence over the years.
“Just stay as far away as you can, and if you see one, hide behind the bushes or trees,” Satsana’s mother had warned her. “They’ll leave if they don’t see anything. Then get home as fast as you can.”
Luckily, the Sbarac couldn’t exist for extended periods outside the water. They could breathe on land for short periods only. It was speculated that they lived in underwater caves during the day, fighting and attacking other creatures beneath the waves who dared to come across their paths.
With all their technological advances, Satsana wondered why the Relpekians didn’t simply construct some kind of detection system to warn people about the Sbarac whenever they advanced. Or maybe even some kind of laser gun that evaporated them--poof!--and they’d be gone. Well, the truth was, they didn’t have such things yet on Relpek, but they were definitely coming. The original settlers, in their haste to escape the wars on Earth, had vowed to reject any kind of warfare and would live only in peace. But they hadn’t accounted for the unknown inhabitants below the ocean.
Luckily, there were two engineers in the group who’d passed along their knowledge to the younger generations so they could recreate some of the weapons they’d left behind. So far, they hadn’t managed deadly laser guns, but they did have an array of knives, guns and bombs they could use when needed. With a large army of Botygen and vigilant reconnaissance, they’d been able to protect themselves fairly well.
Even with their primitive weapons, in the two centuries since they’d landed, the Relpekians had managed to construct a settlement that was, for the most part, modern and safe. It gave them everything they needed to thrive physically and most of what they needed to thrive in other ways. True, it might have been a sparse and austere existence in the day-to-day; but there were pockets of joy and some beauty, like The Promenade. And, of course, the library.
Satsana loved the library almost as much as The Promenade. As soon as she graduated from school, she applied to work there and was overjoyed when she got the job. This meant she could spend her days poring over the old records, inspecting the digital images as if she were solving a crime. Pictures of humans from another time, another planet, smiling and standing with arms around each other. Homes that were fully detached from each other, with strange, pointed coverings to shield them against the elements. Photographs of families indoors, with what must have been their version of computers, sitting separately on tables and desks.
Then there were all the items that seemed vaguely familiar, that she could recognize as the ancestors of things in her own life. Gardens. While the leaves and the plants often appeared different, she knew that they grew from seeds, just as the flowers and plants did here. And dogs, and cats.
When they’d made the trek to Relpek, one wise old human insisted on bringing several of these animals despite the additional weight and food requirements. (Where did they dispose of the excrement? Satsana wondered. She knew what it was like here). After the first few grueling months, people were beyond grateful that they had their pets to help mitigate the struggle and help them feel like, well, humans.
Sometimes, Satsana pondered over why all the older people seemed to cling so desperately to the past. They still read the old books (they had been painstakingly copied by library staff so they could re-create books made of paper), and insisted on using the clunky audio device to speak between homes, just as they did back on Earth. These devices required you to pick them up and carry them around with you, and they needed to be charged every few months.
Why would anyone prefer that to the more widely accepted mouth pins? They were installed once, and you never had to think about them again. Yes, the piercing was sore for a day or two, but then you could just speak any time you wanted, name the person and they were connected. So much easier.
And the BT! That was something she would never understand. The library retained old movies and shows from the last years on Earth. Her grandparents spent hours in front of the BT watching shows that were recorded hundreds of years earlier. She knew what the BT was from her grandmother, who called it the “BooToob,” shortened to BT by everyone who still used it. But it made Satsana sad to see her relatives, and so many of the elderly residents, spending their time pining over something that was lost and would never be found again. Why not embrace the present and all the wonders of Relpek?
She thought again of the flowers, all the incredible colors and shapes and textures. And the amazing scents! Of course, other things on the planet had their own scents, some of which, like the bathing soaps, were not unpleasant at all.
But the flowers transported her to another realm. The sweetness, the light and slightly ticklish sensation that entered her nose every time she inhaled the air near those blossoms, was enough to send her into shivers of ecstasy.
She loved the small, white bell-shaped flower for its delicate, whispering scent; those tall, happy purple blossoms that seemed to puff out with pride, like cheerleaders huddled together, brandishing their pom-poms, their combined scent chanting at her; and her favorite, the delicate red flowers, their wide, thin petals all hugging the center when they first blossomed, then slowly opening up, the way your eyes adjusted to the light over time. Their fragrance beckoned her and caused shivers to glide up her neck and through her nose, just as she imagined it would be when her ideal husband came into her life and wrapped her in his gentle embrace.
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As always, thank you for reading. If you enjoyed this piece, please share it with someone else! Or support me and my writing by subscribing with a paid or free subscription. I’ll be eternally grateful either way.
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