Chapter 6

Pre-note: I am trying to work on my novel more often, so to encourage that, I'll be posting more often. This is Chapter 6, but I think I'm going to be eventually moving Chapters 4 and 5 around, so I don't really know what chapter this will be when I'm done writing/editing. 

Please comment. I'd appreciate feedback. 

Thanks!

Chapter six:

In the car again, I finally started a stream of questions that would last for weeks.

“Is time the same here as it is back home?”

“It works the same way, with twenty-four hours and seven days, but it’s not in sync with the other world.”

“So I go to school from Monday to Friday?”

“Yes, although many people work Monday to Saturday.”

“People have jobs here?”

“Yes. Our society works very much like the one you came from, with people working during the day and earning our version of money.”

“There’s money here?”

“Yes, except our currency isn’t dollars, its ____. But, it works the same way as dollars.”

“So, you have cash?”

“Open the compartment in front of you and there will probably be some change.”

I opened the glove compartment in front of my passenger seat to find it crowded with papers, napkins and little coins. They reminded me of American change, all the same colour with a man’s head on one side and a picture of a building on the other.

“So, people earn these?”

“Yeah. Those are like cents, not much. We have paper money too, worth more, but most people use bank cards.”

“Do you get paid for this job, being a Guider?” I popped the change back into the compartment and proceeded to investigate the knobs and dials on the dashboard. There were twice as many than on the dashboard of the cars back on earth, as well as a touch screen acting as a GPS.  

“Yes, by the city government.”

“You have governments?” I pushed some buttons out of curiosity, but nothing happened. Jake’s eyes stayed glued to the road ahead.

“Our world works very much like the Western society you came from, almost exactly the same in the ways of government, currency, education and jobs.”

Suddenly the car was blasted with pop music – I’d found the radio. Jake jumped, then reached over and turned it down.   

“I guess the music is similar too?” I laughed.

Jake smiled, but said, “Not quite.”

“Really?” I said, turning the music back up a little. “It sounds the same.”

“It’s the same kind of music, but, not quite. There are only three radio stations – one country, one pop and one classical. Each station only has a handful of artists to pick from.”

“Why?” I asked, bobbing my head to the music.

“That’s just the way it is. You’ll find it’s similar with clothes, art, furniture and those kinds of things. It’s easier to sell and distribute items if there’s only so much of it, available only in certain colours and designs.”

“Oh,” I said. “But wouldn’t that get boring?”

Jake hesitated, but said, “Nah. They still come out with new songs all the time.”

 I paused, listening as a new rhythm filled the car, and then asked, “Where are we going?”

“Shopping, of course. You need school supplies.”

Chapter 5

Pre-note: I think that there's not enough tie-in (or any) with the last section, so Chapters 4, 5 and 6 may be moved around eventually. What do you think? Please comment here or on the FB link. Thanks :)

Chapter 5:

He didn’t take me back to the hospital, for which I was silently thankful. We drove through picture-perfect neighbourhoods of white houses with blue and red doors. They were like the suburbs that had surrounded the city I’d come from, but worse; they didn’t look real. It was as though we kept driving past the same image again and again; white house, blue house, brown house.

Then we came to the school.

It was a large, institutional building in the modern black material I’d seen so many times already. The doors were open wide, as though they’d known I was coming, and my stomach twisted as Jake pulled up and parked right in front of them.

Above the entrance read the words: “Soleres’ West End Secondary School.”

“Surprise!” Jake said, with a huge smile on his face, as though he was announcing I could go home rather than into this dark building.

“What?” I said.

“We’re here.” He opened his door, adding, “C’mon.”

I had little choice but to follow him as he walked up the path and through those open doors. It felt like kindergarten all over again; following someone through bright hallways to go somewhere you really don’t want to go. There was a feeling of dread and anticipation on my part, but Jake still smiled as though we’d walked into his own home and he wanted to give me a tour.

The heavy doors closed behind us, trapping me inside.

“Since you haven’t been asking questions, I’ve decided it’d be best to just explain.” Jake started, our flip flops making slapping noises as we walked down empty white hallways with pale blue lockers. “This is West End high school. I know you probably didn’t realize it, but minors in Heaven still have to go school. You’ll be coming here.”

He turned down a corridor, opening double doors and leading me through halls of lockers. “I’ll give you a full tour of the school today, since it’s a Saturday and no one else is here.

“This is a boarding school for only girls. The boys go to the East and North schools while the girls have the South and this school. There’s a separate residence building behind this one, as well as a football field. This school has about eight hundred students in grades nine through twelve. You’ll soon be one of them.

“Uniforms are required to be worn throughout the school day, as well as athletic uniforms for participating in school sports, but otherwise you can wear jeans on weekends and after three. The uniforms are black with the school’s name sewn in light blue, which as you can see by these halls, is the school colour.

“Many students return home to their parents on the weekends, but you’ll be staying here full time. On the weekends, I’ll show you around the city.

“The classes offered are much the same as what you might remember. Since you’ll be entered in grade twelve, you’ll be taking Biology, English, Math, Chemistry, Physics and Business.”                                

As we walked, Jake pointed out Biology and Chemistry classrooms, and I finally gathered my voice back together.

 “This is another Chemistry room. They’re all well equipped with the latest supplies. Here is –” 

“Jake?”

Startled by the actual sound of my full voice, Jake missed a beat but responded, “Yeah?”

“How old are you?”

“Eighteen, why?”

“Are you in high school?”

“Oh, no, I’m not. My job is a Guider. I’ve already completed high school and the training I need.”

We fell into silence, but this time I felt more in control. Our footsteps matched one another, and I watched them. As we approached the office, I smiled. This silence was no longer strained but rather strong and solid, a comfort.

In the office, Jake handed me an envelope with a timetable and flyers about clubs. “You start Monday.”

Chapter 4

Pre-note: I personally like this section, let me know what you think :)

Chapter four, section one:

I never thought I could really miss my family, but the weeks that followed my death would be consumed with thoughts of them.

The memory of my life didn’t come back all at once. The day it started was when I saw the hospital window, and after that, slowly I remembered. Little things would jog my mind, enticing me with snippets of pictures that didn’t make sense at first.

The first thing that started to come back to me was my family, because they’d been there for me my whole life. Back when I was alive, I used to think of all the amazing universities on the other side of the country I could go to as soon as I graduated, moving far away from my crazy family. Sharing a cramped room with another student in a residence sounded amazing compared to living at home. Who wants to live with their parents when they’re a teenager? Now factor in that my parents were divorced, half my mother’s family wouldn’t speak the other, my siblings drove me crazy every day, and you would be out the door, too. 

That was before they were gone, however.

First, it was my mother. My mother was in most of my fuzzy, first memories. She had the long, golden hair that I’d inherited and the same oval face, but eyes a deeper blue than mine. My mother’s eyes had reflected everything she thought; they would tell me if I could ask her to stay out past midnight or if she was having a relapse into the “off days” that came after the divorce.

When I stood on the beach in Heaven for the first time, it was memories of her that came back to me. We used to spend the summers at my grandmother’s house up just north of us, in beautiful Muskoka, before my mom and my grandma stopped speaking to one another. When I was little, I’d get up early before everyone else and run down to the dock that looked out over the lake. If I was lucky, I’d find the sun rising over it, and watch as the rays slowly filled the shadowed trees and spread sparkles across the lake. When my mother and grandmother found out where I went most mornings, sometimes I’d find them there waiting for me with a quilt and a thermos of hot chocolate. I’d sit in one of their laps, and they’d wrap their quilt and arms around me as I sipped the warm drink. Once, when I was about six, I had come out a little too late, and only my mother was there. The sun was already over the trees on the other side of the lake, but my mother had sat with an empty mug smelling of almond seasoned coffee and watched the sun sparkle over the water. I had tiptoed to the end of the dock and sat down next to her.

“Do you see that?” my mother had said, pointing off into the distance.

“What?” my tiny self had asked. “What is it?”

“My dad used to say that the reflections of the first morning rays of sun over the lake were people in Heaven waving to us.”

“Oh,” I had said, not completely understanding what she’d said or what she was pointing out, but then, sitting on the beach in Heaven, I understood. I understood, and wished that I was one of those dancing rays of light, watching a smile light my mother’s face.

Then came short clips of swimming in the lake all day and of eating sandy sandwiches on the picnic bench with a view of the dock. My grandma was always kind to us; I remember turning to her instead of my mother when one of my siblings and I got into a dispute because she’d always resolve it fairly, typically with cookies and other baked goods.

My dad never came on these trips. He had something against my grandmother and I never found out what it was. He was a quiet man who kept to himself, yet was involved with his own family, which made the coldness he felt towards my grandma confusing to me. But when I was little, I never questioned anything anyway. Since my mother was a stay-at-home mom with three children, I saw less of my dad than I did of my mom, and so he appeared second in my stream of memories.

When I was in kindergarten, my dad had worked just down the street from my school, so he had walked me there each morning. I remember riding on his shoulders sunny mornings, with my small fingers tangled through his thick dark hair. He would bring a tumbler full of coffee, with the same almond flavour my mom liked, and sip it as he told to me not to pull at his head. I would put my hand over one of his eyes, and he would respond with an, “Arr! Don’t do that mate!” in a pirate accent, which would send me into fits of giggles.

This memory came shortly after spending that first day on the beach, when we were walking back to the car and I glanced over my shoulder to see that little white boat way off in the distance, sailing towards the horizon on that mysterious ocean.

 

Chapter 3 (post three)

Pre-note: This section isn't terribly exciting, although it does explain some things, so I thought I'd ramble a little here. I finally got the Wi-Fi in my house working, so now I'm constantly using my laptop in my basement room/dungeon. I thought this would encourage me to write more, since I could easily post to my blog and I would have my laptop on more often anyways. This turned out to be false. True, my laptop is now on until one in the morning most nights, but instead of writing new chapters or even editing old ones, I'm Facebooking and emailing and downloading music. It's terrible. Between ten pm and one am used to be my writing time, so now my novel has come to a halt. I'm a lot further than what I'm posting (I've posted three chapters and have written about four times that), but it was good for me to keep working on it. I'm not going to have much time when I start UWO in the fall, so it was kind of important to me that I get a lot of it done now. My goal back in June was actually to write the whole novel then maybe turn it into a screen-play, but there goes that idea. 

Perhaps I should stop complaining and let those of you who haven't already gotten bored and closed the window, actually read the end of Chapter three.

 Chapter three, section three:

Back on the beach, I sat on the blanket as Jake went to fetch towels from the car. I pulled my navy dress over my damp body and wrung my wet hair out, sprinkling polka dots of water across the material.

I inspected the food Jake had pulled from the basket earlier. There were two sandwiches, labelled “Egg salad” on a sticker sporting the initials of the Upper West End Hospital, and wrapped in plastic. Carrot sticks, cucumber slices and pepper wedges were wrapped separately beside two perfect red apples. Plastic plates and forks sat beside a cake of some sort. Two cans of pop were propped up against the basket, labelled simply, “Cinnamon Apple” and “Orange Mango.”

Jake returned with two white towels, passing me one as he sat down. He had pulled his shirt back on, and rubbed her hair with the towel.

“Help yourself.” He said.

I wrapped the towel around my shoulders, although I didn’t feel very cold, and picked out a sandwich. I unwrapped it, took half in my hands, squished the bread a little between my fingers, and placed it back down on my lap. I looked over at Jake, who was eating carrot sticks and cucumbers, and then back at my half a sandwich. Again, I picked it up, lifted it up towards my mouth, then paused and placed it back down. Something was missing.

“You won’t be hungry.” Jake had noticed my strange act, as he ate his own lunch.

“Why?” I asked, sniffing the sandwich. The smell made my mouth water a little, but it didn’t cause my stomach to grow empty.

“You are a spirit here, not a living thing. Your living body required food, but your spirit doesn’t. Because of this, you never grow hungry.”

“Then why eat?” I asked.

“Because we can. It still tastes great,” he said as he took a bite of sandwich.

“Does this relate back to the energy thing?” I asked.

“Yes. As spirits we can go for much longer without rest, and are much stronger as we were as physical beings. You also don’t need to breath very much; we mainly do it because it’s a habit we keep.”

Back home, the sandwich may have tasted just as good, but eating it on that beach wasn’t the same as eating on earth. There was a satisfaction that came with being hungry, eating and then being home; a satisfaction that makes a meal really good. The food in Heaven never tasted as fine as the food back home because of this.

I watched Jake finish his sandwich and lean back, watching the sky. His fingers were inches from mine, lying on the blanket beside me, supporting him. His hands were twice as large as mine, and I remembered how they’d wrapped around my tiny fingers as he pulled me back to the safety of the sand. I wanted to reach over then and wrap my hand around his, but I didn’t. Instead, I looked over to the ocean, where a white boat danced in the distance.

Chapter 3 (post two)

Pre-note: This section is a little odd. I'd love feedback: do I get the setting across? Is it everything that happens too random or occurring too fast? (The pull Nika feels towards the water is explained later.) Anyways, thanks to everyone who lets me know what they think, whether it's here on my blog or on my Facebook page :)

Chapter three, section two:

The wind blew my hair in my face. With one hand I restrained it; the other I stuck out the window. The day was amazing, a perfect 22˚C. But, I just couldn’t feel happy. Although I’d told Jake we’d start fresh, I couldn’t just forget all the little memories that had come back to me. My mind whirled with questions, but they stuck in my throat. Each time I looked at Jake, my mouth would open to say something but nothing would come. Instead, I watched the city disappear behind us on this stretch of busy highway.

I glanced at Jake, but he was fully devoted to the road; not even the radio broke the silence. He had seemed excited about taking me wherever we were going, but now he simply sat with an all-knowing smile on his face as he broke off the highway and onto “Road 81.” I watched the way his hair blew about in the wind, his face as still as stone as he tucked a stray piece of hair behind his ear.

People believe in love at first sight. I never did; I always thought it was lust at first sight. In this case, however, it was love at about tenth sight, although at the time I didn’t even know it. All I knew was that my heart started to beat a little bit faster every time I looked in his direction.

The next thing I knew, Jake was pulling into a parking space. I gasped as the engine stopped and I realized where we were.

The ocean stretched before my eyes. The waves crashed onto a yellow-white beach, framed by grasses and an endless sky.

I opened the car door and ran over the dunes, through the green brushing my legs to the sand that caught my feet, and straight to the ocean, never looking back. The ocean seemed to sing a song that only I could hear.

My flip-flops were off in moments. I stood with my feet in the warm waves and a smile on my face. I looked up at the cloudless sky and let the sun’s light fill me up. Slowly I closed my eyes.

Again, I was rushed with memories. My mother, my grandmother, beaches, cottages and summers spent with extended family. The thoughts filled me with an ache for my family, as well as the happiness that comes from childhood memories.

I stood there for a long time, until a sound from behind me brought me back to the present. I turned around to see that Jake had set up a blanket on the beach. He pulled food from a picnic basket; flip-flops lined up with the edge of the blanket.

While he was turned to carefully take something out, I pulled my navy dress over my head, my wings slipping out of the straps easily. I ran into the waves, letting them catch me as I dove in.

The water became deep quickly; I was suddenly swimming through the water in only my navy bra and underwear. The sea was tropical warm, but as I pushed myself beneath the waves, there was nothing but sand and black rocks along the ocean floor. Returning for air, I gasped then pushed myself under again. The water wrapped around me as I pushed myself out further and deeper. The ocean floor was at least ten feet below me, scattered with rocks. I was able to hold my breath for much longer than on earth, and I noticed my wings had opened under the water. Their size shocked me; they are as wide as I am tall. With them spread above me, I didn’t find the pressure pulling me up towards the surface; instead I floated along in a warm abyss. My body never grew tired; rather it was soothed by the water. My mind’s confused state washed away into a peace I hadn’t felt since I arrived in Heaven.

Although I was swimming under waves, there was little pull from the current. I had no drive to return to land; I felt my heart pulled instead to this wide stretch of ocean, and I let it tow my heart out to sea.

Suddenly, someone grabbed my hand. I opened my mouth to scream, swallowing salt water. I was pulled to the surface where I coughed and sputtered, my wings closing up behind me. Jake wasted no time in pulling me back towards shore. I was much further out than I expected, but I still protested at my rude awakening from my ocean dream.

I put my free arm across my chest, covering my bra from Jake’s view. “What are you doing?” I tried to cry, instead coughing it out with sea water.

“Have you noticed how far out you are?” was Jake’s response. “You have to come back or you’ll be pulled all the way out!”

“But I’m not even tired,” I said, pulling my other hand from his and stalling our return to land. “I can swim way out and back easily!”

“You can’t just keep going,” Jake said.

“Why not?”

“There comes a point where you can’t turn back, and you can’t go there.”

I didn’t know how to answer that, but still I moved my hand away from his when he tried to hold it again.

“C’mon,” Jake said, calmer now. He reached his hand out, “Come back with me. I’ll explain to you why you don’t grow tired when we’re back on the beach.”

Slowly, I put my hand in his. He mentioned, “I’m not looking at your bra.” Then he began to swim, gently pulling me along with him as I let my arm drop away from my chest.

He was wearing his jeans, but he was bare-chested. I caught myself watching his nicely defined arms – one pushing the water from his chest, the other attached to the hand that held mine – and shook my head.

I took a breath and pushed myself back under the waves, softly pulling Jake under with me. Underwater our wings opened; we were swimming side-by-side with the tips of our feathers touching. He smiled, and I smiled back.

Chapter 3

Pre-note: I personally like this section, as it's the first indication that this Heaven is anything but perfect. Enjoy :)

PS -- please comment! I love getting feedback :)

Chapter three, section one:

I could describe Heaven, but I don’t see the point. It looks like earth. There’s a blue sky, trees, birds, people walking dogs.

It makes it difficult to remember you’re dead, really.

There are a few key differences between earth and Heaven, however. The first and most noticeable is the fact that every human has a pair of white wings folded behind their back. Dogs, birds and squirrels all resemble the ones that walk the earth; only the people look like the angels they are.

There’s another alteration as well. You wouldn’t notice it the first time you glance out the window of the hospital you wake up in, or as you walk down the road to your Guider’s car parked outside a bakery. You may not even notice as you drive through the city, or at least, not at first.

At first, it looks like a normal city. There are buildings that reach to the sky in reflective, mirror-like metal with a hustle of busy people crowding the streets below in dresses and blue suits. Trees line every street and each road is paved a perfect pitch black. The cars resemble the cars we drove in 2010 on earth, yet they are advanced in technology, emitting no pollution as they zoom past you in dark gray blurs. The buildings become smaller and less ominous as you drive out of the city and hit suburbs and other residential areas with perfect, white-picket fenced yards and two car garages. By then, however, you start to realise the small difference between this world and the one you came from: the repetition. Cars vary in size, colour and kind; there are three shades of shiny gray to pick from, a van, car or SUV and three not-so-distinct brands. Office buildings may vary in size, shape and height, as long as you pick from one of five pre-made plans. Houses are the same way, except lawns must also be picked from pre-planned arrangements. Colours of flowers include tulips or roses, in either yellow, white or red, or white hydrangeas; I never saw a mauve violet or pink wax flower here.

As Jake drove me through this world, I started to notice the repetition. I didn’t know of the pre-made plans or limited colour choice of flowers at that time, but I noticed that something with this at-first-glance ideal society was a little off.

Chapter 2 (post two)

Pre-note: Hello readers. I'm working along at my novel, but I keep wondering if there's even a point to writing it. I will keep writing, if only because I like writing and it helps me think stuff through, but I keep wondering it I'll ever finish my novel, and if will it only ever be posted on this blog, or will something more exciting happen to it? I don't know,  I just I just keep writing to find out!

(Sorry, Jasmine, for all the miss-used commas there :P)

Chapter two, section two:

The fourth time I woke, Jake wasn’t there. In his place on the green chair beside my bed was a pile of clothing, with a paper ripped from a spiral notebook folded on top.

                                                                                                                                                                        I’m leaving a dress and some under- some clothes for you. They will fit. I’ll be back. I’m sorry if I was too bold the last time you woke; please realize I’m as new at my job as you are to this place.

                    -- Jake

The first thing I did was find the mirror he’d held up for me the last time I was awake. It was on a simple table beside my hospital bed; I quickly grabbed it and held it up in front of me.

I sighed. Even if I was dead, at least I didn’t look like something out of a horror movie.

The next thing I did was inspect the clothes left for me on the chair. There was a pair of simple navy cotton underwear, a bra, a dark blue sundress and a pair of leather flip-flops not unlike the ones Jake had worn.

In the windowless room I sat up and slipped the nightie off. The wings on my back seemed to have a mind of their own, slipping out of the material with one smooth movement. My body was as untouched as my face, thankfully. Everything laid out on the chair fit perfectly, to a degree that made me wonder how they’d gotten everything so right.

I slipped my feet into the flip-flops and slowly stood up. I suddenly felt a rush of energy, although I had no IV or memory of eating. I walked to the door of the small, white room, and reached for the handle.

At that moment, Jake opened the door. I managed to jump back with speed I didn’t know I had, and Jake quickly swept into apologies.

“Sorry! Gosh, I’m so sorry; I didn’t see you standing there.”

“It’s no big deal, honestly, I’m fine.”

“Come follow me, ok?” Jake said. “I have someplace I’d like to take you.”

“Ok,” I answered, as he held the door open for me and I walked into a bright hallway.

As soon as my feet were out the door, I was in a hallway that triggered something from my past. The door was one of many in a row along a white wall, yet it was what I faced that caused me to gasp.

The opposite wall was made completely of glass.

Something in my mind was telling my body to panic, and so it did. My head spun and I leaned against the wall beside the door for support.

“New Wings, are you ok?” Jake’s hand grabbed my arm, helping me slide into a sitting position on the floor. I squeezed my eyes shut and willed myself to think, yet still the walls spun to me as I was hit by clear memories.

At first all I could remember were pieces of my life. Elementary school, my parents, my first pet, and then another picture started to piece together. There was a crowded hall. I had books in my hands, leaning against a glass window. There was a noise; I fell backwards. Then I woke up here.

“Oh my God. Right, the window, I am so sorry.” Jake had slid down beside me, and realized the same thing I did: I had died falling from a window just like this one.

The shock hit me physically once more; I lay my head down on my folded knees. I wanted to cry, scream and shake these pictures from my head. Instead, I heard Jake swearing under his breath.

When I lifted my head from my lap, he was watching me with a steady gaze.

“Do you... remember?” he asked quietly.

“Yeah,” I mumbled. “I remember.”

“How much?” he said, his voice almost panicking.

“My – my – death. And my life, or, at least, pieces of it.”

I watched his head fall into his hands.  

“I’ve screwed this whole thing up...” he mumbled.

“It’s ok,” I said. I didn’t quite know what to do or say; I was never one for comforting other people, and the sudden realization of my death left me speechless.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” he said, looking at me with huge eyes. “At least, not this way. I’m so sorry.”

I didn’t respond; I didn’t know how to. I’m not supposed to know? Why? It hurt to think. There was too much, yet not enough, that I could remember. Details were blurred, and my life was only there in pieces with blank spaces spanning years. I’m not supposed to know. Not today.

Logic kicked in. I couldn’t deal with it; I knew I’d break down, so I decided to push the memory of my death away for then. Maybe not forever, but for then.

“Jake?”

He looked up at me. “Yeah?”

“Why don’t we just... keep going? Start again?”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

He pulled himself to his feet, shaking his head, and then reached down to pull me up.

On my feet, I shook the hand that had lifted me up, and said, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he replied, and then a strained smile came to his face.

Jake gestured to the hallway around us, saying, “On behalf of the Upper West End Hospital, I welcome you to the city of Soleres.” He said this last word with a European accent. “I am Jacob Hepburn, your Guider.”

“My guider?” I asked.

“Yes. Like a tour guide, I’m assigned to show you around this world. You can ask me anything you want,” he explained as we started down the hallway.

“Nice to meet you, then, Jake. I’m Annika McCalden.”

“Nice to meet you, New Wings.” He smiled.

“New wings?”

“It’s a nickname for those new to this place – new to their wings.”

I almost laughed, except he was completely serious.

“I had somewhere in mind I wanted to take you this afternoon,” Jake said, pulling car keys from his jean pocket.

“Ok,” I answered as we hit metal doors at the end of the hallway. On the other side was a busy reception area, complete with doctors, nurses and pairs of people all sporting the same white wings. Following Jake, we managed to squeeze our way to glass doors on the other side of the room, and out into fresh air.

Chapter 2

Pre-note: I now have wireless internet! Which means I can post more often! Please keep following me and posting comments, either here or on my FB account if we are friends, as I really appreciate hearing what you think! Thanks!

Chapter two, section one:

Just after I was told I’d arrived in Heaven, I passed out again.

When my eyes opened the second time in this strange place, the first thing I saw was the man in jeans and the black t-shirt. He was sleeping on a chair pulled up beside my bed; his hair messy and his clothes wrinkled. He looked about eighteen or nineteen, only a couple years older than me, with brown hair that fell in curls around a handsome face. His t-shirt was fitted and his jeans had a clean dark wash; on his feet were a pair of leather flip-flops.

I lay on the bed quietly, not wanting to wake him, enjoying the peace and quiet; not allowing my thoughts to drift too far into the thinking or analyzing stage.

*~*~*~*

I dozed off again. When I woke for the third time, the young man was awake, doing a crossword puzzle in a newspaper.

‘They have crossword puzzles in newspapers in Heaven?’ was my first thought, then what had happened the first time I’d woken up hit me.

I sat up and reached behind my back to find my wings. I twisted and tried to see them, but couldn’t.

“Here,” the man said suddenly, getting up from his chair, “Just a second.”

He got up and left the room, returning a moment later with a hand mirror. He held it up behind me, so I was able to see the white feathers on my back. They were like over-sized dove wings; white feathers folded neatly behind me. They immerged from slits in the hospital nightie, folded like a birds, and were so light I wouldn’t guess they were there if I weren’t staring right at them. I tried to move them, but they wouldn’t budge; they were attached yet detached, just a burden to carry.

“Why can’t I open them?”

“Do you really believe you’re in Heaven?” He replied.

My brain was a jumble of thoughts, but nothing would become clear. What happened to me? I thought.

“Umm...” I said into his green eyes. “I don’t know.”

“No one does when they first get here. No one remembers.”

“Remembers what?” I asked.

“Their death.”

My death. My death. What happened to me? My thoughts refused to stay in order, instead jumping from place to place. Who am I? What happened to me before I was here? How did I come here?

I didn’t realize I’d said the last question out loud until the young man said, “I can’t answer that.”

My head was too thick to think. Instead I lay back down and let my bangs fall in my face.

I heard a nurse’s high heeled shoes enter the room. She paused, and then in an Australian accent I heard, “Jake! You’re overwhelming her!”

“I’ve never done this before...,” he mumbled, his voice unsure, as I heard him get up.

I listened to her lead him away, saying something about Guiders and responsibility.

Why am I so tired?

Chapter 1 (post five)

Pre-note: Hey! Here's the ending of chapter one! Please leave feedback via comments! Thanks :)

Chapter one, section five:

The day I died, I was thinking “tomorrow.” I carried the rough drawing for my final piece in my left hand, my life in the form of a sketch book in my right. I thought, “I’ll say it tomorrow, I’ll show them tomorrow, I’ll pick one tomorrow.”

On the day I died, I was hit by a bus. Not literally, but in the sense that that I found out tomorrow wasn’t going to work anymore. My tomorrows had run out, although at the time I didn’t realize just how true that was.

I was rushed – each class I felt the minutes tick by as slowly as my final drawing was coming along; hidden underneath an English book one period, a biology text the next. But my thoughts weren’t on the drawing; they kept jumping back to the dress in my Art sketch book. It had been returned to me the end of that class with a comment: “I didn’t know you could draw so well! This is beautiful; I hope you’ve chosen to use it for your final. May I please use this in the Art Show next week?”

She needed an answer today. Should I let her use my rough sketch as a piece in the yearly art show, displayed to the whole student population as well as their parents, Thursday and Friday night, from 6 pm to 9 pm?

The first answer that came to my mind was, “No way!” but the more I thought about it, the more I wanted to say yes.

“Tomorrow, tomorrow,” I mumbled as I walked through the hall, when suddenly I bumped into my art teacher.

“Annika! Will you let me put that sketch into the show tomorrow?”

“Ummm...” I muttered.

“Come find me in the art room!” And she was off, merged with swarms of ninth graders.

I was torn. Half of me wanted to run and catch her, tell her yes, and hand over my paintings rather than a simple rough outline. The other half wanted to run as well, except in the opposite direction, far away from teachers, decisions and the critical eye of peers.

Unconsciously, I chose the last option. I turned left and chose the East hallway; the fastest way to Fashion class. It’s strange to think that if I’d chosen the West hallway; my story would be very different today.  The East hallway was long and fairly narrow; to my left were rows of blue lockers and to my right was wall to ceiling glass. This huge window looks down onto the grounds behind our large school; the trees were a gorgeous shade of red making the grass seemed greener.

I came to a stop halfway down the hallway; there were people blocking the way, left to right. They were loud, and thickly packed; as I tried to squeeze by I was quickly stuck between a large student and the glass wall. I couldn’t see what was going on, which annoyed me, but I stayed quiet and waited for any sign of an opening.

Suddenly the crowd went deathly silent and backed away from whatever had been blocking the hall. I was forced against the glass of the window.

There was a loud “crack” noise, a gunshot I would learn later, although I didn’t understand at the time. All I knew was that the glass behind me shattered and gave away.

I felt my stomach drop as what was happening registered in my brain, but by then it was too late. I fell backwards.

 Tomorrow never works out the way you want it to. You want to make it easier; to make it less difficult. You’d be more prepared tomorrow, you tell yourself. ‘More time, more time, please,’ you say. But, even if it’s granted, the situation doesn’t improve. It only means a longer period of wondering, waiting and anticipating. When tomorrow comes, you’re no more prepared than you were yesterday, so you say, “Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow please,” and the cycle repeats itself. Until you run out of tomorrows, that is.

I don’t recall the fall from the third floor. I vaguely remember screams and cries. I tried to open my eyes once I was on the ground; tried and tried, but there was something between me and my physical being; something that stopped me from quite reaching the point of physically being alive; something that instead pulled me away. I lost consciousness. I didn’t walk towards any light; it was only darkness that came for me.

Chapter 1 (post four)

Pre-note: The excerpts from the novel I'm working on are best read in order, beginning from the Prologue. Also, if you are reading this, please comment! I would really appreciate feedback. This is only a rough draft and the more feedback I get, the better I can fix it up. Thanks so much! 

Chapter One, section four:

Lunch was spent with friends sitting on the floor of the drama and art hallway each day. It was on the top floor, tucked away in the corner and leading only to a fire exit, so it was never busy. When the bell rang and we slipped down the wall to the gray floor that day, a door shut somewhere and then silence fell. It seemed like everyone was a little off; maybe I wasn’t alone in my daydreams. A couple more people joined us, though, and suddenly everyone had brushed away that feeling that I couldn’t quite shake.

“I love your t-shirt, Nika.” Kate commented, sliding over to sit beside me.

“Thanks.” I responded. I was glad that someone noticed that I was following the latest fad.

“How did you do on the math test?”

“Ok.”

“You’re not in a talkative mood today,” she teased.

I smiled. “It’s the weather.”

“We Canadians blame everything on the weather.”

“This is true,” I agreed, laughing a little. I almost added that the average Canadian complains about the weather at least once a day, but I didn’t. It was a really odd fact.

“Are you still up to shopping this Friday, though?”

“Of course,” I mumbled with my mouth full of food.

“Great, I’ll text you.”

It occurred to me that I was such a typical teenage girl, and I smiled.

Of course, I would never get that text, because it would never be sent. There would be no point; Kate would the first person at the side of my broken, bloody body. She would wait with Beth and my parents at the hospital, and hear the news first hand.

Chapter One Continued (post three)

Pre-note: If you are reading this, please provide me with feedback in the comment box! Or FB message me if you are a friend of mine. Thanks :)

Chapter One, section three.

“Concept work,” Ms. D announced, “will be graded out of ten. Two marks for each drawing. Leave your sketch books on my desk with the pages flagged with sticky notes and I’ll have them returned to you by the end of the class. You can start working on your final drafts.”

Gaze switched from the teacher to friends with a single glance and chatter broke out amongst the group of seventeen year-olds.

Beth passed me Post-Its. “You should put a sticky note on that drawing with the dress, Nika, I’m sure it would count.”

“Ok,” I said, but hesitated before placing the pink sticky note on the page. I stuck it down quickly, and then closed the book. ‘It’s done,’ I told myself in my head. ‘Your teacher won’t care. No one else will see.’

Beth took my sketch book and handed it in with hers before I could change my mind.

I began my rough sketch for my final figure drawing. I’d chosen to turn a sketch of my little sister into my final drawing, but, as my hands moved across the paper, I kept thinking of the ball gown. It had only been a rough sketch, a concept drawing. I’d done it in that sketch book because it happened to be in my bag when I was at Chapters and saw the image I wanted to recreate. I’d modified it slightly in my drawing; her face was turned a little more to the right, her hand tucked into a fold and her hair a little longer. When I’d drawn it, I hadn’t thought much if it, it was like the other drawings I had at home.

If you had flipped through my sketch books at home, you would have found ball gowns. They were an array of colours, from the deepest green in acrylic paint to the lightest blue in watercolour. Bows flowed down the backs of young girls, caught in twirls as they turned. Moonlight shimmered on updos that sat on faceless heads, arms entangled in a gown too elegant for anything I’d been to. Each page depicted a longer trail, thicker dress, more elaborate colour of fabric. Each person was frozen in time, caught in that moment of perfection, when her face was turned just so and her hair caught the light just right.

My hand loved these girls in dresses. The longer the trail, the longer my hand got to draw that pencil line down the page, creating flowing fabrics. Line by line each dress was created, making a pleat here and a tuck there, flowing on and on, as though there was no end to the gown. Instead, it merged with paper, ground.

These were dresses worn by perfect young women who were never accompanied. Outlines of figures depicted what could be a ballroom or a dinner party, but always in the distance, where they were only whispers. Each woman had a story of beauty, passion, loneliness that only my hand knew, and so it drew, creating these imaginary women with imaginary lives.

My hands were no longer my own when I finished a piece. They were a mess of colours; smelling strange and foreign. They knew the story of another one of my creations.

Chapter 1 (post two)

Pre-note: Hey! This is the next section to chapter one, enjoy!

Chapter One, Post 2:

My artistic side sparked at the age of eight. It was grade two, a year when boys have “cooties,” and the closest thing you can get to being popular is when you bring the latest Britney Spears CD to school and everyone wants to borrow your portable CD player. Back then, it was “cool” to be good at drawing pictures. One day I was drawing horses in class and someone noticed. They pointed it out, someone heard, and the next thing I knew the whole class wanted one of my drawings. I complied. A pinto here, a palomino there, and everyone in the class was sticking horse pictures to their desk. From then on, I was known for my drawings. People appreciated them back then; I wasn’t weird until grade seven.

That’s a year when popularity is more than a CD and boys have anything but cooties. My best friend at the time was Diana Hughes. She and I weren’t anything alike and yet the friendship worked because we filled in each other’s gaps. She was talkative; I was quiet and good at listening. She was boy-crazy; I wasn’t, so I could allow her to like every boy in our small class without there ever being competition.

The grade seven teacher, Mr. Cadette, was a newbie; he’d only been teaching for a year or two, and was young and, I admit, good-looking.

When Diana and I were walking about the downstairs at recess, trying not to be caught by a teacher and sent back out into the cold, she admitted to me her latest crush.

“Space Cadette?! Really?!” Was my response.

That was the end of our conversation that recess because the bell went off at that moment, yet I’ll never forget it.

My sketches were about people that year. I was practicing the human figure by pulling pictures from magazines and trying to recreate them in pencil in my sketch book. I blame Cosmo in some ways, because it just so happened that the guy whose picture I pulled one day resembled our teacher an awful lot.

Diana was the queen of gossip at our school. One day after spending the weekend hanging out with her at my house, I came to school and she wouldn’t talk to me. Everyone was watching me, laughing behind my back. It wasn’t until half way through lunch that one of the less popular girls took pity on me and told me what Diana had said.

Diana Hughes held power in our grade seven class of twenty-eight people. Without her by my side, I lost what little popularity I’d had. The fact that my jeans weren’t brand name and my hair always in a ponytail suddenly mattered to the popular group, and I had no chance of getting near their clique again. Maybe if I’d noticed why they judged me then, perhaps I could’ve changed in time to fit their idea of a friend. ‘But why,’ I thought at the time, ‘should I have to change myself so anyone likes me? Shouldn’t they accept me for who I am?’

It would take me until the end of grade eight to realize that, even though they should, it wasn’t the way it worked. I slowly adapted, and began to like the changes. I got bangs, brand name clothes, wore eye shadow and concealer; by the time I started high school I blended in with the upper class student body that was the majority of my downtown high school. Beth was in my grade nine academic science class. We dissected a frog together and had been best friends ever since.

Chapter 1 (post one)

Pre-note

I can't post very often, as there is no Wi-Fi for my laptop (where my story is saved). I tried to set up a network and everything, but nothing works for me as I am technologically challenged. So I'm resorting to stealing the cable from the family computer, which is a pain. 

If you are reading these, please comment! Feedback would be great! I can take criticism, just be gentle! Thanks :) 

Chapter 1

October 28th was the date on the chalkboard. My planner read the same, but I kept thinking it was the 27th. Kenagy, my math teacher, was going on about some quadratics formula, and despite his dramatic change in voice and facial expressions, I couldn’t concentrate on why the graph of y= 7/x+2 had an asymptote at x= -2. Perhaps it was because of the weather – that day was one of the first cold days of fall. The hush of the cool breeze had a tranquilizing affect on people as they walked through the city. I watched them from the 2nd floor as they wandered almost aimlessly in their just-out-of-the-closet black and navy wool coats.

“.. AANNN—”

I jumped a little at the sound of the beginning of my name, but Kenagy finished his sentence, “—NNDD I have your tests marked!” He pulled them quickly out of his bag, the way he’d pulled me from my thoughts.

He went around the room, dropping tests on desks and talking with a huge smile that never faded, although he was announcing that the class average had dropped to 67% because of this test.

“Annika,” he said when he reached me, “good job.”

The page held a bold “81%” in red pen. My lowest test mark this year, but probably better than those whose averages had dropped to 67%.

That day felt as though it was covered with a gray blanket. Although my thoughts were wondering about my math average and what it was sitting at now, I couldn’t bring myself to feel happy about getting a decent mark or upset that my average had probably dropped. Everything seemed to move in slow-motion as the class picked their books up and trickled out the door. Elizabeth fell into step beside me on the way out.

“Hey, how’d you do on the test?”

“Ok,” I said. This is a safe answer, not giving away whether or not I’d gotten a good mark.

“You probably did well; you’re good at math. I got 63. 63! My parents are not going to be happy about my average next report card; I’m sure it’s close to the class average now.”

We reached our hallway and split off to our lockers on either side.

“Beth?” I asked, stuffing my math text in with the rest. “Are our rough sketches due this art class?”

“Yeah.” She joined me; flipping open her black sketchbook to show me numbered drawings of figures in different positions. “One through five.”

“Damn.” I mumbled, pulling out mine, “I only have four.”

“Ms D. will forgive you; she loves you.” Beth held my book as I clicked my lock shut. She flipped through the sketch book aimlessly, and then her eye caught something. “What’s this? It’s really good.”

She held it open to rough sketch of a young girl in an 1800s ball-gown. I grabbed my stuff back a little too roughly. “Nothing.”

“I was just going to say that might count as a figure drawing. You may have five done.”

I smiled, to show it was no big deal, and said, “Yeah, maybe. Did you hear about the trip to Chicago being cancelled?”

“Yeah,” Beth said with annoyance, “I was so excited and now we can’t go because of what? Some stupid booking thing?”

We fell back into synchronization, feet falling at the same moment, as we walked to class. We were back to normal again; Elizabeth was Beth and I was the Annika she knew. The one who was average and didn’t stand out, just the way I wanted her to be.

The Prologue

I was fooling around on my Hotmail account when I found this link to "Blogger." Wondering what it was exactly, I clicked the link and the next thing I knew, I was creating a blog. It was the design aspects that pulled me in -- have you seen how many gorgeous backgrounds there are?? When it came to the part where I had to name my blog, well, I chose to name it after my novel I'm working on, and that's the story of the birth of this blog.
I want this to be a way to encourage myself to keep writing, and help keep writer's block away. I have a feeling this will distract me as much as it will encourage me, but I figure if I spend less time on Facebook and more time blogging, then it'll all even out in the end. 
I'll post parts of my novel, as well. 
My novel I actually began when I was only twelve. I heard of the book "Lovely Bones" and decided I wanted to write my own after-death novel. The first draft of my story was not half-bad for the writing of a twelve year-old, but I abandoned it none-the-less. I realized that the story was going to be about the romance of the two main characters, and that being only twelve, I should wait to write the story until I had a better idea of how romance goes. That, and I forgot about it.
The ironic thing is that I know no more about romance now, six years later, than I did when I was twelve. I've never dated, not once. I've turned down all the guys who've asked me out because I thought (and still think) that they were all weirdos. I guess I'm just waiting for the right guy, and until then, I have Jake, the main male character in my story.
I dug up my story from my old computer files last November for this writing challenge called Nanowrimo (aka National Novel Writing Month). The idea is that you sign up online then attempt to write a whole novel in only one month. Since I had school to think about, I set a personal goal of 10,000 words instead of a whole book, although I only wrote about 5,000 in the end. The beginning of my story this time, which I will refer to as my second draft, was rough to say the least, but by now I had started to get an idea of where the story was going; what the plot was, who the characters were, where it was set. When I had to write an IWP for my Writer's Craft course the following March, I dug up my second draft and polished it. This is the draft I have now. So far, I have about 18,000 words and I'm continuing to write it. It's just something to do in my spare time, for fun. 
Now I'm sure you're sick of reading my story's life story, here's the prologue to New Wings:

Prologue

“The stitching came together well Mary, thank you.”

“It was no problem sir. Glad to help out on such a busy day.”

My sight was blurry. I squinted and blinked, but nothing was clear. My hearing was off, but I could make out voices.

“Sir, she’s waking.”

“Please fetch Jake; he must be here.”

High heels clicked and faded away. I could only see light, shadows and rough shapes, but I could tell there was a figure standing in front of me. As he came towards me, I realized I was lying in a bed of some sort, with my head propped up by pillows. The figure stopped by my feet and suddenly two large ovals appeared behind him. I blinked hard and opened my eyes again. My sight was coming back; those ovals were... wings?

“What the –” I tried to say.

The figure cut me off, apologizing, and the ovals disappeared behind him. I rubbed my eyes, wishing to wipe the imaginary pictures from my mind.

The high heels returned, followed by the sound of rubber soled shoes. I opened my eyes once more to reveal a clear picture of a young man, followed by a lady, walking into the white room. This man stood out from the man by the foot of my bed and the woman because he was dressed in jeans and a navy t-shirt, while the others wore white doctors’ coats. When the two figures reached the male doctor, the figured turned to the woman and spoke softly. On his back were two large white shapes. I rubbed my eyes again, but this time they saw clearly from the beginning. Two wings emerged from his shoulder blades, tucked and folded neatly behind his back.

“Oh my gosh...” I whispered. My voice was growing stronger and the young man heard me.

 He approached me and smiled. “Hello there.”

“What’s going on?” I said as I tried to lift myself into a sitting position, but my arms gave out before they could hold me, and my hands brushed against something soft as I fell back against the bed. I reached behind my back to find something I wished I didn’t: feathers.

“What the hell?!”

The man beside me grabbed my hand, stopping me from touching them again.

“Please calm down –” he began, but I cut him off.

“Calm down? Calm down?!” My voice was raising and my body was shaking. “Is this some sort of cruel joke?! Where am I? What am I doing here? Do my parents even know I’m here? When they find out, they’re going to kill me!”

The man looked in my wide eyes and said, “You’re in Heaven.”

*~*~*~*

I was never taught to believe in Heaven. My parents were both atheists who thought that you should live as much of a full life as you could when you were alive, and when you died, well, you hoped for the best. Maybe you’d end up a ghost or maybe you’d be reborn as a monkey, but the point was that you didn’t end up in Heaven or Hell. People couldn’t be sorted into the simple headings of “good” or “bad,” then shipped off to a land of gods or a fiery pit.

Personally, I was never quite sure. When I was little, I loved to look at the pretty angels, with their gowns and feathery wings, in shopping mall windows and atop trees. I especially loved the gowns they wore. The first gowns I ever drew, crudely with crayons, were on beautiful angels with long hair and halos. Later, the wings and halos would be dropped from my drawings, sophisticating them, but back then that’s where I thought gowns belonged: on the angels of Christmas.

Maybe something would have turned out differently if I’d truly believed in a God or Heaven, but something tells me it wouldn’t have. My life was one way, one story, and that’s what led to my situation. My death had little to do with God.