EPIPHANY

Upon reaching adolescence, every girl in the world becomes spontaneously pregnant. An international group of doctors, scientists, and mothers-to-be, makes their way from disparate locations to a small genetics lab in the US to search for the cause and a solution. But every discovery they make reveals a new, seemingly worse scenario, leaving humanity’s very existence in question.

CHAPTER TWO

Ayira Akilah Mukendi slipped silently through the curtained doorway, away from the sleeping breath of her brothers and sisters. She crept along the edge of her family hut, staying within the full-moon shadow beneath the thatched roof overhang. Her neighbor’s two mixed-breed dogs, scampering playfully in the path that ran by their huts, rolled to their feet and froze, ears pricked, muzzles searching for a scent. The smaller mutt challenged her with a yelp. Ayira stepped from the safety of darkness and stooped to the ground, hushing the dogs with a gentle word. Their tails whirled as they pranced over to her, licked her outstretched hand, then trotted off as she stood and moved back into the shadows. With a sigh, she leaned against the wall to gather her courage and pressed her fingers to the still sun-warm dried mud knowing this was her last touch of home.

Looking out over the twisted branch fence she and her mother had laced together, Ayira strained her eyes to see down the rocky path that wound through the village. Frightful expectation hung in the air and clung to her like sweat. She listened intently above the incessant chirps and chatter of jungle nightlife, for not everyone was asleep. In the distance, the grumbling of the village elders came on the night air, rising and falling like angry cats. Soon, their words would cease and the decisions they made would force their actions.

Before this night, she’d never thought of choices, for her destiny, the same as everyone in her tribe through all generations, was determined by those who preceded her.

But now, in her thirteenth year, choice had come to Ayira unbidden the moment the elders had made their determination. She immediately set upon an act that would change the fate of the life growing within her and that of the mja, foreigner, who’d given her a glimpse of a reality beyond her own imaginings. Even as she grasped the small bundle of clothes and food tighter to her chest, forcing her legs to follow her will down the path, she didn’t consider the consequences to herself.

Her eyes brushed over each hut she passed, thatch or stone, grass or mud, not so much looking for danger as committing the huts to memory. The aroma of boiled and fried food, always in every breath, saturating the vapor-warm air during the day, was gone now from the cool night. When she reached the field where the path broke from the village, the insects that had retreated into the grass and trees to drone their mating calls went quiet. She leapt into a full sprint as if trying to outrun her own shadow stretching out before her, and left behind the only world she’d ever known.

Within a minute, she was at the mja hut, built away from the village. This hut, clinging to the edge of the jungle in seeming desperation to hold its place between nature and man, was a welcoming gesture, the elders had told him. It was to assure him privacy, to thank him for his helpful efforts with his Western knowledge of food production and clean water. But Ayira knew that although his knowledge was welcomed, he was not. A field’s distance from the village was but an invisible barrier to keep his strange odor and any unwanted influence at bay. His hut, built of stone, mud, and thatch was similar to others in the village but for the wood plank widows and doors that sealed him in at night. To the elders, those secured entries and the several hundred meters of dirt and brush, had not done the job, so it came to them to put their world back to order.

Ayira approached cautiously, for she’d never been to the outsider’s hut. The entire village was warned to keep safe distance, especially at night, for bad things can happen in the dark. She didn’t believe any of the children’s tales told about outsiders, but her heart seemed to pound as loud as her fist rapped upon his plank door.

“Bwana David, Bwana David! Nisaidie, tafadhali! Help me, please! They come.”

A voice from sleep called back. “Nini? What? Who’s out there?”

“It is I, Ayira Mukendi. Please, open door. You must come with me now.”

Angled shafts of light moving through cracks, scuffling feet, then the door pulled back. David, squinting and shirtless, peered down with his flashlight beam into Ayira’s frantic eyes. “What’s wrong, Ayira? Are you sick?”

She glanced at his concerned young face, then grabbed his hand and tugged. “We must go now, Bwana David. They come for you.”

He grasped her shoulder with his free hand, steadying her trembling body. “Hold on, Ayira. What are you talking about? Who’s coming for me?”

Tears came with her words. “Wazee, elders, believe you made me with child and come ninyiua, kill you.”

He jerked away from her, breaking their connection. “What?!”

Ayira reached out to him, but he stepped back. “They no believe me. I say not you.”

“Well—Well, you have to tell them who it was then. You did tell them, didn’t you?”

“I could not.” Ayira’s eyes fell to the ground. “I mean, I tell, but they no believe.”

“Well, why not, for Christ’s sake?”

Her eyes suddenly grew wide. “Usu! Quiet!”

Whipping around, Ayira scanned the open field, angling her head. She turned back, hands clasped together. “We must go now! They come.”

“Wait. I’ll get dressed and talk to them.”

“La! No!” She grabbed his hand again, pulling in desperation. “If find me here, kill us both.”

David wrenched away from her to stare back toward the village. Bobbing firelight flickered through the swaying brush, harried voices arrived sharply with the breeze. The sudden sweat surfacing on his skin was a prelude to his actions. He grabbed the small backpack off the end of the bed, and flung himself out the door pulling Ayira along by the wrist. When they reached the jungle, Ayira moved in front.

“You must follow me. We take path animal, not path people.”

They ran at a quick pace, Ayira scouting ahead, David continuously glancing back, panting with rising fear. Within the cover of the trees the spongy ground absorbed the shock of their heavy strides, but through the intermittent open spaces, sharp grasses sliced at their arms as their heels pounded against the hard, rutted path that twisted their toes. Several minutes in, Ayira veered off the main trail, pushing easily through bushes and branches clouding the way. Though the jungle floor was hidden beneath spidery branches and broad ferns, she read the way by following the line of sparser vegetation ahead of her. This path was soft but firm, for animal feet didn’t wear away the soil down to the roots and rock.

“Good you take our ways, Bwana David. Other waja, foreigners, cannot walk in bare feet.”

“Ayira, you have to tell me who did this to you.”

She glanced back as they crossed an open patch of brush and grass, moonlight glinting off teary eyes. “It was nobody, Bwana David.”

David’s eyes raked her with bewilderment. In other parts of the continent her protruding stomach might be from malnutrition, but not here. He knew his comment sounded ridiculous as it left his lips.

“Maybe you ate something bad.”

“No. I am with child.”

“But, Ayira, what you’re saying isn’t possible if you haven’t been with a man.”

“The elders do not care what possible. They know not the way of outsiders, so believe you made possible. They know I not lie with mawanaume kijiji, village man.”

“Well, how do they know that?”

“They have looked me and my kizinda is there, still.”

This is almost a piece of flash fiction. It’s less than a 1000 words. It’s experimental in that it is devoid of complication and baring. It is the essence of storytelling. But it is complete. This time, the pictures are only in the words. I get so many ideas all the time, I can’t really say how this one came about. I think it materialized as I was writing it. Which may make me just an animated tool of cosmic force. I can live with that.

Heart Full

She waded through the lush aquamarine of the countryside on her way back home. The warmth of the light against her face and body curved her lips into an unconscious smile. She felt no distinction between herself and the enormity of all that surrounded her. Amber hills and valleys twined round one another in mutual conformity, silvery brooks and streams moistening their crevices.  The multitude of tiny creatures that swarmed the air currents, kissed her body with the same reverence she gave in return as she lightly brushed her hands through great clouds of them.

With tender smile she approached the ford of a languid stream as a deep woods family of animals gathered on the opposite bank. They seemed to nod at her presence when she arrived, then began to drink. The adolescents of the breeds danced around her, nudging her hands until she patted their heads or stroked their fur. She waded knee deep through the cool water and continued over the ridge toward her village, her feet and legs wiped dry by the swaying pasture.

He waved to her when she was still far off at the crest of the hill. Always on the lookout for him when she gained the zenith, her face still radiated surprised happiness, as it did every time she saw him. She rushed down the slope, drawing a narrow vee in the parting blades that waked out behind her in undulating ripples. She leapt into the air with a joyous shout as they met, body to body, arms and legs twirling about each other, lips finding lips, hair blending together with their very essence. Their rhythmic movements faded into the grasses they emulated.

Hand-in-hand on their leisurely walk back home, they came upon two others. The same bright glow shown in their faces as upon he and she.

“And where were you both off to today,” one asked?

“I followed the hills and valleys all day, until just recently,” she replied.

“And I stayed here to make things for the house,” he said. “What about you?”

“We played in the lake and picnicked on the opposite hill overlooking the village,” the other he said.

“This is a happy day,” the other she said.

“Everyday,” she said.

They took each other’s hands and began the walk toward the village.

“And, tonight,” he spoke brightly. “What will we be doing, tonight?”

“We will tell stories to the animals of the field, then sleep beneath the sky,” the other she said.

“That sounds lovely,” she said. “We will stay indoors tonight and make love.”

“You can come along and do that with us, if you’d like,” the other he said.

“How about tomorrow night,” he and she said in unison, then laughed out loud at each other.

Well, maybe,” the other he said as they approach his and her front door. “Tomorrow is the lottery, you know.”

They all nodded, for no words were needed after that. The friends continued on as he and she retired inside. A plentiful table was set for her return and it livened her face when she saw what he had prepared.

She smiled up at him and kissed his lips. “You always know what I like.”

“Of course.” He kissed her back. “Is tomorrow a concern for you?” he asked suddenly.

She smiled at him as she sat in the chair he offered. “No, not at all,” she lied. She reached for the bread and spilled the wine.

*****

He awoke the next morning, the warmth of light upon him, and yawned, smiling at the pleasure of being awake, invigorated to the core. He snuggled to her, their bodies in perfect fit. She turned her open eyes to him. He knew, but continued with his hope anyway.

“I will come with you today, to walk the hills.”

She smiled at him and gently kissed his lips. “I have been chosen.”

He imagined their walk along the crest of hills, running and shouting yelps of joy within the deep woods, splashing in the streams, these memories, countless times fulfilled, now ended.

“Then, I am sure to come soon,” he said unconvincingly, smiling through his eyes.

“That is not our choice.”

He took her face in his hands.

“Why has the joy left you?” he asked, knowing that there was no answer.

“My heart is full. That is why I was chosen.” She kissed his lips. “I have to become empty, again.”

His luminous face clouded over. “I will never become full, now.”

She snuggled her face into his neck, for that was a truth to which she had no remedy. She spoke gently into his ear.

“Will you love me until I am gone?

“And after,” he said.

*****

She stood on the crest of the hill she had run down the day before. On every summit stood an other, arms uplifted to the sky, like hers. As with the others that surrounded the village from on high, her face and body radiated the expectation that only eternity can offer. The warmth of their smiles fused with the ambient light that saturated the air and being of every soul offering themselves back to material essence. Then, they were gone.

*****

At 8:57 AM, life came with a sharp pain and sudden gasp. Her cries came as unrecognized pleas.

“It’s a girl,” the doctor said.

end

My original title was My First Blog. That sounds like the title for a 1950′s sci-fi movie. I married a blog! The blog with eight heads. Return of the Blog.  Or maybe it’s just a local dark beer. Nothin’ like throwin’ back a cold frothy blog at the end of a long day. OK, enough of this blog, let’s be serious.

Like we haven’t had enough serious stuff happening this week, what with royal marriages, beatifications, and evil smote (apparently, you can’t write smited)(And an uncalled for laugh would ensue if I wrote smitten, which would be correct, nonetheless.)

OK, so I won’t be serious with my first blog. And I won’t be silly, either. No one likes a silly person. I don’t know who said that, but someone must have or I wouldn’t have written it. For a split second, I was going to write about the idiocy of Facebook and their decision to archive everyone’s groups and start anew. But, nah, that’s too political, although I did write it down and will post it another day, or maybe just sneak it in as a side page.

I think blogs are like daydreams. Or musings. Only instead of letting the whimsies drift across our minds eye like so many dragon-clouds, we sit up and write them down within the haze of our radiant monitors. I was just thinking about how the people in my writing group give critiques. I’ve received a lot from these critiques and they’ve helped shape my writing. We have a free-form group, meaning that our members span the universe in age, style and subject matter. There are very few rules, other than to be polite. Actually, the few rules we did have seem to have dissipated as I can’t remember what they were.

What I was thinking about was the way in which people critique at the end of a reading. Each person, if they have something to read, has pretty much as long as they want if it’s under 20 minutes (someone said it used to be five–ha!). Many long readers believe they’ve only read half of the time they actually have and no amount of mechanical facts, ie a watch, can persuade them otherwise. But that’s neither here nor there, because, being a novelist, I have lots to read, so generally l put in a seemingly inflated time span at the beginning of my read so people aren’t shocked when it actually is that long.

What I find interesting, if not a bit sad, it that people in general tend to cite only the negative in reviews and critiques. I’ve come across many teachers and parents like this. I think it’s not a healthy way for people to learn. Our fearless group leader, who harkens back to the days when the ballpoint was modern technology, is a master at balancing negative with positive critiques. He’s almost sage-like in Solomanistic divination when a writer is being swamped by an overabundance of negativity. Even when I don’t agree with him, I always admire his insight and ability to pull this feat off. The ephemeral hot steam magically dissipates and good moods return, usually accompanied by laughter at what a strange and wonderful collection of misfits we are.

When I started in the group, I was very defensive and had excuses for every onslaught of negativity slung my way. Of course, not acknowledging a critique didn’t make it any less true, but it did render it helpless to me. As time went on and I came to trust these people and could see they had the best interests of the writer at heart, I shut up and listened. What a miracle! I was actually getting free advice. Of course not all of it was useful, and of course some people just didn’t understand what I was trying to say, but guess what? If the reader doesn’t get what you’re trying to say, they don’t usually write you an email and ask, they stop reading your book and make sure all their friends don’t waste their time either.

Most writers, I think, know that it’s much easier to see and hear faults in other people’s writing than to see it in our own. This is probably true in everyday life for everyone. I’m a helper bee. Sometimes I present my help even when not called for. This is annoying for most people. I’ve gotten better at stemming this natural curse of wanting to give my two cents where it’s not wanted or needed. So, it baffles me to no end when writers come to groups to read, yet take none of the advice offered. I don’t mean that they sift through the advice and use what is necessary, I mean they just don’t use any of it. So week after week, they make the same mistakes over and over, and they learn nothing. Since I was guilty of this very mistake, I implore writers who enter groups to really listen when comments are made. Revisit the areas in question that more than one person in ten brings to your attention. Invariably, you will find another way to say the same thing, only clearer, and probably better. Every week I find that the points brought up in my reading have made improvements to my overall story.

Now, this little commentary on writing groups may seem like I’ve left out the reader, because readers don’t generally get invited into writing groups. But wait, I say! This is the 21st Century, and everything about writing and readers and publishing has changed. For the first time in history, readers can connect directly with the most famous (and soon to be famous) writers of our times. Readers can interact with their favorite writers. They can visit their Web sites and blogs. They can leave comments! Believe me, writers read these things. They’re like reviews in the Sunday paper after an opening. Writers are compelled to read them. They have no choice. Egos are a powerful force. The thing is, opinions expressed properly will help a writer no matter where they are in their career. So, my point being, to get your critique across effectively (more bang for the buck, so to speak), is to balance the negative with the positive. I mean, wouldn’t it be cool when you read the next best seller by the author you sent a comment to, that there, in black and white (or cream), right on the written page, is your suggestion carried out. Sure, the author didn’t mention you by name (or maybe they did in the Acknowledgement), but you know and you can smile to yourself. Then go out have that latte and ice cream you’ve been putting off till the weekend.

That’s me finished with my very first blog. Since I’m a soon-to-be-famous writer, you can leave a comment or two and maybe see your suggestion carried out in my next best seller. I’m taking all the credit though, so shut up.