Title: Flightless
By: L. Duarte
Publication Date: January 23, 2017
Publisher: LD Publishing LLC
Genre: Romance
Everyone has a story.
Mine went like this:
Once upon a time, I met a boy. He was the most handsome fella in the land. I
fell in love. Together, we had cosmic chemistry. I believed I would live a life
of unending bliss. Until he broke my heart. Shattered it to pieces. And I lived
unhappily ever after instead. The end.
Or so I thought.
Life found a way to
reunite us. But to change that unhappy ending, I had to learn how to forgive.
And my heart seemed unable to do so.
This is a love story.
But it is also, much more. It’s the story of how I coped with my shortcomings,
my fears and rewrote my destiny. Everyone has a story. This is mine.
Excerpt
Chapter One
I stepped back. Not
literally, just figuratively. I did that with every concert. I allowed my
mind’s eyes to hover over me and my fans while I analyzed and dissected the
unique relationship between us.
As I watched the
multitude of people—a beautiful kaleidoscope of different races and social
statuses—my heart, in utter bliss, roared.
The audience held their
hands upwards as if in an offering or a request. I never knew which. In perfect
synchrony, their arms rolled in waves like the swaying of a stormy sea. Their
voices cried out my name, and the smell of their sweat and the heat of their mingled
bodies emanated from them, unfurling to me like the sweet perfume of incense.
I held the mic near my
motionless lips and stared at them. At that moment, I became one with
thousands. At that moment, I took back from the crowd all the energy I had fed them.
And their vibe made me high and drunk. It was my personal Nirvana. The kind of
rapture that can only be attained through uttermost intimacy. A oneness I had
only felt with one other person. A person who had severed that connection and
shattered my heart into a million shards of pain.
I worshiped them as they
adored me. The exchange of atomic energy contained nuclear power. I was drained
from giving. They were wasted from receiving. But we were both impossibly happy
and satisfied.
My motionless lips finally
moved, uttering the final words for the night. The parting words. “Good night,
Sydney!” I waved a hand back at them. “You looked beautiful tonight. All forty
thousand of you.”
I bowed. They deserved
my reverence. People had spent their time camped outside the venue waiting for
a closer glance at me. They had spent their precious earned money to see my
performance. They were worthy of my respect and gratitude.
Another wave of a hand.
A kiss. Another bow. And I was out. Another show was done. Eight more to go.
I jogged backstage and
gave the mic to Jeremy, my makeup artist, in exchange for a bottled water. He
opened a portable case containing all the potions that would quickly improve my
appearance for the meet and greet.
Before I took a swig
from the bottle, Clara, my assistant, brusquely interrupted my post-concert
ritual. She snatched the bottle from my hand and returned it to a confused
Jeremy. “Gray. With me,” she demanded, grabbing my elbow and urging me toward
my changing room.
I glanced back at the
stunned face of Jeremy. It was time for meet and greet with the VIP’s. I needed
to freshen up. My makeup had all but melted under the stage lights.
Once inside the privacy
of the room, I demanded, “What’s going on?”
She raised a finger and
said, “Wait.”
I opened my mouth to
protest. Instead, I swallowed the words. Clara was usually a chatterbox; her
clipped words quickly clued me in that something was seriously wrong.
As I waited, Clara
dialed a number on her phone. Her silence became as unnerving as the red glare
of an alarm light.
“Betty, I have Gray,”
Clara said. Wordlessly, she shoved the device in my hand. The door closed with
a thud after she exited in a flurry of silent drama.
“Mama?” I asked holding
the phone to my ear.
“Hey, Puppy,” Mama said
in a soft, almost regretful tone.
“What’s going on?” I
asked. Silence filled the other end of the line, only increasing my concern.
Mama knew I had just left the stage. She followed my tour from home. Minute by
minute. It was unusual for her to call me so soon following a show.
“How was, um, the, um,
concert?” she asked.
“Mama, did you call me
to ask how the show went?” I furrowed my brows and every hair on my body stood
at attention. Mama knew my routine during a tour. After a performance, I had a
brief meet with fans and then I would go on hours of silence to rest my vocal
cords. Although she knew she could call me at any time, she never called until
at least ten hours following a show.
“Mama?” I prodded after
a long silence.
“I have cancer,” she
said bluntly.
The phone connection was
perfect. No static. But Mama’s words hummed in my ear with a tunnel-like
quality. Distorted, altered, garbled. My mind, however, had remained sharp and
alert. Without much thought and after a brief pause, I uttered the words, “I’m
coming home.” I hadn't said those words in over a decade. Somehow, they didn't
taste as foreign as I had imagined they would.
***
“Gray,” I said. The word
hovered on my tongue, saturating my taste buds with an acrid taste. “Gray,” I
repeated, letting it roll off my tongue. I did that a lot. It was my name.
Often, I mused about my
name. It hadn’t been given to me because it was fashionable. Nevertheless, it
had a history. My history.
When I was little, I
liked to fancy its origin. The sky, I would think, was painted gray the day I
was born. I loved the theory. The unattainability of the infinite mass of gray
made it a great namesake. Whenever gray clouds hovered in the sky, I would lay
on my back and stare at them, dreaming that when I grew up, I would build an
enormous ladder, climb it, and touch the gray painted dome. It was all, of
course, a foolish child’s dream, born out of vain imagination. I wasn’t born
during the day, nor was the sky gray. And it was most definitely not the
inspiration behind the choosing of my name.
I was born in a
graveyard. Serene Hills Cemetery, it was called, though its surface was flat.
It was a fall night, October 20th, approximately 11 pm.
They found me covered in
vernix. I used the term ‘they’ loosely. A dog found me. A female German
Shepherd mix that went by the name of Sunshine. Her fur was golden. Shiny like
sun rays. I had a newspaper cut-out of her. It’s black and white, but it
described her that way. In the shot, she looked straight at the camera, two
vivid round eyes dotting a long and alert face. She had the knowing stare of
someone who was aware she had done a good deed.
Obviously, I don’t
recall the details surrounding my birth. I was an infant. But I had Mama tell
me the story so many times, which after a while, the images ingrained in my
brain like the roots of a tree embedded in the fertile soil. They became so
real in my imagination that it felt as if they were my recollections.
I was a born a preemie.
Weak, small, and blotchy-faced. I was skin and bones with a mop of black spiky
hair, and a bad case of a cold.
A miracle, they called
me. But I knew I was no wonder. I happened to have the perfect concoction of
healthy lungs and a loud cry. These, and the sharp canine sense of hearing and
smelling had saved me. I didn’t believe in miracles. Not anymore.
When they found me,
decay from the trees covered the ground on a fascinating palette of colors—an
array of red, yellow, purple, brown, orange, golden, bronze.
I used to question why
the leaves change colors and fall off the branches. According to a scientific
explanation, leaves are a weak and feeble part of a plant. So, before the
weather gets severely cold, the trees should toughen up to protect themselves.
Or simply dispose of the leaves, the weak part.
Personally, I believe
they turn colors before falling as revenge. A personal vendetta. And for that I
applaud them. They turn their death into a poetic and alluring sight. That line
of thought made me believe death was beautiful. It fascinated me. It’s more interesting
than birth, although similar.
I had been abandoned
under a pile of dead foliage. According to the police investigation, it
appeared my birth mother had buried me under the leaves. Hid me. Like a
criminal attempting to cover its tracks. Supposedly, I spent the night under a
cocoon of leaves. The tree’s decay was soaked with blood and amniotic fluid.
According to Sunshine’s
owner, they were walking on the sidewalk by the cemetery when she heard a
whizzing sound. Sunshine’s owner discarded the noise as being the cry of
squirrels.
Sunshine didn’t. At odds
with her sweet nature, she became agitated and broke loose. She squeezed
through a small gap in the fence and disappeared between the gravestones,
leaving her owner in a frenzy.
Less than a minute later,
Sunshine returned. Her mouth muzzled around my small waist, my umbilical cord
dragging, rattling the decayed leaves.
I found my story
fascinating, unique. Or so I told myself whenever I got teased at school.
The hospital staff
called me the Graveyard Miracle. Soon after, Gray for short. It stuck.
I spent three months in
the hospital. That’s where Mama worked. The graveyard shift. She fed me. She
bathed me. She caressed my skin. “My heart had not a chance. It fell madly in
love with you,” she said, whenever she told me my story. Her pale hand, dotted
with freckles, caressing my black, straight hair.
When I became her
child officially, she quit the night job. “I had brought home my very own
Graveyard Miracle.”
She found a day job at a
pediatric clinic, occasionally helping at the hospital for extra income. She
continued working at the clinic throughout my childhood, adolescence, and after
I left home. She remained there until cancer said, “No more.” Until cancer
said, “I want your time. From now on, you are going to dedicate every waking
hour to me. I’m egocentric. I want it all. I want your flesh and the total sum
of your soul.”
That’s why I was there,
sitting in the back of a limousine Clara had rented to pick me up from JFK
airport and take me home.
“When should I schedule
your flight to LA?” she had asked. “Only a one-way ticket for now,” I
responded.
32 Lorelai Lane, my
childhood home. It was a small Victorian-style house, built in 1929. The
colorful foliage of a maple tree and an oak tree framed the dwelling as if it
was extracted from the pages of a fairy tale book. When I was little, I used to
fancy my house was lovely. The most enchanting place in all realms. Staring at
the house, I discovered that I still thought that. It was the most magical
place in the world because it was the place that humans refer to it as ‘home’.
And home is a thing of fairy tales. Rare and pure.
The car door was wide
open, awaiting me. I climbed out. The driver stood straight as a pole. His
hands perfectly folded in front of him, his face impassive. I wondered how long
he had stood there, waiting for me, questioning my sanity. The luggage was
lined up at the front porch. His face remained expressionless when I pulled a
generous tip from my purse and handed it to him. “Thank you,” I murmured.
He drove off, the sound
of the engine trailing off into the quiet street. It was late at night. The
crisp air smelled of burnt wood and autumn, reminiscent of bonfires and
fireplaces.
I crossed the stone path
leading to the front steps.
The hinges of the front
door squeaked, and Mama slowly appeared as light spilled out from inside the
house. She leaned against the doorframe, cocked her head, her eyes fixed on me.
She knew me so well. She knew I needed the time.
I peered up, carefully
examining Mama’s face. It had been only two months since I had last seen her,
but she appeared decades older. Even under the porch’s pale yellowed light, I
could detect the lines circling her mouth. Small bags sagged under her eyes,
and her plump skin appeared loose, dripping like melting wax. Her hair showed
inches of gray and her usual square and proud shoulders were smaller, fragile.
But what got my attention the most were her eyes. Their vivid green had turned
opaque.
The grief and sorrow in
her stare set my feet in motion, and I climbed the steps.
When mama stepped
forward, the old wooden floor groaned and creaked under her feet. She came to a
halt at the top of the stairs. Her lips curved into a small smile, and her arms
spread open in an inviting hug.
As I stepped forward, my
legs felt wobbly with the weight of so many years of absence.
Check out these other amazing books from L. Duarte
Fall Out Girl
A Taste of Utopia
About the Author
I have found that there
is only one thing better than reading, and that is writing. I am always torn
between the two. I am also frequently torn between chocolate and coffee.
However, I emphatically do not like the month of February, lies, and flies. For
me, bravery is defined by the courage to do what we fear the most. I live in
Connecticut with my husband and two children. Drop a few lines. I would love to
hear from you.
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Giveaway
L. Duarte is offering a $50.00 Amazon Gift Card to one lucky
winner!
Regan is a South African who is married to an IT specialist. She is also mom to a daughter and son. She discovered the joy of writing at the tender age of twelve. Her first two novels were teen fiction romance. She then got sidetracked into the world of computer programming and travelled extensively visiting twenty-seven countries.
