After a short break, Sci-Fi Saturday is here again and One Thousand Worlds has the pleasure of introducing The First Sense, a futuristic, fictional novel by N.P. Postlethwaite in One Thousand Words.
The First Sense-
The First Sense
I found my name when I was seven. My mother chose another name when I was a fern tip floating in her womb, but she would never get to say it, so as soon as I was yanked out into the cold air, my search began. I thought my name may be concealed in pictures, hidden in texts, or in the whispers that brushed across my ears as I slept; I searched the depths of eyes and the pauses in conversations, but my search was as endless as the sky.
Then seven years on, on a blistering hot afternoon in October – after I’d turned
everything I could think of, upside down and inside out - my name came to me. Just like that. I was at home in the kitchen and I’d flipped my homework onto the Hub, eagerly hoping for a ‘pass’ so I could escape outside, when my com turned itself off. I commanded the com to come back on but nothing happened.
‘That’s not right,’ I mumbled. Neither was what happened next. A digital, red butterfly
appeared in the middle of the black screen; I clicked at it with my fingerMouse but it wouldn’t budge. So I spat on my shirt and rubbed the screen, but it wouldn’t go away. Defeated, I decided to give in and go outside, but suddenly, an explosion of sparkling white stars appeared on the screen, and I watched them twinkle away until the screen went back to black.
Then to my complete horror, a red cut appeared across the top of the screen - as if an
invisible knife had slashed it. Dark red blood oozed out of the wound and leaked across the screen. I tried to touch it, but it wasn’t wet - it was on the other side. I wondered whether to get help, and feared the com was in pain, after all, it could see, speak, listen and react to touch, but a state of calmness glided over me when my inner voice said ‘stranger things have happened.’
I watched the blood slowly creep into lines and curves until letters were formed, and they soon became the words: Every Individual Kills Order. My face burned. The red letters rolled off to the right of the screen, only for more to appear from the left. They read: Everything Inside Kicks Out. I swallowed a lump and watched the words roll away again. Next came, Erase Identity - Keep Open. I wondered if that message meant I should keep myself open to it, because I had only recently tried to shut it off. Then came: Early Instinct Knocks Opponents. I had already guessed that my unusual ‘instincts’ may be essential to my survival.
The room heaved like a lung. I stepped out of myself to watch the scene from the other
side of the room, and if that sounds odd, well it wasn't the first time. My other-self hugged my other-knees – where I was precariously balanced on a stool, my other-face paler than pale with blood-red letters reflected onto my other-eyes. It was only then that I realised each message began with the same four letters. Another round of words confirmed this: Esoteric Intuitive Keen Outsider.
I slammed back into myself with a thud. My body went cold as I realised all the messages
were deeply personal and relevant to my life so far, but where had they come from? The last message was: Emotional Ironic Knowledgeable Orphan. A dog whined, it took more than a minute to realise it was me. I felt completely overwhelmed to receive affirmation of my life like that. I tore my eyes away from the screen as the room began to spin. I turned as sticky as the day, slipped onto the floor and held my rolling head in my hands until everything became still again. Eventually, I rubbed my eyes but yelped when I saw the four letters: E I K O singed onto the inside of my eyelids.
After spending seven, long years lost in a dark, dense forest, I had stumbled into a clearing. My name was ‘Eiko.’
I never knew the man that left me in my mother, and hoped he hadn’t passed down any part of himself to me. That was wishful thinking, I now know. My mother, Mia, left me when she was twenty-seven years old and thirty-eight weeks pregnant. I was told she died from a ‘heart attack’ during labour, but that was not exactly true, I know her broken heart really finished her off.
Mia died exactly three minutes before I was born. As a child, I’d often watch the
seconds on a clock tick by for three minutes, and I was always surprised how easily they slipped by, when three not-to-be-taken-lightly-minutes stole my mother away from me. I also spent every birthday alone in my room; no amount of bribery lured me out because it didn’t feel right celebrating the date my mother died. Instead, each year, I wondered how much more like my mother I’d become.
I saw from pictures I had the same fierce blue eyes and prominent jaw, but I wanted to know if she would raise her left eyebrow to be insolent, but couldn’t raise the right one, or if she had trouble remembering her nine-times table, so did her ten-times table instead, and worked backwards. I particularly wanted to know if her eyes ever dropped to the floor when she met new people, because she was drawn to their shadows instead of their faces. I never found out any of the answers to those questions, but I often heard her whispering to me, her voice as soft as butter. And once, while I slept, I felt her body heave under me while the tide of her breath washed over my face.
My mother's only relative was her brother, Edward James, and he brought me up with sheer persistence.
The First Sense-
The First Sense, a futuristic, fictional novel by N.P. Postlethwaite, was published as an e-book in 2013. Set in Lakes City - that sprawls across what was once Cumbria, this new city retains space and natural beauty unlike the other British cities which have become over-populated and plagued with inner-city viruses.
The book revolves around three central characters with extraordinary abilities: Eiko uncovers secrets from shadows, smells memories, and reads between life’s lines. Café owner Thorsen, alleviates his customers’ mental afflictions with his mysterious but wonderful, culinary creations. Zach gate-crashes others' private thoughts for his self-gratification. All three struggle to understand their unwanted ‘gifts.’ As their stories unfold and lives intertwine, their mysteries unravel with tragic consequences.
This is a highly imaginative novel about human longing, loneliness and love, stitched with irony, and Lakes City provides an alluring backdrop for this futuristic fable. This novel blends science-fiction with some of the very real complexities of human relationships.
Author, N. P. Postlethwaite was born in Manchester in 1975, and grew up in Newcastle-upon-Tyne, and writes short stories, poems, lyrics and a blog. Nisha moved to Cumbria in 1993 to do a degree in Media Studies, and followed this with a Postgraduate Diploma in HR Management. Subsequently, Nisha has has worked in HR, as well as a singer, freelance writer and editor. For many years, Nisha owned a café-bar in Kendal where she was the chef where many interesting people came through the doors; this inspired her character Thorsen, and his experiences in her first novel The First Sense.
N P Postlethwaite is currently writing the sequel to The First Sense and a book of short stories.
The book revolves around three central characters with extraordinary abilities: Eiko uncovers secrets from shadows, smells memories, and reads between life’s lines. Café owner Thorsen, alleviates his customers’ mental afflictions with his mysterious but wonderful, culinary creations. Zach gate-crashes others' private thoughts for his self-gratification. All three struggle to understand their unwanted ‘gifts.’ As their stories unfold and lives intertwine, their mysteries unravel with tragic consequences.
This is a highly imaginative novel about human longing, loneliness and love, stitched with irony, and Lakes City provides an alluring backdrop for this futuristic fable. This novel blends science-fiction with some of the very real complexities of human relationships.
About this author-
Author, N. P. Postlethwaite was born in Manchester in 1975, and grew up in Newcastle-upon-Tyne, and writes short stories, poems, lyrics and a blog. Nisha moved to Cumbria in 1993 to do a degree in Media Studies, and followed this with a Postgraduate Diploma in HR Management. Subsequently, Nisha has has worked in HR, as well as a singer, freelance writer and editor. For many years, Nisha owned a café-bar in Kendal where she was the chef where many interesting people came through the doors; this inspired her character Thorsen, and his experiences in her first novel The First Sense.
N P Postlethwaite is currently writing the sequel to The First Sense and a book of short stories.
Prologue
I found my name when I was seven. My mother chose another name when I was a fern tip floating in her womb, but she would never get to say it, so as soon as I was yanked out into the cold air, my search began. I thought my name may be concealed in pictures, hidden in texts, or in the whispers that brushed across my ears as I slept; I searched the depths of eyes and the pauses in conversations, but my search was as endless as the sky.
Then seven years on, on a blistering hot afternoon in October – after I’d turned
everything I could think of, upside down and inside out - my name came to me. Just like that. I was at home in the kitchen and I’d flipped my homework onto the Hub, eagerly hoping for a ‘pass’ so I could escape outside, when my com turned itself off. I commanded the com to come back on but nothing happened.
‘That’s not right,’ I mumbled. Neither was what happened next. A digital, red butterfly
appeared in the middle of the black screen; I clicked at it with my fingerMouse but it wouldn’t budge. So I spat on my shirt and rubbed the screen, but it wouldn’t go away. Defeated, I decided to give in and go outside, but suddenly, an explosion of sparkling white stars appeared on the screen, and I watched them twinkle away until the screen went back to black.
Then to my complete horror, a red cut appeared across the top of the screen - as if an
invisible knife had slashed it. Dark red blood oozed out of the wound and leaked across the screen. I tried to touch it, but it wasn’t wet - it was on the other side. I wondered whether to get help, and feared the com was in pain, after all, it could see, speak, listen and react to touch, but a state of calmness glided over me when my inner voice said ‘stranger things have happened.’
I watched the blood slowly creep into lines and curves until letters were formed, and they soon became the words: Every Individual Kills Order. My face burned. The red letters rolled off to the right of the screen, only for more to appear from the left. They read: Everything Inside Kicks Out. I swallowed a lump and watched the words roll away again. Next came, Erase Identity - Keep Open. I wondered if that message meant I should keep myself open to it, because I had only recently tried to shut it off. Then came: Early Instinct Knocks Opponents. I had already guessed that my unusual ‘instincts’ may be essential to my survival.
The room heaved like a lung. I stepped out of myself to watch the scene from the other
side of the room, and if that sounds odd, well it wasn't the first time. My other-self hugged my other-knees – where I was precariously balanced on a stool, my other-face paler than pale with blood-red letters reflected onto my other-eyes. It was only then that I realised each message began with the same four letters. Another round of words confirmed this: Esoteric Intuitive Keen Outsider.
I slammed back into myself with a thud. My body went cold as I realised all the messages
were deeply personal and relevant to my life so far, but where had they come from? The last message was: Emotional Ironic Knowledgeable Orphan. A dog whined, it took more than a minute to realise it was me. I felt completely overwhelmed to receive affirmation of my life like that. I tore my eyes away from the screen as the room began to spin. I turned as sticky as the day, slipped onto the floor and held my rolling head in my hands until everything became still again. Eventually, I rubbed my eyes but yelped when I saw the four letters: E I K O singed onto the inside of my eyelids.
After spending seven, long years lost in a dark, dense forest, I had stumbled into a clearing. My name was ‘Eiko.’
Chapter One
EIKO
I never knew the man that left me in my mother, and hoped he hadn’t passed down any part of himself to me. That was wishful thinking, I now know. My mother, Mia, left me when she was twenty-seven years old and thirty-eight weeks pregnant. I was told she died from a ‘heart attack’ during labour, but that was not exactly true, I know her broken heart really finished her off.
Mia died exactly three minutes before I was born. As a child, I’d often watch the
seconds on a clock tick by for three minutes, and I was always surprised how easily they slipped by, when three not-to-be-taken-lightly-minutes stole my mother away from me. I also spent every birthday alone in my room; no amount of bribery lured me out because it didn’t feel right celebrating the date my mother died. Instead, each year, I wondered how much more like my mother I’d become.
I saw from pictures I had the same fierce blue eyes and prominent jaw, but I wanted to know if she would raise her left eyebrow to be insolent, but couldn’t raise the right one, or if she had trouble remembering her nine-times table, so did her ten-times table instead, and worked backwards. I particularly wanted to know if her eyes ever dropped to the floor when she met new people, because she was drawn to their shadows instead of their faces. I never found out any of the answers to those questions, but I often heard her whispering to me, her voice as soft as butter. And once, while I slept, I felt her body heave under me while the tide of her breath washed over my face.
My mother's only relative was her brother, Edward James, and he brought me up with sheer persistence.
Want to read more? You can buy The First Sense at the retailers listed at this link:
http://www.nppostlethwaite.com/#/buy-the-first-sense/4575565116
Link to Amazon Kindle sales page:
Connect with N.P. Postlethwaite here:
Twitter: @nppostlethwaite
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