Author Interview - Nisha P Postlethwaite on One Thousand Worlds

Nisha P Postlethwaite is today's interviewed author on One Thousand Worlds. Nisha first featured on this blog in December 2013 and you can read that post here.

Tell us about your latest book.

The First Sense eBook is set in not too distant future in a fictional new British city, and revolves around three unusual 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, and Zach gate-crashes others' 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 futuristic fable  about human longing, loneliness and love, stitched with irony, and the imaginary 'Lakes City' that sprawls over what was once Cumbria, provides an alluring backdrop for this futuristic fable. This novel blends science fiction with some of the very real complexities of human relationships.

How many books have you written?

One full-length novel (The First Sense published as an eBook in 2013)

A novella called Addicted under my maiden name 'Nisha Pannu'(published by Dark Asylum Magazine  in 1995)

What are you working on at the moment?

Two books - one the sequel to The First Sense, the other, a book of short stories.

What are the most important attributes to remaining sane as a writer?

As writers spend a lot of time working alone, I think it's important to make time for other social activities and different experiences. Not only is it good to have time out, but connecting with others feeds the imagination.

How much impact does your childhood have on your writing?

A huge one; growing up with all the trials, tribulations and schooling provided me with a lot of material to write about. 'School rooms'  and 'lecture rooms'  often appear in my writing . I wrote a lot of stories and poems as a child, and was often told off by teachers for 'day- dreaming' - when I was actually mentally creating new tales and prose in their lessons, (apart from in  English, English Literature and Art)

What was the greatest thing you learned at school?

That I am very creative and imaginative but it's taken me  well into my adult years
to fully harness that. Unfortunately our education system didn't  nurture artistic and creative talents but tended to push you into other subjects

If you could meet any of your own characters, who would it be?

Thorsen the cook and owner of The Edible Remedy Cafe in The First Sense.
I would like to hear his life story while working my way through his menu. I'm working on it...

Do you have a favourite character among the ones you've invented?

Eiko from The First Sense - her story is unfinished - and if you've read the novel you might be surprised to hear that . When I finished writing the book, I really missed all the main characters - just stepping into their shoes and listening to all their deepest, darkest thoughts.

What do you want to be when you grow up?

Content and no older.

If you could trade places with any other person for a week, famous or not famous, living or dead, real or fictional, with whom would it be?

J K Rowling - to see inside a mind full of magic

What do you think about when you are alone in your car?

Everything - the longer the journey is the better my view becomes of  what was, what is and what could be. Driving away, puts everything into perspective.

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:

Amazon

Connect with N.P. Postlethwaite here:

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Trial (Robert A. Boyd) on Sci-fi Saturday

Trial by Robert A. Boyd is this week's Sci-Fi Saturday feature on One Thousand Worlds.

Trial-

'Trial' is a science fiction political action thriller based on our probable reaction if we were contacted by an advanced alien race today.  An enormous starship appears over Manhattan Island, and an emissary lands in Central Park - where it is promptly gunned down, live on world wide television, by a skinhead gun nut.   The result is world wide panic, and the economic and social crisis is seized upon by a small group of ultra-right-wingers as an opportunity to overthrow the government.   A sensational murder trial masks the moves by the plotters to destabilize the government through assassinations, riots, and undermining the economy.   Can the government see the danger in time?   Can they counter the treasonous plotters?   And above all, can they placate the overwhelmingly powerful aliens?

About the author-

Bob Boyd has been a self published author since 2002, with eight novels currently released.   He takes great interest in self publishing, and created a non-profit trust to promote the craft through sales of his works.   He lives in Tacoma, Washington.   His books can be found on Amazon, or in book and download form through his web site:

http://www.the-written-wyrd.org

Chapter One

"Aw right, move along!  Move along, pal!"  The NYPD cop was hot and flustered, and the look he gave Elaine Armbruster when she squeezed through the mob in front of him said he was in no mood to argue.  "Move along, sister."

"Secret Service."  She flashed her ID folder his face in tight lipped frustration.  It took her most of the morning to get here from Penn Station, and she was in no mood to argue, either.

"Yeah?"  He'd been on crowd control for three days now, and it took him a moment to focus on the petite woman in front of him.  "You're here about...'it', huh?"  He waved her past with a nervous half-glance over his shoulder, leaving her to cope with the plastic POLICE LINE streamer behind him, and turned his attention back to the frenzied mob.  "BACK UP!  ALL'A YOU!  MOVE ALONG!"  Not that it did him a damn bit of good.  Between the crowd noise and his raspy voice no one could hear him more than five feet away.  They weren't listening in any case.

Safely past the first police line, she fished a hankie out of her pocket and mopped her face with a sigh of fatigue and exasperation.  'How have they managed this well?' she wondered, wearily.  Even with the National Guard deployed, the city was in chaos, ready to melt down.  Midtown Manhattan was gridlocked.  The subways were, too.  There was an ironclad no-fly zone over Manhattan Island, with a half-dozen F16s circling in the distance to keep it so.  Even police helicopters were grounded, and no one knew what the hell was going on, so she had to get here on foot, which was much like hacking her way through the Amazon jungle.  The last ten blocks were a sea of excited, hysterical, often panicky humanity.  All the shops were closed, and as she fought her way forward, she saw more than one instance of looting.  With this midsummer heat, New Yorkers would be ready to lash out in any event, so she was a bit surprised things weren't worse.

Inside the first POLICE LINE was a second, with a row of TV cameras, equipment and crews wedged between.  They were quieter and more orderly than the riot twenty feet behind them, but were packed almost as densely, with the added hazards of cables and discarded equipment cases to trip over.  Harried technicians cursed and shoved as she struggled through, but she hardly noticed since she was finally getting her first look at 'it', just ahead.  She was so distracted that she collided with one heavyweight wearing a soundman's headset, and nearly knocked over one of the repeater antennas dotting the landscape.

"BITCH!"  A technician jumped to adjust the dish.  "Watch what th' hell you're doing!"  She retreated, muttering apologies no one could hear.

There were several dozen TV crews in a broad semicircle, along with a couple hundred others privileged to pass the first barricade.  She took a quick look around and saw BBC, Japan's NSK, the French TPS Foot—jeez, even the sports channels were getting into the act!—plus several unfamiliar logos.  They must have emptied the newsroom over at the United Nations.  The media moved fast before the mob began forming, which was good for them because there was no chance of any vehicles getting in or out now.  A dozen or more mobile news trucks were parked in a row along the lake, their antennas sticking up like a forest of masts.  What they would do when they ran out of gas was anyone's guess.

"Stay back in the press zone," the cop at the next barricade grumbled.

"Secret Service."  She waved her ID folder again like a talisman.

"Huh?"  He'd been repeating himself for three days now, trying to keep the marching morons from stampeding, and mistook her for one of the swarm of female reporters.  "Yeah.  Okay, sister, go on in."

"Who's in charge here?"

"Huh?  God knows, lady."  He sighed, and scanned the mob with a dismayed look like he was seeing it for the first time.  "Maybe not even God.  You'll have to ask somebody."

The first somebody to notice her, once she passed the second POLICE LINE streamer, was tall and spare, with a long face and the chunky look of body armor under his jacket.  He was mid 40s, with salt-and-pepper hair, and he stared at her for a moment with a look of mixed exhaustion and worry before heading toward her.

"Elaine Armbruster, Secret Service."  She anticipated him and waved her ID folder again.

"I'm Hanson, FBI.  You okay?"

"Yeah.  God, what a herd."  She pocketed her ID, thankful it did its job.  "I thought Denver was bad!"

"And it gets worse by the hour, 24/7."  He considered her vaguely: thirties, petite, neatly dressed, athletic figure, auburn hair, not at all bad looking.  The bulge under her jacket at her left waistband went with the assertive, no-nonsense look in her eyes.  "They never quit.  They never sleep.  If they eat, they must bring it with 'em..."

"There are tailgaters out on the fringe now."

"Gawd."  His tense look deepened.  "Like a fuckin' football game, pardon my French."  He scanned the frenzied humanity barely held in check by a thin cordon of city cops and National Guard troops, then turned his attention back to her.  "So what brings the Palace Guard to our little shindig?"

"That."

'That' seemed innocent enough at first glance: a perfect sphere twenty-odd feet in diameter made of some shimmery, pearly silver material with no markings, seams, openings or any other detail.  The catch was that it descended out of a clear blue sky three days ago, and it now hovered six inches above the center of the cluster of softball fields in Central Park next to the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

"An honest-to-God flying saucer," she whispered.  "Jesus."

Watching TV wasn't the same as actually standing there and seeing it.  An alien space ship: product of a civilization far more advanced than mankind.  The reality of it chilled her.  Her first rational thought as she studied the enormous pearl was that the automatic tucked in her waistband was about useless.

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The Starlight Chronicles: Slumbering (C. S. Johnson) in One Thousand Words

The Starlight Chronicles: Slumbering by C. S. Johnson is today's featured book on One Thousand Worlds.

Legacy-

Sixteen-year-old Hamilton Dinger is an above-average teenager. He’s got the grades for the top of the class, the abilities of a star athlete and Tetris player, and the charisma to get away with anything. Everything seems to be going along perfectly as he enters into tenth grade at Apollo Central High School. Everything, that is, until a meteor crashes into the city, unleashing a whirlwind of evil and awakening a deep, hidden power as the long battle between good and evil continues. Bringing an abrupt halt to the easygoing pace of Hamilton’s life, he and his longtime dormant supernatural powers are caught up in the middle of things when his comfort zone is turned into a war zone. On top of everything else, there’s the homecoming game, the school play, and the history test to worry about. Can Hamilton overcome his ignorance and narrow-mindedness to see what is truly real? Can he give up his self-proclaimed entitlement to happiness in order to follow the call of a duty he doesn’t want? More importantly, will he willingly sacrifice all he has to find out the truth?


About this author-

C. S. Johnson is the author of Slumbering, book one of The Starlight Chronicles series for young adults. With a gift of sarcasm and an apologetic heart, she currently lives in Atlanta with her family, cats, and caffeine addiction.

Chapter 1

The winter winds were cold and harsh, laced with particles of hail and snow. The air was dry, the sun was hidden, and just from looking at it, I could tell Lake Erie was in the freezing temperatures. Apollo City, along with northern Ohio, was covered in a blanket of gray-white snow/slush, but city inhabitants were still trying to go about their humdrum lives with as little interruption as possible. 

I had to say, the eela – shadow monster – rampaging all around the city wasn’t helping. Not in the least, if you can imagine it. 

Hovering in midair, the day’s choice for monster giggled as he attacked another crowd of people. He’d shown up a few times this past week, but this was the first time I’ve gotten this close to getting him without breaking curfew or skipping out of class (Not that I minded those things; I just minded getting in trouble for them.) 

This sinister-ling is Daikan; he ‘specializes’ in cruel humor, but not the kind I liked or agreed with (Some of his material was really lame.) He’d been nicknamed ‘The Jester’ by the local press – anything to get sales up without infringing on Batman’s legal rights. 

While he certainly reminded me of some kind of ex-con carnie, there was a villainous twinkle in his eye all too reminiscent of his many demon predecessors and his fearless Sinister leaders. Not to mention there was the same cringe-worthy delusion laced in his laughter. 

“Ha-ha, I told you I would have you rolling with delight sooner or later,” he cried out mockingly, as indeed, the crowds rolled over, though in pain. “Daikan always has a trick up his sleeve!”

Who knew who he thought he was talking to? Some people were snapping photos, while others were running away screaming. All of this chaos was happening, of course, while I was attempting to destroy him. 

Unfortunately, this was nothing out of the ordinary. It was just a typical day in the life of the superhero known as 'Wingdinger'. Me. 

My fingers gave an icy snap as I clenched my fists. “No one's laughing down here!” I retorted angrily. 

Just so you know, I had a right to be angry. Daikan had largely ignored me that day, and only paid attention long enough to laugh at me. And the third-person referencing was getting old.

“Watch your back, kid!” Elysian, my 'pet' changeling dragon, thundered at me as he swooped down and curled protectively around me as Daikan slashed out his attack; spindles of power trickled through the sky, swiping over us as Elysian ducked and I dodged. 

There’s a sudden break as a nearby tree fell and I heard something else – probably a building – crumbling behind us. 

“Let's go,” Elysian muttered, ignoring the glare I gave him as he leaned down to let me up on his back. But I (reluctantly) climbed on; I wanted nothing more than to fly on my own two, irritatingly useless, wings.  

The wind bit at my face, matching the bite in my tone. “Look who's laughing now!” I taunted, tackling the laughing trickster right out of the air. Something puffy and squishy gooped through my gloves as I no doubt punched through a lung, knocking the wind (along with other substances) out of his body. 

“Ugh…Gross.” If only this were some kind of video game, I thought ruefully. Me and the guys would be all over it. 

Split seconds later, I was thrust back into the fight. Several events blurred through my mind as the end of the battle became eminent:

- Flinging the pus off of my fist -

- Elysian’s brief approving sneer -  

Falling from the sky, tangled up with the demon body (Ah, the welcoming rush of adrenaline. I’d become quite the junkie since this started.)  

I grinned to myself. I liked this trick. After several months of fighting off these monsters, I no longer had any fear of falling. 

Instead of freaking out like I used to, I clawed my way on top of the evil eela, my feet forcing my enemy into the ground even more as we slammed into the ground. 

Jolted but still standing, I victoriously wiped a spray of dirt off my face. “Ha. Got you!” 

Elysian scuttled over. “Good work, kid. I think we did great today.” 

We? I silently rolled my eyes. 

He’d spoken too soon. Or maybe he jinxed me, because the next moment, Daikan propelled himself upright with more power than I’d thought possible, sending me flying back through the air. “Play time's over!”

“Ugh...” I grunted in frustration; of all the places to land, it had to be in a pile of frozen dog poo. “Gross!” Why did I always have to land in something slimy!? 

I looked up at Elysian, just in time to see him unleash an attack of his own; my dragon’s bright celestial fire hit its mark as I stood up and hurriedly tried to clean myself up. Being a superhero is not as important as looking like one, in my opinion.  

“Augh!” Daikan cried, the dragon fire slowly eating away at his colorful clothes and sizzling into his wrinkly skin. Even though I love my barbeque, it was a gruesome sight to watch him flap and burn. It probably would have been more enjoyable if he was dead. And plucked. 

“Finish him!” Elysian called out. 

“No one defeats me,” I murmured, letting myself smile. For once, we are going to get along all right without -

A hot, blazing arrow of light suddenly soared out of nowhere. It struck the demonic creature in the head, unleashing a small bright explosion and bombing out brain residue. I jumped back and shielded my face. When I peeked over seconds later, Daikan was gone. 

I groaned; I'd thought too soon. She was here. 

Following the trajectory of the arrow, I looked up. And there she was.  

Where you can buy

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Twitter: @C_S_Johnson13

Blog: https://csjohnsonetc.blogspot.com

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Rule of Thumb (Scott E. Baughman) on Sci-fi Saturday

Rule of Thumb by Scott E. Baughman is this week's Sci-Fi Saturday feature on One Thousand Worlds.

Rule of Thumb-

The network of the future is always on...until THEY cut you off. In the social network of the near future, to lose your connection is to be one of the Nameless. And privileged elite Adrien Faulk is about to find out just how quickly you can be cut off from the world when they don't steal your identity, they ERASE it. Faulk's journey to find a missing pair of binoculars will take him from the mean streets of near-future New York City to an ancient pyramid in Guatemala. Along the way he'll come face-to-face with a global mystery, a cybernetic assassin, a group of ragtag revolutionaries and a crazed technological cult. He'll discover an ancient prophesy about mankind's future among the stars. And he'll find out what it means to be an individual, a hero...and maybe what it means to be human.
But will he find those answers in time to save us all?

Rule of Thumb

The first time I saw Smith he was reading a newspaper. And I mean like a printed, physical one. As thousands of people streamed past him in the crowded Grand Central Hovertrain Station, he was sitting there perusing the headlines like a man who had somehow missed his train - from the 20th century - and just stayed there...waiting and watching while the world changed around him.

Yes, he was reading the New York Times, and yes it was the late edition - the only one they still printed on real paper. It was one dinosaur trying to make another dinosaur feel like he was up-to-date and well-informed. But all the "news" in that Times was at least 24 hours old. I kind of pitied him.

He must have understood that somehow. He was old, real old; he had to be over 40. He actually had gray hair around his temples and some in his ridiculously out of style goatee. But when he peered up at me, over the edge of the Times, he seemed to have a smirk.

"You can make fun of me all you want, young buck, but remember, you're the one who called for my help," he said.

"I-I do need your help," I stammered. I wasn't really sure how to explain this to him face-to-face any better than I had over the vidphone. "As I said before, Mr. Smith, I have - lost something."

I whispered that last part. I didn't want any of the hovertrain passengers, security guards or observatrons to overhear. People just didn't lose things in 2042. Almost any object on earth could be located within about one foot by the thermal GPS.

"It happens to everyone, son," Smith said, in a fatherly way I knew I was going to find increasingly annoying. "So you lost something, big deal. When I was a younger man, I made a lot of good money as a private detective who specialized in locating lost things or lost people."

That was, of course, why I wanted to hire him. There were only about five people left in the city that could realistically call themselves private detectives. They were all at least as old as Smith, I think. Actually, he must have been the youngest one left - because when I contacted the others I had to yell so loud into the phone that I decided to hang up before they ever understood what I was saying.

"As I explained on the vid, while I was on vacation last month I somehow-misplaced-my binoculars," I said, again with hushed tones.

Smith crinkled his forehead. Oh no, I thought, he couldn't hear me.

"Son, it's too loud in here, care to take a walk? There's a nice little diner I know nearby."

I shrugged, pulled out my vidphone and waited for him to tell me the address.

"You won't need the dang thermal GPS to find this place, just follow me down the street. You know, there were whole societies that lived without those smartphones," Smith growled. He made his way toward the exit. He might be old, but the man knew how to make an exit. People actually parted in front of him. I found myself hustling to keep up as they let us out the front door.

"Grand central," Smith said as he looked back over his shoulder. "It doesn't matter what kind of train they got, that place is always busy."

"Is this the part where you tell me how busy it was back in the 20th century? You know, it's much better now, the trains don't need the tracks," I said, and pointed at one of the hovertrains as it energized magnetic coils and lifted off the ground. Judging from its direction of departure it was headed north, probably taking people home from a day in the city.

"It doesn't matter if they fly, roll or float, the trains will never run on time when they're handled by the same old bureaucrats," Smith said.

After a few more minutes of walking Smith ducked into a door I had never noticed before. I followed him in and there was an odd dinging sound as the door closed behind us.

My nose was assaulted with smells. There was coffee - the cheap stuff - a hint of sugary sweetness and something else I'm sure was burning bread.

"What?" I choked out. "What is this place?"

"Ruby's," Smith said. "It has been making the finest in greasy spoon fare in this same spot for longer than anyone can remember."

Smith removed his cliché of a trench coat, hung it on a coatrack and sat down in a booth. It was something out of Nighthawks, with red pleather that was probably more duct tape than bench. I slid into the booth, facing him across the table. The place was so old; it had a holographic menu station that had been added to the table after the fact. I pushed the button to turn it on and nothing happened.

"Uhh, Mr. Smith, what do they--" I tried to ask but just then a waitress came over to take our order.

"I'll have the usual, doll," Smith said. At that moment I noticed she was a real live person and not a servbot. I unconsciously rolled my eyes and she noticed.

She leaned down the table, her red hair spilling down around her shoulders and framing her chest, clearly emphasized by her uniform with the top unbuttoned down to the third slot. I tried not to, but I did stare. Whatever quip I was going to spout - something about robots being able to remember my order and serve me more quickly - sort of died on my lips as I took in her beauty. She had the reddest lips that somehow didn't clash with her hair, and the bluest eyes. Which, in retrospect, I should've just stared at those instead of her...ample other attributes.

"They're real, sweetie, and so am I," she said. "So, are you going to order something or just continue to suck up oxygen in my restaurant?"

Rule of Thumb is for sale on Amazon

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The First Sense (N.P. Postlethwaite) on Sci-fi Saturday

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, 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.

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. 

The First Sense

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. 

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