John Abbot

By Michael R Stark

John Abbot is lost, his memories shattered. Nothing connects. Nothing makes sense. There is only one thing he is sure of - his name. He carries it in his pocket on a rumpled piece of paper. He walks, alone and afraid. In his world there are only two constants. One is fear.

The other is the thing that whispers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael R Stark
• Release date: Aug 14, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452362892

Michael R Stark

Trying to figure out when I started writing is like trying to decide when I started walking. The stories have always been there, rummaging around in my mind. Some went on paper. Most didn’t. I wrote my first novel when I was 22. Thankfully, I left it to the dustbin of history where it shall always remain.Imagine the grin, yes, it was that bad.As for influences on my latest story, The Island, that one has been up there banging away in my head for a long time. Parts of it were told at bedtime. Though honestly, those who heard the parts wouldn't recognize them in the story. By the time we get to the second book in this series, they will find some recognizable moments. They'll also probably be upset that the adventure turned into something of a horror story.Ahh, well, most of them are old enough now to read it for what it is.I grew up in North Carolina, which is why part of the story is set there. I’ve been to exotic parts of the world, many countries, and most states. None of them I know as well as the one I called home for most of my life. It makes it easy to write about it, and the people in it.I hope you enjoy the stories.MS

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John Abbot

by

Michael Stark

SMASHWORDS EDITION

* * * * *

PUBLISHED BY: Michael Stark on Smashwords

John Abbot

Copyright © 2010 by Michael Stark

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

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John Abbot

I

He walks with the careful, shuffling gait of a man twice his age, the precise, measured step of a man who is not following a described course, but is feeling his way along like a boat navigating in uncertain waters. His steps betray the uneasiness inside him. They come slow and fitful like those of a toddler learning to walk, only John Abbot has no support, no steadying hands to give him balance and confidence.

Unlike those he passes, he did not wake this morning and shower, or wash his hair, or scrape the stubble from his face with a razor embedded in plastic. Nor did he sort out the day's wardrobe from a closet bulging with neatly pressed slacks and crisp white shirts. John Abbot possesses only that which currently hangs about his thin frame: dirty jeans, a ragged blue and green flannel shirt, two undershirts of different colors – one pink, the other yellow - a long, gray overcoat three sizes too big for him, and a dirty red ball cap that bears no logo. The last item is his favorite, tall, heavy, black leather boots that flash in shadowy dark spots at the bottom of his vision. Their rugged feel gives him comfort and keeps his feet dry.

John Abbot likes his feet to be dry.

His eyes are locked on the road before him, as if intent on finding something the rest of humanity has ignored, as if hidden in the cracks between the weathered and tire-worn cobblestones he will find his own personal golden fleece, his own path to enlightenment, or perhaps, his own salvation. Each of the rounded bricks is recorded in his mind, etched on a memory as blank and untouched as a virgin chalkboard. Tabula Rasa, the phrase slides into his mind, provided by a past he can no longer remember. John Abbot is going, but he does not know where or why.

Life swirls about him in peculiar shades of sound and color, each stretched like elongated plastic - the man in the smooth gray suit whose image fades behind him as if he were moving too fast for the eye to follow, the woman whose clicking heels smite the air like far off drums. John Abbot looks away quickly, the movement furtive, almost shy. Were he to look up, he could watch the wind move with a fluid grace through the trees, caressing, lifting, and turning each individual leaf, watch the air itself writhe and weep in the wake of passing cars. He knows this, knows somehow it is not right, but does not know why.

He is in his thirties- he thinks. Still, he feels older, much older, and somehow used. It is a feeling he cannot put into words, a ghost of a memory that haunts him, weighs upon him like a ton of invisible bricks. He could not translate the feeling into words if his life depended on it, and would be afraid if he tried. John Abbot has a purpose, but has no idea what it is.

The city is small and