Machinations

By Violet Winters

The small town of Lovely was anything, but lovely. It was an evil Mecca where the blade of loathing severed the soul, wielded by the wicked machinations of selfish intent. It all began with a misunderstood orphan named Amber Storm, who desperately sought affection but only found scornful hatred. The towns loathing of the innocent little girl, created a monster who blossomed with puberty, gifted with the telepathic powers of a Dreamwalker. With the ability to manipulate perceived reality through dreams, Amber set forth to attain vengeance for her suffering and justice for her slain family.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Violet Winters
• Release date: Mar 21, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476144733

Book preview

Machinations

By

Violet Winters

Copyright 2012 Violet Winters

Smashwords Edition

Chapter 1 My Confession

"If you Google the city of Lovely, Missouri, the first thing you will discover is that the township no longer exists. In fact, if not for the overwhelming loss of life that obliterated the small community of five thousand, which captured national attention for an entire five hours in 2006, the towns’ creation in 1922 might have been struck from the electronic pages of history. The undeniable truth that so many died, combined with the unbelievable carnage, forced the government to create a cover story.

Now the wide world of blended fact and fiction, which bludgeons the helplessly stupid into lemming submission, will tell you Lovely was the site of the worst natural-gas explosion in American history. Those surgeons of plausible lies have patch-worked the truth in such a way as too leave no physical evidence of what really happened. I assume no more than a dozen people are privy to the ghastly truth; thankfully, for you, I just so happen to be one of them. Not to boast but if you could actually find one of the government pigs that buried what really happened, and you could then get them to tell you Honest Abe’s version; they would be forced to admit I am the foremost expert on the events that led to thousands of deaths. What is most shocking about this story is that the truth is more unbelievable than the ridiculous fiction fabricated to hide it.

Just in case you are wondering, my name is Nathaniel Storm but only the judicial system and various law enforcement agencies call me Nathaniel. To friends and family, I am simply known as Nathan or Nate, while Amber Storm the girl technically responsible for destroying the town was my deceased sister Willow’s daughter. I know what you are thinking, and you are correct; the child should carry the last name of the father, and Amber’s would have been Cole if not for her grandmother.

Roselyn Cole hated Willow with the blackest loathing that can stain one's heart. She believed my sister to be a witch, her son Michael a traitor to god, and herself an avenging angel. Such feelings stirred the old woman to authorize the death of her only son and daughter-in-law. Strangely, she felt bound by the lord to raise Amber, a cross to bear for past sins, but Roselyn refused to share her name with the child she thought to be Satan’s spawn. I will, for the moment, refrain from going into the ghastly circumstances that led to the deaths of Willow and her husband Michael, which caused my niece to be placed with Roselyn because this story is about Amber, and it is about Lovely.

Now had anyone come to me before the town of Lovely became the day-after Armageddon and asked me about my little niece, I just might have saved him or her from impending death. Right, who am I kidding? I’m no rat and there’s an honor code; a loyalty to those who love and respect you over those who think you are trailer trash. I will be upfront in saying I am a drug dealer, a profession which gets no respect whatsoever. Thing is, we normally know everything that goes on in the bowels of society and in this case, I knew more than I wanted to. Hey, waking up at two a.m. with cold sweats from seeing the thoughts and nightmares of a misunderstood little girl and then the aftermath of her anger is seriously eerie. Feeling her power progress to the point it consumes your day and leaves you unfit to cook a bowl of noodles is mind boggling. Knowing she can obliterate an entire town right off the geological map, is downright frightening.

So why didn’t I tell someone? For starters, does anyone believe a single thing a drug dealer says besides guilty your honor? We don’t need to check the back of any high school textbooks to know the answer is absolutely not. You self-righteous hypocrites sit in your homes and think you are so perfect in your perfect little families and perfect little societal groups and that I… am the scum of the earth. Well, I have news for you; I do not give away a quarter pound of marijuana every month. People just like you or your saintly neighbors purchase these stress-relieving goods from me at bargain-basement prices. However, whom do you vilify for the crime? You blame citizens like me, the small businessman. Fact number-one: I don’t sell drugs to kids, and if I caught anyone doing that crap with my drugs you wouldn’t even have to worry about the cops, street justice my friend it works in nine out of ten ghettos nationwide. Still that is America for you, land of the free and home of the stupid. Stupid because you are too naïve to realize you lost the true heart of freedom about a century ago and now live in a skeletal Never-Land of the past. Seriously, how free can anyone be when the government regulates what you put into your own body and places people like me in jail for selling products grown from the earth? You all think I am the cause for addictions, but I don’t see fat people suing McDonald's for their hamburgers.

As for real crimes, I think the town of Lovely had its own problems with domestic violence before I ever showed up. Sure, there are a few dealers who make the rest of us look bad, but you don’t see the government arresting every Catholic Priest do you? Nor do they take every child born away from their parents because a few of them beat and molest their kids. However, the simple name drug dealer can get a person an extra five years, trust me; I know. So when my little niece faced real hardships, no one stepped up in order to help her out, and she found the strength to get revenge, I cheered.

Screw all of you uppity hypocritical bastards because while the former Lovely Chamber of Commerce is savoring the farts of their decomposition in a mass graveyard, I am writing my autobiography and sitting on Easy Street. Between the disability checks for my adopted child and the federal hush money to keep the truth on wraps, I’m set for life. In retrospect, maybe writing this book violates my agreement with the government who would prefer you never know what really occurred, but I figure they can just piss off. I will simply have it marketed as fiction, since it is not likely too many people are intelligent enough to expand their minds and believe me any ways.

As I was eloquently saying though, I knew it all. Whether Amber was aware of my presence or not, I shared her experiences in my dreams, both at night and in the day, in 1040 HD streams. Instead of crying a river of tears for the poor and unfortunate souls she killed, I applauded that someone finally stuck it to the better than thou pricks of the world.

I will rightfully admit a literary genius I am not. So don’t be expecting Dickens or Shakespeare, but I have meticulously pieced together all the gruesome details of the horrible murders preceding what I call Obliteration Day. I may at times get the narration confused because it is hard, so many years later, to separate my own memories and recollections with the ones Amber streamed into my mind. Still, with my special insight into the soul of my niece along with the sins of Lovely, you will certainly find this story to be shocking and hypnotic.

Now, I have not always had the mental link with Amber, at first I wasn’t really aware what exactly was going on inside my head. I am not a big drug user, despite slandering stereotypes, and the dream sequences first started coming to me in sporadic bits and pieces. Having made that point, let me make this lamination clear, I did not receive the dream sequences in order, though I have arranged them so. Yes, I was a live occupant on the train rides of murder but the initial scene, which sparked Amber’s rage, didn’t reveal itself to me until after the first killings.

I guess our mental link began to grow when Amber was ten or so, but again, I had no clue what it was or where it came from. It did not solidify into full scenes, in which I could discern the what and where, until Amber was twelve years of age and by then it was attacking and flooding my mind, whether I was awake or asleep. At first, it came to me as dreams, but later the streaming began to interrupt my days leaving me a haggard pincushion of the emotional influx. I am no doctor, but my guess is Amber’s ascending strengths were triggered by the hormonal changes and developments that accompany young girls during puberty. Unlike most girls who awake to discover they have breasts and blood leaking from their crotch; Amber discovered she could Dream Walk into people’s minds and change their perception and thus reality.

Now there was not a single tragedy that set into motion the events, which caused the avalanched of carnage; I reckon there rarely is. One tragic act stuns a person, cripples their minds and leaves them reeling; however, it is only the foundation, the setting of the explosive charges. Such circumstances usually need at least one more trigger or act of profound cruelty to detonate morality and compassion, shattering a soul. I cannot be certain of every jagged stone of loathsome that built the great wall of hatred inside of Amber but her strongest moments of fear, anger, and shame were the images that were most vivid to me.

In my niece's defense, she was not the first one to consider or speculate about the town’s annihilation nor was she the sole catalyst in dividing the townsfolk. Lovely became a Mecca for doomsday enthusiasts with the addition of the natural-gas plant. We had already weathered the fallout of staking a claim to one of the most unsafe mines in history, which also happened to overlay a major fault line. So dismal was its reputation that the government had allowed only a rudimentary amount of time after inspection for the mine to rehab itself before closing it down permanently. The mine alone was enough to ignite heated debates in the abyss called speculative guessing; building a natural-gas plant atop such hallowed grounds left the doom and gloom sycophants rejoicing in the streets. That was when the firestorm of gossip really began to rage like a wildfire out of control. It seems everyone with the two major output orifices began speaking out of both ends arguing over which place would go first in a disaster.

Since the closed mines had yet to swallow our city of sin into the chasm of hell, it was defeated by the new bane of Lovely for mostly likely to kill us all. Erected in the spring of 1994 the natural-gas plant hovered over the town like a towering mountain of steel, breathing smoke like a demon, warning all to keep their distance. Its creation and subsequent influence over uptown spurned the nickname Gastown for the northern district. Still the end of the world predictions did not discourage uptown from flourishing. The Super Shopper grocery seemingly popped up overnight, across the street from the plant on the main highway. Nearly as abrupt, the Chamber of Commerce erected a new water tower to honor prosperity just a block south of the plant. Three months later a fully automated bowling alley was built next to the tower and the rebirth of Lovely kicked into high gear. As downtown fell to poverty and uptown rose to prominence, the war of the has and the has-not began. Waged with as much decency as a paid whore in a brothel, it led to bloodshed on the streets, normally outside of Randy’s Randy Tavern. Still had anyone known the hell that was coming via an angry little girl, he or she would have abandoned Lovely and never glanced back.

I guess the best place to begin this tale of woe is on the recess playground at the Lovely R-1 Middle School. Amber was in 7th grade and happily anticipating a role in the Winter Festival Play. It was a brisk chilly day in early December, weeks before a Christmas few in Lovely would ever get to see. The roots of the destruction were to be seeded in hatred by bullying children, against a little girl who desperately just wanted to fit in, while the maturity to all-encompassing hatred flourished from the murder of Amber’s parents.

Amber, a tiny girl for her age, ferociously hit the ball toward her well-dressed yet terribly groomed friend. Hannah looked like a walking Frankenstein, her oversized head unable to disguise the monstrous choppers between her lips yet her parents had money, which they wasted liberally on their daughter. It wasn’t simple jealousy that angered Amber; it was the senselessness of the matter. Hannah Moore was dressed in an expensive sweater and designer jeans that did nothing to balance her Mongoloid features. She, on the other hand, had a chance to attain beauty one day, but Amber felt like a walking Christmas tree in her green wool shirt and brown denim pants. The world in that moment made no sense to Amber for she desired beauty but couldn’t afford it while Hannah had beautiful clothes but cared more about touching herself when she thought no one was looking.

Like the cruel impractical world, the tetherball made another useless revolution around the pole of unwavering fate. Amber lowered her eyes, pushed the hatred from her mind then raised her head again and sighed with defeat as she stared at her big dumb ox of a best friend. Hannah was at that moment more enamored with picking her nose than hitting the tetherball.

In disgust, Amber turned and began walking away from Hannah, who quickly followed her like a puppy dog, her index finger still firmly rooting about in her left nostril. Amber increased her walking pace trying unsuccessfully to put distance between herself and her mentally disabled friend, not wanting the shame of Hannah’s actions to somehow be attributed to her. It wasn’t so much that Amber was too ashamed to be friends with the large clumsy girl; she loved Hannah very deeply for they were kindred outcasts, but she was embarrassed at times by Hannah’s’ actions. Every time Amber looked at the pudgy girl; whose eyes and head seemed too big for her body or the simple bland brown strands of thinning hair whose lackluster styling was straight down; Amber felt compassion and understanding for Hannah. Since Amber didn’t have the heart to scold Hannah and was also very introverted, her only weapon in those times of embarrassment was walking away quickly, separating the acts of her friend from herself.

Amber walked briskly; her head orientated to the ground, her thoughts rallying on the Winter Festival production, while Hannah Moore shuffled behind. Amber's role was a minor one, in fact; it wasn’t even a speaking part since snowflakes couldn’t vocalize, but rehearsals had put Amber in close proximity to the Glamour Girls.

They were the most popular, beautiful girls in school who were members of the Sparklets Dance Squad and Amber dreamed of being in their group, to reside in the galaxy of Cassandra Wilkes. They boldly walked side by side down the hallways forcing all the lesser beings to move aside as their ample post puberty breasts bounced in unison. They held such sway over their classmates that they wore specific colors for each day of school, which many girls tried to emulate. Monday’s color was always white dominant, Tuesday’s Blue, Wednesday’s Pink, Thursday’s Red, and Fridays were secretly coordinated to spark the jealousy and curiosity of those wishing to be in their clique.

Amber knew her long brunette hair accompanied by her pale ordinary complexion was far from stunning. Her underdeveloped little body with matching nonexistent breasts added only negatives, but Amber was skinny and being skinny gave her hope. She had read numerous accounts of the ugly duckling girl who was skinny and blossomed into a very beautiful woman. Amber thought maybe if she was a fractionally bit prettier, perhaps a little more bustier, that she would attain that golden ticket of acceptance into the upper echelon of popularity. Amber was certain she was on the right track because simply being around the popular girls forced them to notice her, and that was one-step closer to friendship.

Another wonderful thought sparked Ambers’ mind with hope, and that was the fact, that although she was only a first string snowflake, she was also the secondary Snow Queen and it was the leading role. If the primary Snow Queen were to get sick or break a leg literally, then she would abruptly find herself catapulted into the spotlight, and that would mean instant popularity. Her sails of dreaming deflated with the reality bite that Cassandra Wilkes, aptly nicknamed Princess, was highly unlikely to fall ill. In fact, for the golden blonde-haired girl to concede her royal birthright for even a second, she would have to be more than sick, most likely dead.

Suddenly, Amber was ejected from the protected recesses of her dreams as she stumbled into someone. Looking up she saw the three Glamour Girls, immaculately dressed in white, staring at her with disgust bordering on revulsion. Amber was instantly ashamed because she had run directly into Cassandra. Amber turned her face away from Cassandra, whose angelic blonde locks parted like a gentle stream around perfect ears.

Amber’s eyes finally fixed on Jasmine Conner’s disapproving glare. The mulatto-skinned girl jerked her head aside with perfect efficiency slinging the long black curly bangs from her eyes.

Ire simmered across Jasmine’s cheeks as she stammered,

Watch out where you are going, peasant.

Jerking Amber’s attention left of the all-encompassing aura of Cassandra; the wickedly melodic voice of Chelsea blistered her.

Maybe she is one of those freaky girls, and she touched you on purpose to get a little feel.

Chelsea Lawrence ran a neatly manicured hand through her straight Auburn hair and was about to add further insult when her attention became fixated on something behind Amber. No one seemed to notice the pause, and the onslaught continued.

Princess Cassandra folded her arms with authority and haughtily began to scold, Give me one good reason why we shouldn’t pummel you right here for invading our privacy and disrupting our secretive discussions?

Before Amber could even answer, Chelsea screamed with revulsion.

Oh my god; what a sick freak! That girl just pulled a piece of bread out of the trash can, and it’s covered in ants!

Everyone, including Amber, turned to see Hannah next to a large green dumpster crouched over a moldy, green and blackened slice of bread, prodding the feasting ants with a small twig. Amber immediately hung her head in shame wishing there was some way to retreat from the humiliation.

Cassandra’s oval face contorted with disgust and she scoffed,

What a freak indeed; it's starting to become a Freak Fest up in here. My god Amber, it is one thing to be an utterly worthless loser, but it’s another thing to drag Rain Girl around everywhere you go.

Jasmine laughed then flipped her heavily curled locks out from her face with a prissy wisp and said,

I wonder if the retard is dumb enough to eat the bugs?

Chelsea malevolently whispered,

If she won’t I bet we can make her.

Amber saw the wicked expression brighten on the three girl’s faces as the idea mortared into determination, and she mistakenly ran over to protect Hannah.

Of course, Hannah, not quite as dumb as she appeared, who also had remarkably keen hearing, immediately shrieked,

Oh no, uh unh, Hannah is not eating any antsies, and with those profound words she bolted towards the security of the school entrance.

Amber watched her friend run off to safety. It was only after she turned around that Amber saw the danger that quickly surrounded her on all sides.

Guess dummy wasn’t so dumb after all, but she sure left you holding the ant bread, Jasmine said with no good will written in her wicked smile.

I guess that means you will have to eat the bug bread, Chelsea snickered as she leaned forward and pushed Amber to the ground.

Amber’s hands stung almost as much as her pride when they broke her fall on the cold hard ground. The fine particles of dirt bloomed and covered her pants as she sat up next to the colonized bread. She rose quickly unable to stop the tears that trickled from her eyes because she hated bugs of all kinds; she was utterly horrified of them. Amber did the only thing she could; she reached for Cassandra certain that if anyone could save her, it would be Princess.

She grabbed Princess’s hand and began to plead, Please don’t, but that was as far as she got.

The heat across Amber’s face was immense, the pain staggering, and even though Cassandra was much taller than she was, Amber would have never guessed the girl had such raw strength to accompany her anger. Before Amber knew what had happened, she was flat on her back with her left hand nurturing the rosy handprint across her cheek. She looked up at Cassandra with demoralized hurt, as if the girl had betrayed the trust and secret wanting of friendship Amber so desperately had sought for the last few months.

Cassandra seemed not to notice or care, but instead she demanded,

Eat it bug girl, or I’ll kick you in the nose, and you’ll have blood flavored ketchup to go with your meal and that dirty street urchin wardrobe.

Amber looked around for someone to save her, hoping Hannah had sought a teacher, but she only found herself surrounded by three angry girls who had evil intent glowing in their mob primitive eyes. Still Amber held out until they began to kick dust and dirt into her face that choked and scratched her throat.

They began chanting in malevolent unison,

Eat it bug girl, Eat, Eat, Eat it!

Struggling to breathe through the coughing as her lungs sucked down dirty air and sand, Amber rolled over and reached in surrender for the moldy ant infested bread. Tears raced down Amber’s face, lining the dusty landscape of flesh with pinkish tan lines, and she closed her eyes tightly as she brought the shameful meal to her lips. Several ants, as if sensing their imminent doom, raced across her hands then up her arms; she couldn’t help the horrifying whimper of self-pity that escaped her lips. Knowing the girls would make her eat the entire sickening feast of bugs, Amber crushed the bread in her small grimy hands and thrust the compressed wad of filth between