The Hair

By Lee McCullum

growing from her shoulder. As the starts to understand why she is growing the hair, her world becomes much larger than she had ever dreamed.

Companies and corporations taken over human development, and in their cut throat environment they are constantly at war with eachother. She is just a puppet of the corporate machine. Genetically modified, she develops more rapidly than her classmates and soon realises she may not be as nice as she thought she was.

Her personal life, and her place in this terrifying new reality begin to blur as her father, and a mysterious assassin sent to protect her become enravelled in her existence. When age, appearance, and the supernatural are never what they seem, the battle between good and evil is more complex than ever...

Readers will be pleased to hear the book is part of a trilogy. Look out for the next Book of the Kucheza from Lee McCullum.

180 pages, with hand drawn chapter artwork.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Henri Sant-Cassia
• Release date: Apr 3, 2012
• ISBN: 9789995736040

Book preview

The Hair

Book One of the Kucheza Saga

LEE McCULLUM

Copyright 2012 by Lee McCullum

Published by Powerful Films & Books at Smashwords

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2012 Lee McCullum

Cover artist

Michael Shapcott

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http://twitter.com/mikeshapcott

Interior Art

Hugh Vogt

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http://hughvogt.com/

Smashwords License Statement

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in an electronic retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without prior written permission.

ISBN: 99957-36-04-0

ISBN-13: 978-99957-36-04-0

Printed by Powerful Films & Books

http://www.powerfulfilmsandbooks.com/

To JoAnn and Melvin.

For always keeping the candle lit.

Contents

I: The Known World 3

II: Starts in Crayon 33

III: Ends in Kind 63

IV: The Unknown World 95

V: Condolences and Grievances 141

I: The Known World

Emily Sutton’s mind drifted while staring outside the thawing window of her homeroom class—the only freshman in junior English full of thoughts both bustling and fleeting. It was barely eight o’clock and she was already fed up with her first day of high school.

The pale, almost sickly looking girl wore a snug black tee with oversized white letters T.G.O.D. emboldened on the front. Her wavy hair was dyed jet black and stylized in a Mohawk. The sides of her head were not tapered or cut. A full can of hairspray and flat iron tethered her hair loosely down over ears and neck. She was a slender girl with plump curves and bony angles presenting her as stuck between anorexic and voluptuous. She was yet beautiful in a way many cared not comment because of her youth. Neither Emo nor Punk, Emily always considered her unique style a song of herself. What others thought, she could truly care less.

Snow fell as if held by invisible strings rapidly blanketing the trees and passersby, hunkering underneath a pulsating, breathing sea of white. Emily watched the performance gleefully, sympathetic to the rows of oak and street lights as icicles hung from the tips of each branch and each glass lamp like some meddlesome winter jewelry. It was so beautiful from her vantage point—the progression from morning into a busy day.

Heavy snowfall so early in September was odd. Emily observed the manipulation of winter against all that grew. Cheery fall trunks accustomed to hot humid summer nights were shrouded in powdery bundles caught against every wrinkle and knotty fold. Wild ivy bowed under snowy weight only to be awakened shuddering against meddlesome blasts of cold.

Outside an approaching group of students, fearless in youth, danced with laughter. Their disregard for the late bell lent weight to a list of slights. Several boys wearing tilted brims and stylish faux scarves tumbled over a cluster of formerly sun-toned lilies, flowers of a breed all too familiar in exercising uncanny discipline against human carelessness. Strangely, Emily identified with the trait.

Across the street a city bus bandaged in a swarm of advertisements sailed smoothly to a stop. A young mother and her son stepped off. The pretty woman took care in avoiding mischief being done to her appearance.

Her lovely red hair was wrapped in a brightly colored silk scarf, her gloved hands constantly adjusting the high collar of a fine camel hair coat. Fashionable knee-length high heeled leather boots meant for a Gotham catwalk were insufficient against the bitter hazards.

The equally admirable boy was probably only a few years old. His boots were clearly too big for him. The young woman took her son’s hand as he struggled to keep up.

Emily turned briefly to lend some substance to an inattentive class. While Ms. Haynes spoke, many texted vigorously on their cell phones. Satisfied that votive was met, Emily resumed what provided a satisfying viewing pleasure: the mechanics of snow.

Dark grey slush clung to the most inconceivable nooks and eaves; inside wheel wells and splattered atop the hoods of parked cars. Tumbling drifts fueled by forces unseen fought anxiously against the traffic. Mimicking a school of undersea fish, a bustling cloud of snowflakes enveloped the woman and her little boy. The woman lost her grip on his tiny hand. The snow darted back and forth between them at the beat of some inconceivable melody.

It was innocence against the indifference of nature. Chicago exhaled crisp nebula bent only to beguile teenage boys and girls of their innocence. The mother soon found child and regained their step. After a few more, she plucked her little boy up into her arms. Exhausted, he stretched in a yawn while fresh falling snowflakes melted onto his tender pink face. The mother smiled.

* * *

Adda crossed the lay of thick snow tepidly with her little boy in tow. She kissed him on the cheek while calculating the chance of school security allowing her entrance without too many worrisome questions. The job was simple but her own motivations were mired in fragile allegiances. The girl she had been paid to protect would likely have no clue what sacrifice would be made today.

* * *

Emily was struck with a sudden pang of lethargy. She had been up all night reading a really good novel, Battle Royale by Koushun Takami. She pressed on until she had reached the ending. Emily was incorrigibly persistent in a way few girls her age endured, a price doled out in fatigue.

Her eyes were heavy, and she wasn’t too sure she would make it through one class, let alone eight. Homeroom was chaotic, the big city kids distant and rude. Emily already missed her friends for whom she had grown so close over the last couple of years. Grade school was a pubescent cradle where the normality of a sole class and teacher was a setting she failed miserably to appreciate. Oh, and how she missed her best friend, Sheri. Back in Kansas her immediate friends were likely stirring up some trouble to get into. Skipping the first period for certain. There was an old barn used as a utility storage by the custodians behind the grades six through twelve school. It was also a spot frequented by students with time on their hands.  Right now Sheri and their other annoying acquaintance, McGhee the Babyface, were likely blowing weed smoke, jiving about shit that made no sense whatsoever. Ironically, conversation would tailspin on life in the big city and how Emily was so lucky. Wow, who would have thought she would have it so good. Yeah right.

Nervously fiddling her fingers, Emily hadn’t expected her present feeling. Although she sincerely missed that simpler way, the goodness of an eased life, she also would not be intimidated by loose paranoia. She wasn’t some dumb white girl hung up on stereotypes. In earnest she felt just as much an outcast against fickle society as anyone on the Southside felt. Sheri and McGhee both would love it here, the shared kinship to the block. The clothes, language, the whole vibe of Chicago were something they had only contemplated while watching television or listening to music. Color here did not matter. White, Black, Brown, Yellow all talked and dressed with the same causal flare. So regardless of her affinity for innocence, Emily would do her best and stand tall.   

What is the Warning League? A girl who wore heavy red lipstick asked aloud. She would have been ignored had it not been for another student giving her the side eye, disturbed by her choice in makeup. The girl giving the side eye wore a shirt with the word Baddest crossed out that instead proclaimed her the Smartest B!tch.

Where are you from, darling? the Smartest B!tch asked wryly. All of Southside play in Warning. The proclamation snagged the attention of those in close proximity. The girl with the red lipstick held a worn piece of paper that had been crumpled in her hand. It was a flyer of some sort.

Yeah, I didn’t know. Somebody left this in my chair, the girl with red lipstick touted. She balled it up and tossed the paper. It tumbled briefly before landing at Emily’s feet.

My brother and cousin play, a boy dressed in ROTC uniform proclaimed. Warning games be cracking. He turned back to face a colleague with whom he was in previous conversation.

Keep it down, please, Ms. Haynes chirped. This caused an immediate drop in gossip and other meaningless chatter. Emily, upon feeling the minor impact of the ball against her J’s, the number four’s were her favorite, reached down and plucked the it from the floor. She turned and looked around in order to find its source. Mostly everyone had turned their attention back to the lesson at hand. Emily unfurled the paper. It read in big bold letters:

WARNING!! WARNING!! Neighborhood Ball Hogs Beware!

Registration for the 22nd annual Warning League coming soon . . .

June 26th through August 26th - Bring positivity and your best game!

WARNING!! WARNING!! Neighborhood Ball Hogs Beware!

Cool, Emily whispered to no one in particular. Crumpling the flyer back into a tight small ball, she took a quick glance to see whether anyone was looking, and then shoved it down inside her front pocket. Like some worldly archaeologist, Emily’s reaction to her find burned in her jean pocket like an artifact far removed from present time. It gave her something to do, discovering the secrets of the Warning League in a shrinking world that had lost true mystery. Emily loved the subculture of the hood and its blocks, the dirty grind of hustles not meant for criticisms or ire judgment of the greater good. Like most, she cared not for the tightly guarded details, was naive the cause of its struggles or the direction its path. This thing was clearly a facet of the street and that alone was enough to earn a place in the confines of her heart.

Here she sat in a room of thirty or so other students all head scratching, gossiping, alone, drowning in boredom. Outside there was an unknown possibility. Inside a scene from futility, a gathering of disinterested meanderers, the future bearers of the greatest free society. How lucky was she? Hell, how lucky was any one of them?

How old are you? a girl asked. Emily rubbed her eyes. The inquisitive girl sat in a row across from hers, popping chewing gum. It was obvious this exact question was on the minds of her two comrades. They also stared wistfully into Emily’s blushed face.

Uh, thirteen, well fourteen tomorrow, Emily answered sheepishly. She played nervously with the sides of her desk, expecting the worst.

Oh, the gum popping girl responded amiably enough, denying Emily the embarrassment she thought due. Two of the girls turned in unison and resumed their conversation. One of the triumvirates, who wore bright pink skinnies, continually peered at Emily distrustfully over one shoulder. Pink Skinny was not alone in reckless eyeballing. More seasoned classmates picked Emily apart with harsher stares. Unsuccessfully she tried to ignore them all.

In an abandoned corner of the room, an aged iron heater was covered in what appeared to be a few hundred layers of cracked and peeling paint hissed, pumping out heat sure to be radioactive. Emily adjusted the neck of her sweater and fidgeted in her seat.

At the beginning of the period Ms. Haynes asked the class to write a short paragraph about what they had accomplished during summer break. She’d given the class fifteen minutes. Emily finished within five, walked the completed assignment up to the front of the class and placed it on Ms. Haynes’s desk. She was one of eight students out of a group of near thirty to do so. Most of what she had written was entirely contrived but it danced inside her heart like a sad love song. Its prose was superbly troubled, but soulful.

Sadly, merit and popularity in high school were weighed by far lesser things. Emily was an overachiever purely on accident. Surely she was not the only thirteen year old freshman in the entire city unified. She was however, the only astute freshman from Kansas with Junior and Senior classes. This alone did not justify why she was a lightning rod for dirty looks. Her peers figured Emily as a teacher’s pet.

Emily had since spent the majority of homeroom morning mesmerized by the blizzard. She was saddened a bit knowing that instead of doing her part—building a rickety snowman or providing the wings to a sidewalk angel—she had been regressed to behold.

With less than a few minutes left, Ms. Haynes called out for volunteers to present what they had written. Emily looked around at the other students, all years older than her, who either stared anxiously at one another or slept atop notebooks scribbled and drooled upon. Emily began to fold the edges of her loose leaf paper. She could not wait for this day to be over.

Emily?

Dear, God. No.

What you’ve written is absolutely wonderful. Do you mind sharing with the class? Ms. Haynes asked.

Hugging the wall beneath the window through which Emily had previously stared, the antiquated steam heater hissed impatiently. Near a space where the floor and the paws of the heater met, something miniscule caught her eye. A carpenter ant slowly trudged along the dark seams of the glazed wood floor. This was also strange for this time of year, Emily pondered. Weren’t all ants in retreat this time of year, deep, deep down sleeping in ant holes lying in ant beds dreaming ant dreams? Emily thought of how lonely the ant must’ve felt marching along with no other ants to keep it company. She knew exactly how it felt.

Yeah, sure, Emily said snapping out of her reverie. She did not sound all too convincing. She stood and rode the tightrope aisle. Out the corner of one eye Emily caught the bulge from the ball of paper sitting in her front pocket. Walking carefully, she slid a hand inside and adjusted it. While standing at the head of the class she experienced a brief moment of vertigo. Someone laughed. Ms. Haynes silenced this with a sharp hush. Emily slid her work out of Ms. Hayne’s gentle hand, concentrating hard not to crumple the paper up into something indistinguishable. Nervously, she began.

My summer eagerly whispered, ‘Do the thing. And you will have the power.’ Emily gingerly held her head up. She scanned the faces staring back at her. None flinched or stirred. She had their full attention. Nervousness wanted at her. She fought courageously to deny it. She read on.

Life is the sea. Life moves silently in the dark and rings loudly against dream. Dream is the shore defying the sea, its hunger, that constant eroding yet often times it succumbs to the tug of loner’s anxiety. An outsider’s fear. The comfort in knowing there is someone in these frailties you can share. One that you can confide in, dream whom you can divvy a slice. I held the sort of friendship to all others there is no measure. We climbed aboard the shark’s back and rode terrible purple waves, a lone golden Triton our oar. The hurricane shuttered and we were blinded by the lighthouse beam. My friend screamed.

She paused.

Sadly, I did the thing. I chose power.

Unease.

Those first few seconds were sweet. No outbursts, coughs, or fidgeting hands. It wasn’t awe that kept them. Honest to goodness curiosity for what many considered a strange rant from the heart of a peer. Those who cared enough to bother were eager to know what it meant. Regrettably, the short essay was also received by a quality of stares shared by those used to watching fingernails grow. Ms. Haynes dared shatter the sanctity of that stillness.

Thank you, Emily. The students reacted to this like a referee whistle. They were free to resume play. Emily passed the paper back to her homeroom teacher.

You borrowed a bit from Emerson. It reads more like a poem. Does it have a name? Ms. Haynes asked.

Um. No, not really, Emily spoke softly, but if I had to name it it would be, ‘For Sheri.’ She gripped the cool aluminum edge of the thin desk for balance.

Noting the students’ unease Ms. Haynes showed mercy. You may take your seat, she said quietly from behind her desk.

Emily did as she was told. Taking those first few steps she experienced a mild twitch, then a buzz of irritation as her shoulder began to tingle. She rubbed at it quickly, avoiding all eye contact. Heading toward her seat she instead followed random pedestrians outside the classroom window romantically treading the ire of ice and its invocation.

Ouch, Emily said rubbing her shoulder. It felt as if she had been pinched. Not realizing she had spoken aloud, Emily slid slowly into her seat. After a few seconds, the glares melted as her fellow classmates resumed their interesting lives, someone touting this as clear validation of why elementary brats should not be allowed to take a junior English class. The school system was thwacked out indeed.

Scratching at her shoulder, Emily looked down again for the solitary ant but to no avail. It had long disappeared. She just hoped not under the heels of someone too careless to notice.

* * *

Earlier that morning Emily rose out of bed half asleep, feeling a bit nauseated. She was not completely sold on the importance of high school. She felt it a fabricated social concept, especially during what should have been breakfast. If her father were not so preoccupied with saving the ghetto he could put his education to great use and provide her with home study.

Months ago while waiting outside her mother’s hospital room, amid a pile of worn magazines, Emily discovered a digest publication of various topics. Browsing pages tattered by an impossible number of careless fingers, she found an article of particular interest. Titled Public Disposables, it explored the surge in privatized learning weighed against the bloating costs of maintaining failed institutions. Declined enrollment suggested the validity of these facts. Corporations could better provide children the tools necessary to maintain astute learning. This left a dour impression on her expectations. Public schools were sorely overrated.

She recalled taking up the argument with her father during the drive home. Emily you’ve been in public school your whole life. You’ll do the same in Chicago, Charles had quipped. It was typical of him not to find some jewel in her attempt at presenting a case however one sided. Emily slid out from underneath her comforter, smiling pleasantly in memory of that moment. Her feet hovered slightly above the floor. She stood slowly, stretched her hands toward the ceiling. She yawned until the bones of her jaws creaked and warmth shuttered down the creases of sinew. She leaned forward on the arch of her heels. The carpet felt like a field of starched cotton—its bland fiber squashed in between her toes, providing little warmth.

A rotund clock characterized as Felix the Cat hung atop her wall with a permanent grin. On the same wall huddled together a swarm of album cover art, movie posters, and celebrity photo clippings. Khalifia. Hiroki Endo. Deal or No Deal. Fleet Foxes. ‘Pac. Ghandi. Sam Concepcion. Curren$y. Mac Miller. Vampire Weekend. Blue Slide Park. OK! Babes Forever. Leonard Cohen. Justin Bieber. Huey P. Newton. A.S.A.P. Rocky. The All-American Rejects. October’s Very Own-C&S. Coolrunnings. Complex. Dom Kennedy. The Weeknd. Russell Crowe. From Westside with Love. Kanye. Sir Michael Rocks. Radiohead. DJ Screw. Johnny Cash. Pimp C. Jane Austen. Big K.R.I.T. Bob Marley & the Wailers. Last Poets. Kings of