The Book of Beings: Beginnings (Episode One)

By Liz Seach

Seventeen-year old Manon knows she’s not pregnant. After all, she’s never had sex.

Except she is actually pregnant.

Nobody’s roofied her. And probably there isn’t a pervert on the loose hypodermically impregnating virgins. Manon’s going to have to treat the whole thing as an act of God. Either that or an alien abduction. She can’t decide which is more preposterous.

Whatever's happened, Manon may just as well give up her struggle to not be the weird girl at school. And she may as well give up on Elias, the mysterious boy who haunts her dreams.

Except it turns out Elias knows Manon's fantasies about him. In detail.

Like he's been inside her head while she's having them. . .

(Think Twilight meets Juno, with paranormals more interesting than vampires.)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Liz Seach
• Release date: Apr 5, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301572762

Liz Seach

LIZ SEACH is the pen name used by a writer, educator, and mom who lives in the Santa Ynez mountains. The Book of Beings is her first work of fiction.You can reach Liz at [e-mail]

Book preview

Episode One

(Annunciation)

Nothing in the world is single

All things by a law divine

In one another’s being mingle—

Why not I with thine?

—Percy Bysshe Shelley

prologue

There I was, flailing in the dark, not knowing if I’d get anywhere, as I ran each of the twenty-three strands through my mind in turn, pressing against each place where there seemed to be something, rather than nothing.

I was like the novice who grasps each smooth wooden prayer bead, over and over, entreating one of them to open, to reveal the gates of heaven. I had no more hope than that.

*

My task was nearly impossible. Before I could understand the questions, I had to learn the words out of which they were formed—only, at first, I could not even discriminate where one of the three billion letters of that alphabet ended and the next began.

How could I tell sense from nonsense—let alone antisense?

*

And yet, gradually, I could feel how the helix twisted, could begin to trace the geometry of its pattern. In time, I could distinguish one nucleotide from another, one base pair from another, a series of introns from exons.

Given enough attention, they seemed not unwilling to speak. Perhaps, I should say, to whisper.

*

When—after years of contemplation—that solitary gene improbably unfurled, demanding another allele in response, it was a glorious day.

*

It was also a desolate one.

*

The way of the flesh had opened, but it would not simply give itself to me—though it is given to every infant ever born. I was no less a Being, no more Human than I had been. The freedom that had always burdened me troubled me still.

*

I would have to choose the color of my eyes.

*

How could I find my way into concrete form except by consulting she who drew me there—my Manon?

*

I copied her irises—that most beautiful amalgam—exactly, then mixed in other hues little by little, just as a painter mixes pigments on the palette.

I noted her response to each variation whenever she glanced my direction. Oh how unobtrusive I was—how patient.

I learned how to tell when she looked away because I had failed to capture her attention and when she turned away in order to pretend indifference because—at last—I had captured it completely.

*

She did not want to see her own slate-blue eyes in my face—she wanted the darkest shade from the inner lining of a Pinon cone. In my hair—the color of raw cacao in the sun.

And so it went—everything from the hue of my skin to the exact slant of my cheek—each decision belonged to her, though she had no idea there were choices to be made.

*

As for my height—I could calculate it easily enough. I only had to find a chance to stand beside her and take her measure…

1

The uterus sat on a big metal tray at the front of the classroom, glistening like an enormous pink jellybean, the little not-yet-a-cow thingy still hidden inside. Based on the smell, I was guessing Mr. Sturgeon had put it in the microwave to defrost for too long.

I was a junior in high school. I was sitting in Honors bio, staring at a bovine reproductive tract and waiting for the dissection to begin.

*

(That’s the moment that comes to me, while I’m sitting here with my hands on the keyboard. I’ve tried to remember the last time my world still seemed to make sense, the way your world probably makes sense to you right now.

I know that if you’re reading this, it’s because you need to know what happened, and maybe you’re in a hurry, and you want me to get to the point. But if you’re reading this, you need to believe what happened to me. If I tell you straight out, in 250 words or less, there’s no way you’re going to believe me.

There just isn’t.

I have to start when things were normal—well, as normal as they ever got. I have to show you how they slowly unraveled. I have to tell you all the strange little details and what it was like for me to be confused half the time so you will know that this really is true.

And if you’re saying to yourself that I need to get to the part about the magic, then you need to pay better attention. Because sometimes this is what magic looks like in the beginning.)

*

All right, ladies and gents, please assemble in front for this afternoon’s show, the Sturge called out.

Whatever we were doing, it clearly wasn’t going to be as much fun as what we’d done the week before with syringes and marshmallows. But normally, being a fairly obedient dork, I still would’ve gotten right out of my seat and found an inconspicuous spot to stand in.

For one thing, I didn’t want to end up anywhere near the Sturge himself. He sometimes stood too close to me and said embarrassing stuff, like "Feeling biological today, Ms. Blau?"

I did want to be able to watch the demo, though, and also sneak peeks at Elias Zimmer.

*

Elias wasn’t all gorgeous and blonde, like Troy Donovan. A whole bunch of girls didn’t have crushes on him the way they did on Troy. That sort of thing totally turned me off. I could’ve never been a groupie.

But there was something about Elias’ face. It was like I already knew him before I’d ever seen him. Or like the portraits we’d studied in Art, where the person didn’t seem handsome, but the picture still made their face seem exactly right, like it couldn’t have been any other way than how it was. Which was different from being handsome. Actually, it was better.

*

At that particular moment, though, standing up seemed slightly dangerous, like I might end up knocking over several lab stools before doing a face-plant on one of the black, fire-resistant counters. Maybe I’m just too warm, I thought. I took off my navy hoodie, which bought me some time.

It was assigned seating,