Khing and the Magic of Black and White: Book One Ash Makes Friends

By William A. Patrick III

“Mr. Ash,” began the labcoat, “this story of yours is fascinating! I think it offers great insights into addiction. Does alcoholism run in your family?”
“My Granddad died in the gutter, they say,” Ash said.
“Also, another good definition is continued use in the face of adversity. Any DUI’s in your past, after which you still drank?”
“Two,” said Ash.
“Have you ever sworn off booze forever, only to go back in an a week, a day or even an hour?” asked the coat.
“Yes,” said Ash.
“Another is personality change, Bob’s different when he drinks, you certainly have that, correct? You not only are different, but you change worlds, you even change beings, correct?”
“No. There’s just a connection.”
“Another is the presence of a strong sense of denial, All I’m doing is having a good time, they say, and that is after the person consumes an entire bottle of alcohol and blacks out.” The labcoat said. “All are good definitions of alcoholism or addiction.”
“Can I get more meds...”
“But this story of yours, which I want you to continue, in it’s entirety, seems to explain another side of addiction,” said the coat. “This story draws the listener a different picture. It draws a picture of addiction as it pertains to the soul, as it pertains to our mortal, unfed, hungry, powerless soul, that the world today fails to satiate. This story tries to explain addiction as it resides in the heart. Would you agree with that, Mr. Ash?” Ash just sighed.
“Mr. Ash?” The coat pulled out a pad and began to scribble. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll give you the medication, but in return, you come every day and tell me more of the story, the whole thing-everything, the parts where you are here, in the machines land, and there, in the magic world. You tell me about the wizard, the war and the princess. You tell me about your alter ego, the other you, the one with the thirst for blood there in the land of knights. OK? Deal?” asked the coat.
“Deal,” Ash said.

• Language: English
• Publisher: William A. Patrick III
• Release date: Jun 13, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310640346

William A. Patrick III

William A. Patrick III resides in Tustin, CA, and travels with Linder.

Book preview

Khing

Book One: Ash makes Friends

by William A. Patrick III

Copyright © 2002 by William A. Patrick III

Smashwords Edition

This is a trilogy, the first book is free; the other two books cost a nominal fee.

This is a work of fiction; any similarities between actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

"So, let us not be blind to our differences–

but let us also direct attention to our

common interests and to the means by which

those differences can be resolved. And if

we cannot end now our differences, at least

we can help make the world safe for diversity.

For, in the final analysis, our most basic common link

is that we all inhabit this small planet. We

all breathe the same air. We all cherish

our children’s future. And we are all mortal."

John Fitzgerald Jack Kennedy

Peace Speech

American University June 10, 1963

For Linda and our Families.

Cast of Characters

In the Land of Magic

The wizards;

Pennfield—Inventor of the Veil, a wizard (long, long gone)

Simon—Isuair’s mentor, a wizard (long gone)

Isuair—Also called Eye or The Eye, a wizard

Dral—or The Dral (Whilliam Mercure the Great), a wizard

Iminia—Keeper of the Keep, a wizard

All the king’s men (In the land of Alrica);

The King—Dealoraat Comeratte

His Majesty’s Armies;

His brother, the Duke Herbaral

Vel—a Regular Guard with the rank of Lieutenant

Haines—an Elite Captain

Mo—an Elite Lieutenant

Bri—a Near Elite

Tara—the king’s own Healer

(Lent to the prince for a time)

The Selcogin Monastery;

Diase—Simon’s and the Dral’s understudy

Leif—a brother of Noble birth

The Cave People;

Komana—the leader of the Isamari

His Army of thousands

The Group;

Rehoak—an ex-soldier turned merchant, turned soldier

Gractah—a member of the king’s Inner Guard, the Elite, from the town of Adlia

Erow—a Gray Guard Lieutenant of great renown

Gwere—the king’s favorite Captain, known for his great size

Linderwan—A Warrior of Noble Birth adopted by peasants

Massali—Nicknamed Mara by Ash, was found wandering the

Nong. Recruited by the Mara Nation

Ash—A Traveler

The Girls;

Dorian

Ashley

Aisha

Brendie

The Enemy,

The Alannas, (From the their exile in the Land of Vallhalaka);

Chracuis—The Alannas King

The Armies of the Alannas

Patrice—the Alannas Captain

Brady—Patrice’s Lieutenant

Deira—a Corporal under Brady

Freggcorm—the Alannas boat designer

Marium—A First Sergeant

Aspinal—The General of the North Armies

The Movement;

Galso—The Movement Leader

Garothe—A Movement Commander

Barouk—The General, MPN 53

Feadroi—The General, MPN 125

Roden—the Captain of the original Sixth Army

The Dral’s men;

Davallal—the Dral’s servant

The Mara Nation;

The Armies of the Nation

The Mara queen—Sahair Cuorisig

Softlee—The Queen’s Handmaiden

Calé—Massali’s protégé, and a Princess in Waiting

The Suvra Nation—A Warrior Race of Women,

described as being similar to the Mara

In the Land of machines;

Ash—A Street Person, 40-50 years old, who chronicles his story, from his youth to present, in his writings and while speaking to the Labcoat (In italics)

Marla—A girl from South Central who became a nurse

Linda—Ash’s Wife

The Labcoat

Chapter 1

Alrica, Year Of The Gods 745 Ad

A lone drop of sweat, slowly making its way down his body, vainly tried to provide relief from the heat. The day was waning but the late afternoon shadows had yet to cool the wizard’s study. The sky showed crimson reflections in the blue and purple horizon, and above all two stars shined bright over the golden hills of strawgrass.

Isuair shut his eyes and then opened them again. His mind began to shout that this was the sign, that the code radiating from those stars was the portent for change. But the lines of code were only visible to him, and only through the open-and-close eye trick. Also, the words made little sense; songs, ballads, oversized captain’s capes, clip blades, armor, flowers, war, mourn, butterflies, caveman, Princesses, Khings, Qweens, and the words big black horses radiated from the pure white specks. The word mortals was written in the floating letters of code so many times that it made Eye wince. But most of all, it was the whole, readable, nonsensical phrases that tortured him:

‘Would you? Would you, in a million years? Who could hate horses so much? What’s with the Green Cows? We will let YOU leave. One foot after the other. Have a bear chase them around the place. You just kicked a kid. You say it, you say it under your breath a thousand times a day. Put him with the cool kids, wind him up, and let him go. God? GOD? Maybe they all just cut themselves on sharp glass. Yeah, cut some rocks. Big rocks. Boulders. Eye, let me get my hand on you. Fuct. The gold lines come and my men die. Only they all can’t be dead, Sweetie, Sweetheart, Stinker, Stinky, Stinkbutt.’

Isuair shut his eyes, waited for the lines to disappear, then opened them again and sighed. Alone in his study, Eye felt only despair for his plight; he wished for a simpler time, a time when the great choices were left to the great men. That there were none left gave him little comfort.

On the table Isuair would find his meal, laid out for him by one of the monks of the monastery. This day, as in most, he would not touch it. Instead he spent the afternoon at his window. From his perch high above Comeratte kingdom, Isuair surveyed all the king’s land. In the distance he could just make out the tall spirals of the White Castle.

Hundreds of years ago the castles of the Asemio and the Awg also rose high into the sky and the knights who issued forth from their gates were the very picture of strength. In Isuair’s mind they made the land strong; they made it magic. But that age had passed and things had changed. From his window Isuair could see their foundations, but little else of their glory remained. They were magic. It was they who had the predisposition; it was they who had the gift. The Comeratte’s—Alricans they were called, were good people, but they didn’t have it. It was they, the Alannas. They were the key, but they were gone. That they might return some day was something Eye tried not to think about.

He thought back to a time when he had become a knight’s apprentice, then a knight, and then a magician. Once he had even ruled a kingdom as its surrogate king. Now, five hundred years later, he was the most magically powerful man in all the land, save perhaps, for one. Save perhaps, for two or three, if Eye had his way.

From his window Isuair studied the brown and green patchwork of the fields below as the sky above slowly turned to rose. Standing in the cooling pre-evening, he breathed the air again and again. He used the sill to support his failing body. The soft dust of the ledge stuck to his hands and the stone clawed at his skin. The air, high in his perch, now brought to him a chill that made his body shudder, but still he stood and watched. He was trying to make up his mind, and if the truth be known, he was looking for some kind of sign other than the stars. None came.

Isuair listened, then turned to the door of his study. From the depths he heard steps. The monks were returning to check on him and clear his dinner; footsteps grew loud as the men approached his apartment. After a soft knock he saw the handle of the door slowly turn. Cursing himself for not taking a moment to avoid the coming confrontation, he watched the door open; on another day, he would have taken a moment to sweep his meal into the fire and that would be that. This day, he was in no mood for games—the monks showed too little respect for his privacy and he tired of their meddling. He was also running out of time, soon, he would have to face a choice that had long pained him.

Quelling his anger, Isuair began to work the spell. Turning the words in his mind, he traced a finger on the stone sill. As Leif and Diase entered the room, Isuair waved his hand and tossed the spell, like a child would a ball, onto the floor and returned to his window.

Sir, said one of the monks.

Yes, yes, I was just getting to it, said the image of Isuair. The monks led the spell illusion to the table and sat it down. They watched as it ate Isuair’s dinner.

Isuair shivered in the cool air. Below, dusk came to the valley; an army of stationary fireflies glowed as a thousand candles sprung to life in the cottages of Kingstown. Isuair stood at his window and imagined the warmth a simple peasant house could offer. The thought gave him a feeling of great loss; it had been long since he had had a family. He missed the gatherings around a fire, he missed the shared meals. He missed the candlelight on the faces of loved ones—a smile, a caring touch—standing alone at his window, Isuair could almost feel the caress of a devoted woman. Another shudder, this one brought by an altogether different kind of cold, swept through his body. He missed so much. As the sun’s glow ebbed, and evening crept upon the land, Isuair began to weep.

Homeless Ash, March, 2007

So, you wrote this? asked the Labcoat. By Elixir, you mean booze, right? The man stared at Ash, then at the paper. I want to establish, here, Mr. Ash, that you did indeed write this. It’s an important point, because I’m working on perhaps the most revolutionary project of this century, do you understand? asked the Labcoat. Ash just sat. After a moment, he responded only to break the silence.

I wrote it.

Because it’s wonderful. It’s exactly what I’ve been working on. I’m about to reveal a truth to the world that should astound the medical and public communities. And this, the Labcoat said, tapping his finger on the brown papers, is precisely where I want to start. The Labcoat flipped through the papers. He paused at the story of the wizard and the White Castle. Then, he found his page. He began to read.

"It was a magic elixir to the man. One sip and the man became handsome. Another and the man became smart. Another and the man became funny and charming. One more and he became irresistible. One more and the man became invincible. With the elixir he was absolute. With the elixir there were no questions, doubts or worries. It was the answer. It was the missing piece. It was his magic. It was his door to the kingdom.

And the elixir? It was cheap. It was everywhere, at every corner. People gave it away at parties. Places were devoted to the elixir, existing only to serve the faithful. There were elixir holidays. The world celebrated, cheered, toasted rejoiced and mourned with the elixir. It was everywhere and part of everything.

How much contempt would a man have for someone who told him to use the elixir sparingly, socially, casually, or to use only a drop now and then?

But the elixir had a detrimental effect. It took more of the elixir each time to get the effect, to get the power. It was true that it only did minor damage each time. But it was there, the next morning, when the elixir wore off and the man’s head and heart ached.

And it began to add up.

But the man didn’t mind. He took it in stride, he took it like a man. He withstood the punishment as if it were a rite of manhood, head held high—at first. But the man began to use the elixir all the time. It was the only way the man could see himself the way he needed to see himself. It was the only way he could face the day, the world. He couldn’t bear life without the elixir. So he began to use the elixir every day, many times a day, and it began to wear on him. Over the years it began to take its toll, and it began to show.

Soon, it began to take things from the man. First it took his peace of mind. Then it took his pride. When he lost his dignity the man knew the game was up, and he abandoned the rest—his life, even his sanity—everything but the elixir, because with the elixir, he became absolute. He became HIM. With the elixir he became ASH in The Land of MAGIC."

When he finished reading the Labcoat was very excited. Wonderful! You see, this explains a missing piece in the puzzle of addiction, what I call; ‘The Heart Factor.’

The Labcoat spoke as if he had just revealed a great truth. After he stared at Ash, he continued. You see, Mr. Ash, you have it. The man said. Addiction of the heart. It’s more than just some physical thing—it’s your soul. Do you always fantasize that you’re a great warrior when drinking? Because that would be a protection mechanism, don’t you see—when drinking you’re killing yourself, and the fantasies help you ignore that, they help you feel strong and right! Ash just sat, so the man continued. "But you have a host of other problems as well. Mental problems. These crying fits, these thoughts of suicide—these are all signs of mental incapacitation. They are signs of depression.

They can be dangerous, even fatal, if not treated. The man looked at the paper again and continued. But we’re only concerned with the heart—the soul, if you would. Booze seems to change something in your heart." The man said. He wore a white lab coat and peered at Ash through bifocals. Still Ash just sat.

This connection to drinking and the Magic Land, said the coat, that you say captured your soul, tell me more about that. Tell me all about it. Tell me from the beginning— where the wizard took your soul as a teen. Did he take it while you were surfing?

No, Ash said. And I was twenty something. It was when I tried to commit suicide, swimming out to sea by the Santa Monica Pier.

Then start, The Labcoat said. Tell me everything, Mr. Ash. Tell me every word.

This is the story of black and white.

This is the story of addiction.

This is the story of Ash

Vallhalaka, Year of the Gods

745 AD

This will not be an invasion, Captain Patrice told himself, it will be a homecoming—it’s the soil, the sun and the fields, it’s the stretches of green meadows, the ancient ocean of forests—and it’s calling its people back. They will come. They have the tools, the men and the supplies. They have the weapons; they have the leaders. They have the will; most of all, they have the numbers—they have the soldiers.

They developed a plan. It was detailed. Every part was researched, tested and tested again; it was redundant—backup systems provided for the unexpected, contingencies were put in place for every possible misstep.

Everyone was behind their goal; kids collected scrap iron, pre-teens felled trees for the boats, the elderly created a special bread for the troops and the warriors worked like bees, committed to a single idea; home. They would take to the land with a million warriors.

The Comeratte king could perhaps muster one or two hundred thousand men, and they would be ill trained, ill prepared. Even as Patrice watched the boats roll along the assembly line, he knew the Comeratte king slept.

True, they were still years away, six or seven, Patrice thought, as he surveyed the shipyard, maybe longer if Freggcorm’s boat design couldn’t be modified. But to a man, the mind was the same; this was the right path.

There were, however, things. Things that made it difficult to sleep. He was able to shut his eyes only when he was utterly exhausted. When he awoke, he was up; his brain whirred to action, chewing on details from second one. Troubling details, like their expedition parties to the Comeratte lands. Disguised as Alricans, they roamed the countryside making pacts and building allies while the king and the Duke slept. But they were the wrong sort of allies. The Ersoberg. The Mara. The Dral. The primitives, and not the good primitives, but the other, hungry kind.

If this was a divine crusade, as their leaders suggested, why did they make deals with devils and cannibals? Their enemies are our friends, they said. Well… yes and no. A feeling shadowed his heart; it took study to place it, it hid so well. After weeks of searching, Patrice could only put a single word to the feeling; mourn. This, his heart whispered, we will mourn.

But the king’s men were asleep and the allies were keeping it that way, so they would be put up with. After the war, after the taking of the White Castle, they would deal with the Cannibals and the Dark.

Then, there were other details. The king and his men just went about their business, even in the face of warnings that Patrice and his men just could not prevent.

Most came from the crusty old Comeratte wizard, Isuair, also know as Eye. But the crazy old hermit held no ear of significance; Isuair, as a wizard, was becoming obsolete. Yes, Isuair, that’s nice, Eye. It was almost funny. Even when the king caught Lerbraf, they just let him go.

Well, just don’t make any more secret maps, they said. They nodded and said shoo. They smiled. They waved. They laughed. There were no secret police, no checks, no suspicions—the Alrican people had no demons. And these were the monsters that had stolen their land?

In the depths, in the shadows, a voice called to him; it asked a single question, over and over. With each new encounter with the Alricans, the voice asked the question louder, shouldn’t we talk? Shouldn’t we talk first, before we kill?

But just the idea of negotiation, to some, was a crime. It could get one killed by the Movement. Once called the Oxland Guide Movement, or OGM, the Movement was a powerful driving force—it was the engine that drove the machine. It was the reason that they would one day have their home back. For this, they were committed; for the Movement they were committed.

The Movement said they would never give up. They held rallies and swung banners. They sang songs and shouted slogans. The held regular meetings and practiced a set of motivational rules. No, they would never forget, and worse, they would never forgive. Any talk of peace was met with harsh resistance, but even for that the Movement had an answer; we will give the Comerattes a chance to leave, they said.

And, the Movement machine, Patrice believed, was flawed. It planned, schemed and worked its intrigues. It designed and built armor, weapons and boats. It organized. But the Movement missed something—it missed perhaps the greatest contribution that could be made to the war effort. The Movement disregarded, discounted, magic. Patrice personally knew of a dozen men who could perform. True, much of it was nothing more than tricks or illusions, but some had skills that could be used as weapons. Patrice had seen the men make fire. Patrice had seen them burn a dead tree without flint or coals. The fire had come from the air. But the Movement seemed reluctant to embrace any idea that did not originate within itself, and, more importantly, the Movement coveted power. It would not share or delegate beyond rank and it would not entertain freelancers, as most pupils of the black arts were. They did, however, make one concession—they brought in a wizard. That it was the wrong wizard didn’t seem to bother anyone.

Patrice put his hands on his hips and again thought of the word; mourn. He should go, he should go to the highest-up he could find and say his piece. It might get him bucked down to the infantry, but these days there were so many captains around it seemed he would lose little. Maybe the infantry wouldn’t be so bad. Sometimes he wished all he had to do was march and drill; answering to the barking dogs of the political machine took its toll.

But then Patrice spotted a wagonload of sixteen’s headed toward the Boar-boat yard, and sixteen-foot boards did not fit on a Boar-boat. He pointed this out to

Brady, his lieutenant. Brady, a sincere, jovial man, pointed this out to his sergeants and off they went, scurrying to avoid another delay. This will not be an invasion, Patrice told himself again, it will be a homecoming.

Alrica, Land of the Comeratte King

At the table Diase read to Isuair’s spell image from a copy of the White Book. From his robe, the wizard removed a book of his own, his book of notes. Loosely bound, with most its pages held together with twine, the book harbored his work. It was Simon’s copy of the White Book, and it was no longer white. It was almost gray, and it was in shambles. A war had been fought for it. The Dral had ripped it from Simon’s own hands, and only with the power of the king were they able to rip it back. Between the pages were Simon’s and Isuair’s notes; all their years of exploration, all their thoughts, all their aspirations lay tucked between the pages of the book in crudely written, lose sheets. Isuair made note of the words he saw around the stars and then dropped the tome into his robe.

Night had come—only candlelight challenged the suffocating dark, and that with only the most timid of glows. At the table the monks still entertained the spell image of the venerable wizard. It was a tribute to their tireless idiocy that they would enjoy the attention of his image alone, thought Isuair. He turned away from his window and stood facing the table, arms folded across his chest.

They shouldn’t have bought this. There was a time when the monk’s magic was formidable. There was a time when they weren’t just dithering old men. There was a time when they would have seen his magic, and Isuair would have seen theirs, and there would have been no way to deceive them. But now Eye saw only the cold stone around him. Only his magic could he see—his, the stone of the monastery, and a little of the Dral’s. It had been as thus throughout the land for most of the last century. Diase was expounding the virtues of love and forgiveness as Isuair’s likeness quietly ate the dinner before him.

The White Book is the salvation that we have been promised. Diase said. This copy, Eye, this uncorrupted copy. The monk’s veiled dig at Simon’s work made Isuair pause. I will leave you this, mine own, Diase said, sliding the book onto the table. Read its message as one clear note, Father, read it as love, read it as the life we share, the life we grow, and the life that we, all of us, must someday leave behind. It is only love and forgiveness that we will take with us from this land of mortals. It took strength for Isuair to leave the back of Diase’s head unmolested. Instead, he could only imagine the sharp crack that his open palm would make on the monk’s clean scalp.

Isuair’s image had been eating the same bite for some time, and the monk had begun to stare. Eye held his hand in the air, palm up, and slowly closed his fingers into a fist. White lines crawled the walls, the table and the monks. The image of him rose, swept the dinner across the table, and turned to the padres.

Love and forgiveness? Hate, imbeciles, hate rules the here and now, the spell said. Love and forgiveness may be a promise for some shadowy, distant future… Isuair mouthed the words along with the spell image, …but for now, for today, you need to be mindful of the real power that possesses, owns—us—the power of hate. Isuair laughed quietly as he heard himself say the line. He knew the image would soon be morphing into a bear. Sliding invisibly past the drama unfolding before the stunned monks, he squeezed through the open door and fled down the stone stairway without a sound.

That night he would go all the way down. He would go to the secret place, hidden from even the padres, hidden from all in the land, where he would launch his assault upon the machine world. There, among the crazies and the consumption addicts, among the decedents and the deviants, among the cigarette butts and the plastic six-pack rings, among the TV trained and the parental abandons, he would begin his search.

Southern California, early 1990s

Pacific City, or PC, lies just south of Los Angeles and north of Rockport Coast, playground of the rich. While Pacific City has its share of multimillion-dollar homes, it was without a doubt the poor sister-city of Rockport—with its movie-star beach mansions and its oil-derrick free shoreline, Rockport belonged to the wealthy, and the rich roamed its beaches. But Pacific City attracted a different crowd. Outside Surf Juice Blends, a blended fruit shake shop that served drinks at outside cafe tables, sat three young men. They had poured their blended shakes into the trash and refilled the cups with malt liquor from 40-ounce bottles.

Everything in Pacific City was named Surf. Lunch was served at the Surf Cafe, dinner at the Sunset Surfer, and booze at the Surfside Liquor. It was early in the afternoon on a warm, sunny August day and the crowds had just begun to swell Pacific

City’s sidewalks. All three men at the cafe tables were drunk. In the summer PC erupted with life. Cars cruised the boulevard; teams of scantily clad youths flocked to Main Street to see and be seen. Bikinis were the uniform of choice for the women; the men wore baggy shorts and wife-beater tank tops. Tattoos were the norm, not the exception, and every other counter-culture fashion device flourished; piercing, thongs, seven-inch platform heels and hair of every color, reigned. Ash and Rick sipped beer from the fruit-blend cups and watched as the crowds passed by. Danny sat beside them, his legs crossed to proudly display the house-arrest ankle-pager he sported almost as a fashion accessory. All three men laughed and joked, pretended to fight one another, and alternately ran out into the street to attract attention or to flirt with girls. Rick hitched a ride in a passing car before running back, proudly displaying the number of a female occupant.

When the three men strolled the boulevard, they did it with a swagger. When Danny passed a woman, fully dressed, he stared.

Jesus loves you, the woman said.

Hail Satan, Danny replied with a straight-arm salute. The boys laughed and moved on while the woman fled.

They sat at a fountain beside a chocolate shop and watched the cars roll by. When a kid, aged ten or so, bumped into Ash on an aluminum scooter, Ash trapped the toy with his foot. Danny watched as Ash studied the traffic and then jarred the scooter out of the kid’s hands. Ash pushed the scooter toward the street. When the child bent to grab the toy, Ash kicked his bottom. The momentum of the kick drove the child into the street and in front of a moving car. The car squealed to a stop, and the kid, mouth open, ran off with his scooter in tow.

Dude, Danny said. Dude?

What? Ash said, drinking from his foam cup. I kicked a kid. The car didn’t hit him. Big deal, Sally Struthers. In case you haven’t noticed, there are a fucking million of these human larvae around, Ash said. His straw had begun making a percolating sound and Ash readopted his semi-permanent frown. Now, the Hail Satan thing... now that, tard-fest, that was a fuck-up. That was accepting a calling card. What I did, well, but what you did was a motherfuck.

Love the boob job, Rick said to a large breasted woman in a bikini top. As the woman passed Isuair, she smiled. Eye was handing out pamphlets entitled, The Big Answer! and watching the boys. As he watched, he pondered the possibility of having made some mistake.

South Central, Southern California

Marla Coleman had just begun to rise above the fog of her birthday hangover when she turned the Corolla onto Sixth Street. The day before she had celebrated her seventeenth passing year. In the morning she awoke with her head ringing and her energy sapped. She had shadowy memories of being the life of the party; the memories included images of her making a fool of herself. So instead of going to school, Marla borrowed her mom’s Toyota and went for a drive. As she drove she day-dreamed her dream, one that she made up as a child—that one day she would escape South Central, to Jamaica or Haiti, and become a great witch-doctor-warlord, one with the power of control, one with the power to shape the world around her. But the traffic and the heat of the day, along with the phantom ache of her head, sucked the life out of the fantasy. She ran through the car’s gears and let the rushing air whip her hair about the car.

Her mom didn’t know she had the car, and cruising the neighborhood when she was supposed to be in school would have definitely brought her some heat. But Mom worked day and night at General Hospital the name Marla and her friends used for the County Hospital in Los Angeles, and she missed much.

She would make a