The Particle

By Hayden Chance

Cherry Soda is about to lose everything she holds dear: her lover, her career as a jazz singer and, much to her shock, her life... She has nothing to lose when she meets the mysterious Deonopolis Barque who refers to her as a “Child of Lilith” and encourages her to question everything she believes is reality. As Cherry finds herself drawn more and more into the world of this mysterious individual, she learns the history of humanity, and her fundamental role in saving it.

Is Cherry up to the challenge of rescuing humankind from its collapse? Or will she embrace the empty, sparkling allure of everything that has kept humans enslaved to their own unhappiness and limitations for thousands of years? Join her on her quest to save everything she finds valuable and discover that thing inside of some humans that makes them different from the rest.

It’s the invasion you’ve been praying for...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dorje, Inc
• Release date: Jun 27, 2014

Hayden Chance

Hayden Chance was born with the insane notion that he came here to bring magic back into the world. At 30 he discovered, much to his chagrin, that there was not a world of enchantment living behind the dusty shelves of University offices and libraries the way children’s books had sworn there was. What did live there was mold, contact dermatitis, angry women who hated Shakespeare for being a man and pale introverts with non-gender specific names who liked vegetarian Pad Thai. Unimpressed by these discoveries he decided to leave teaching forever and strike out for a life of adventure! He believes in showing the numinous behind the mundane. The mystical in the everyday lives of men and women (and animals). And he believes that truth is best received wrapped in a tortilla of laughter. (Did you like that poetic imagery?) He is a Virgo, is vehemently against political correctness and knows how to kill in three seconds. Seven seconds if he hasn’t had his coffee yet.

Book preview

The Particle

By

HAYDEN CHANCE

Smashwords Edition

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The Particle

Published by Dorje, Inc

2533 N. Carson Street Suite 4907

Carson, City, NV 89706

Copyright © CW Press, 2013

All Rights Reserved

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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 recipient. 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.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental.

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Massive gratitude to the following people without whom this book would not exist: Paul Mcdowell, Brenden Brown, Katana Lee, Starbuck Jones and Arya Melee.

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It's not what you are that holds you back, it's what you think you are not

. ― Denis Waitley

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Our entire system, in an economic sense, is based on restriction. Scarcity and inefficiency are the movers of money; the more there is of any resource the less you can charge for it. The more problems there are, the more opportunities there are to make money.

This reality is a social disease, for people can actually gain off the misery of others and the destruction of the environment. Efficiency, abundance and sustainability are enemies of our economic structure, for they are inverse to the mechanics required to perpetuate consumption.

This is profoundly critical to understand, for once you put this together you begin to see that the one billion people currently starving on this planet, the endless slums of the poor and all the horrors of a culture due to poverty and pravity are not natural phenomenon due to some natural human order or lack of earthly resources. They are products of the creation, perpetuation and preservation of artificial scarcity and inefficiency.

— Peter Joseph

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Once Upon a Time…

Chapter One

It was spring in Chicago, which bodes really well for this story. Because this story is all about new beginnings and the rebirth of humanity. But like any new beginning, there is the inevitable messiness that comes from the ending preceding it. But if done right, that ending can give birth to the seeds for something new and beautiful.

Why, you ask, would a new beginning of the world begin in Chicago? Because the destruction of the world was happening there. And birth usually follows death, you dig?

It was Friday night, at the Tuning Fork, a small jazz club on the city’s North Side. You know the type. Dark. Red light. Exposed brick. Tiny stage. Round tables packed tightly together. Cocktail waitresses in tuxedo shirts showing lots of cleavage to get better tips, serving overpriced scotch in heavy-bottomed square glasses. If it was the fifties, like in one of the old spy or sci-fi flicks, there would’ve been smoke in the air. And men in suits would’ve been escorting ladies to their tables. There would’ve been an incredibly beautiful chick with the voice of an angel singing her heart out to a room full of squares too drunk or too chatty to care. Maybe one person would’ve been touched by that chick’s crooning. And if she was lucky, he would have been the guy who saved the world in the story.

But this wasn’t the fifties. The air was clear but still smelled like booze. Men were wearing high tops and jeans and button downs or t-shirts. And most of the women were dressed just like them. And all eyes were on a chick with the voice of an angel. ‘Cause she was worth watching. And she was the one who was gonna save the world, not some dude in a suit. OK, maybe there were more involved than just her. But she’s where this story begins, you dig?

She was 27, curvy and smooth and had a face with an amused pout, even when she was smiling. Her dark brown hair was curly and long and her eyes were sweet and deep blue. Her lips were fire engine red and her long nails matched them. The red was important, you see, ‘cause her name was Cherry Soda.

It’s important you understand her name was Cherry. ‘Cause, see, the last story about humanity’s beginnings was all about guilt, shame over nudity, punishment and an apple. This one’s about beauty, dignity, creation and a Cherry. And don’t worry, nobody who matters is ashamed of nudity in this story.

Mankind needs to get it right one time, don’t you think?

Again, it’s not that Cherry was the only one responsible for this story, you see? We all were. It’s just that when this all started, she was about to lose it all, which left her with nothing to lose. And that made her a Cherry that was ripe for heroism.

Now, she was singing. ‘Cause that’s what she did best. It was a simple tune that she had written with Vince Knoll. He was her partner, her pianist and her lover. At least he had been for the previous ten years. She’d met him when she was seventeen. He’d given her that name, Cherry Soda, at a carnival, when she’d spilled a can of red Crush on her white t-shirt and he saw her nipples poking thru it. It just so happens they made beautiful music together, but only in clubs. Everywhere else they made horrible, discordant noise.

It wears on a girl, she said to her best friend Iris Dolce one night. They were lounging on Iris’s balcony in one of those North Side high-rises across from the lake, looking at the moon.

You think all your talent comes from him? Iris said. She shook her head and a strand of straight blond hair got stuck in her purple lipstick. She was almost thirty and pretty, a professional dancer, and her face showed the care-lines of one who has learned early the value of laughing at most things. You don’t need him, Cherry. He’s no good.

That’s like saying that the notes don’t need the staff, Iris.

You ain’t a libretto, baby. You’re a person. Life is a dance, girl: you can’t do it if your partner’s always steppin’ on your toes. You gotta flow together…like… well, I don’t know what. I just know it when I feel it. You know? Like when you dance?

Cherry took a drag on a cigarette. Smoking was only something she did rarely when the pressure was too much. She felt the warm spring air blowing through her curly hair and looked up at a half moon. She shook her head. No, Eye. I never had that feeling.

Iris shook her head and stared at her friend piteously. A look of shock had fallen across her face. Cherry, that is a sin.

Cherry shrugged and said, Dance only happens in musicals, Iris. What’s a musical without a libretto? Cherry took a drag off her smoke.

It’s called a novel, baby. You know? The things musicals are based on?

Why aren’t you a dumb dancer, Eye? Cherry said, giggling.

Jazz singers don’t have to cry, Iris said softly and affectionately.

Cherry looked at her devilishly and said, And dancers don’t have to be sluts.

Iris’ mouth fell open in shock and she laughed wickedly. She grabbed Cherry’s cig and took a puff. All a rich tapestry, baby, she said. Maybe someday my experience will save the world.

That was after Cherry and Vince had their 99th fight that week. But that Friday, when she was standing in the Tuning Fork singing at two in the morning, they’d just had their 100th. And it had been their worst ever.

He’d told her she was worthless. A waste of life. A waste of skin. Those were his exact words. And they sounded ugly coming out of his beautiful mouth, his dark hair and brown eyes knitted in anger. That same face that was so smooth when he slept, that she watched it to remember how once, when it was much younger, it had been that smooth when he’d said, ‘I love you’ for the first time. And it weighed on her now. How could someone tell someone they claimed to love, that they were a waste and had no value? Yeah, it weighed on her as she sang a tune that they had written years ago. A tune that was sweet, slow and melodic.

Pretty word, melodic, isn’t it? Conjures up all sorts of feelings in your body, doesn’t it? Like a river of rhythm running through your nerves. Ever wonder why that is? Cherry never did either. But her whole being was about to ask that question very soon.

She was the essence of that word too. Melodic. And she stood there in her tight black dress, looking curvy and sleek, and seductive like an old bombshell from the Golden Age of Film.

And when she cradled the microphone, she cradled it like a lover. Like she was loving life and loving everyone in that audience. And every individual assumed that she was in love with them and only them, that she was a woman who knew love, who knew happiness, and who knew passion. Because most of them knew that she loved the man sitting behind her, night after night, who played the piano like some kind of muse. Whose eyes were as pretty as a daydream. So pretty he was that he must have had demi-god in him, to capture a lover like Cherry Soda. But what they didn’t know was that when she was off stage that she could barely hold her life together.

But they didn’t know it, because on stage Cherry was a star. A real star. A light in the dark. Like the holidays in December, that lit up the darkest time of year. She lit up everything like diamonds. Like pop rocks. Like…bubbles in a can of cherry soda.

Vince hit those keys behind her, lost in his own world of rhythm and melody that somehow lifted her up beyond mere human singer into the realm of the gods. And his eyebrows went up and down with the notes and his face went smooth and dreamy, and he could make her anything she wanted to be when supporting her on stage. But in the real world, all he could do was tear her down.

He had a cigarette hanging out of his mouth even though it wasn’t lit, ‘cause it was illegal in public places now, but he couldn’t kick the habit of having it hang there while he played, because it had always been part of his process. And he still had his image to keep. At least that’s what he said.

Cherry wasn’t so concerned about his image, though. ‘Cause she could give a shit now about how cool he thought he was. Because that 100th fight they’d just pounded through, had her hating his guts like Brussels sprouts. Even though it was still the same old tired argument between them.

"You’re not hearing me," she said.

"And you ain’t seein’ me," he said.

Vince had some secrets that she didn’t know and, in her defense, it was dirty pool that he was playing her like a fool. See, he had another woman in the audience that night that she didn’t know about, and that was cowardly on his part. ‘Cause she was singing her heart out about Vince to that woman right now, and that just wasn’t fair, you dig?

See, this part of the story is about Cherry’s crumble, and with the crumble of Cherry comes the crumble of humanity. But it’s OK: it’ll come back together again. Maybe.

So, Cherry was singing, right? That slow, deep soulful song. Like something inside her needed to get out. And she thought, she thought with the deepest part of her that it was love, right? ‘Cause that’s what the beer commercials tell you, and the fast food commercials, and the ads for rubbers and feminine products. That’s what the movies say and the television shows and the books written by rich celebrities for the masses. And that’s what they tell you growing up, right? They say, That thing inside of you? That has to be a part of something bigger? It’s love!

But it wasn’t love that was trying to get out of her. ‘Cause none of that jive they’re trying to sell you in the beer commercials is about love; it’s about profit. Or the movies where some jackass is rude and shitty to people until the right girl tames him and everything comes on line for him. ‘Cause that is about selling about popcorn. See, all that jazz about love we been sold our whole lives has little to do with actual love and more to do with making some angry cat a pile of gold. And that’s where we are at the beginning of all this, babies. Angry dudes wanting our souls for a pile of gold. And that’s the point of all of this, but that’s really getting ahead of things.

Beer-commercial love wasn’t what was in Cherry trying to get out at that moment, ‘cause that was smothering her. It was something much bigger. And it was in the core of her tissue. Her DNA. Her cells and her molecules. It was what she was made for.

And there was something wrong with her throat that night. It hurt her. And it made her singing voice deeper and scratchier, but the audience liked it ‘cause they thought it made her sound smoky. They thought it was real cool. They thought it was black like jazz.

But it was hurting her and she was aware of it. It was even worse after the fight with Vince ‘cause she had been shouting and crying, and it had strained it: she’d wanted so desperately for him to hear her. She had even gone to the doctor for it a few days earlier, but she didn’t want to think about that now. She tried not to think.

She tried not to think of the fact that she’d been fighting with Vince. She tried not to think about the fact that her mother was always on her case about everything and anything. She tried not to think about the strange rawness in her throat. She tried not to think of the fact that she had no religion besides jazz. Yeah, that bothered her sometimes.

But as she stood there, singing to all those people, touching them and opening them up to her song, she figured this was more than most people ever got and maybe to want more was greedy.

Was it?

She sang her song. Her sweet melodic song. And she shone like a star. She was a star in the Chicago jazz scene. But she always felt a little empty, see?

Because she always felt that if she was shining, she should be shining for something bigger, but she didn’t know what in the world was bigger. She used to think that thing was love, but these days love just made her feel small. Or maybe it was the jazz club because it was the only place she ever felt she’d belonged. See, growing up she was the ugly duckling. She was always a little too awkward or a little too loud. And she liked what she liked just a little too much and her eyes were just a little too intense for people. And she was one of those weird band girls.

But when she hit puberty she blossomed like a rose. And everyone wanted to be near her. But even then, the only place she felt she belonged was on stage singing. And then, when she got older, in jazz clubs. But it wasn’t enough. She knew, she was made for more than red light and a tiny little stage.

Her curves silhouetted in the red light and shadows cast a beautiful scene on that tiny stage. Even though curves on a woman were out these days. The world liked rail thin, stick-like, emaciated women. Women who looked like they couldn’t get enough. But Cherry didn’t dig that. She looked ample, bountiful, plentiful and beautiful. Cherry thought life should be full of curves like water that embraced you the way she embraced her microphone now.

As she sang:

"I know you. Yes I do.

I’ve been with you a life or two

Oh, true, it’s true

I do, I do

Really know you.

I know you…

I promised that I’d be back

But this time you treat me so, so bad

So baby, pretty baby, while you lie with me

Please, just try and be

A fraction of what you used to be

And hold me tenderly

We’ve been here before

And were so much more.

You promised me

You’d be with me for all eternity

But why are we so empty

If we were meant to be?

Meant to be… You and me

Oh….. You and me."

And as Vince played, she spoke slowly and rhythmically into the mic. And her smoky voice sounded like it might crack. ‘Cause her world was bending like the mic cord in her hand and she didn’t know if she could bend anymore with it without breaking.

She said:

"The legends say when lovers play

Something blooms that pushes black away.

And if it’s OK I think I’ll stay this way

‘Cause I got no say in what is right today.

But I know, I know that when you’re away

Baby, there’s no holiday

No holiday…

And when you’re away

All the flowers pray

‘Cause nothing matters anyway.

When I was small I gave my all

And wished for you on a garden wall.

A genii there with a graffiti stare

Made me promise that I’d bring you near.

And now I see what he wanted from me

Was just to bask in your beauty…

In your beauty.

And as the words came out, so did the tears. Because she knew couldn’t take it anymore. That something was wrong with her and wrong with the world. But she didn’t know what yet. But she was about to learn.

And she watched the faces of those audience members who looked at her with a sense of awe and wonder. And she commanded the room, commanded their attention and held it. And she could tell that they got it, that she was touching them inside somehow, not with her voice or with the lyrics, but with something else that was inside her. Something she couldn’t explain. Something that tingled. And she started to feel like she was rising up through her shoulders. And that rising feeling lifted through her stomach and up through her feet and legs and she started to feel like she had a purpose again.

Because that fight she’d just had with Vince, all those fights, made her feel like she had no purpose. And Cherry underestimated herself like most people do, but she also had a way to reconnect herself that most people didn’t: jazz.

And her talent ran through her life like a stream through a dirty canyon. It didn’t matter what happened on the edges, the water was still pure. No matter how bad it got she could ride it and it would carry her.

Yeah…it was jazz. More than she loved men, more than she loved life, and she realized that every time she stood before an audience singing. At those moments she realized that she had an honest to goodness attraction to her art. But she forgot it as soon as she got off stage and looked into Vince’s eyes again.

Vince hit the final few notes on the piano and she tipped her head forward. Her long black curls fell over her face and the tears that were coming were hidden there. She didn’t know why she was crying now, something else was welling up inside of her. It had something to do with people and the world and the end of something.

The club would be closing in 30 minutes. She took a little bow and listened to the applause. It was crazy. People were whistling and cheering and shouting their love. But the only person in the room whose love she wanted, she couldn’t seem to get. Isn’t that always the way?

When she was done, she turned around to gather some of her things off the piano and she saw Vince looking at her. He wasn’t looking at her the way the audience was looking at her. He was looking at her like she was kind of common. And that’s really the truest sign that love has gone wrong. When they look at you like you’re common. But he had been looking at her for so long like that it didn’t register. She didn’t see that he was eyeing her like a can of soda that had gone flat and so she was blindsided by what happened next.

She opened her mouth to say she was sorry for fighting with him again. To say that she loved him and that he was her whole world. That nothing was right when the two of them were fighting. That she loved him more than jazz. But instead of her deep, smoky voice, a high, breathy voice said, Vince, I’m ready when you are.

Cherry bit her lip. She turned and stared at the woman. She was one of those slim models. In fact, she looked like all the models in the magazines who told her that a woman shouldn’t have enough. Completely emaciated with no tits. The kind of model who told the world we should be starving even though we lived in a world that was so abundant we should be able to have anything and everything. And it made Cherry stop for a minute.

The woman looked a bit haggard and sharp. And kind of angry.

Oh, I really liked your set, she said to Cherry, touching her on the shoulder. But her touch felt cold and grasping. She put her hand out to shake Cherry’s. I’m Denise, she said. Vince’s girlfriend.

She stared at the woman’s hand that looked more like a claw and said, "Vince’s what?"

Cherry, I gotta—Vince started.

Lotta nerve! Cherry finished, whipping around to face him. Then she shook her head. No. This isn’t nerve. This is cowardly. Making her do it for you.

I didn’t mean to— Vince began.

You never do, Cherry said. And yet the damage is still the same, she said, staring into his brown eyes, and she realized they were cold.

She walked past the stick woman and headed for the back office to get her coat, phone and purse. She wouldn’t cry. She was beyond it. 101 fights in a week pushed you past crying into rage and hatred. She wanted to take his head off. As she was angrily gathering up her things from the floor behind the owner’s desk, she was shocked to see Vince standing in the doorway.

She your new singer? she said, keeping her eyes on her things.

She doesn’t sing, Vince said quietly. He lit the cigarette that was still dangling from his mouth and blew the smoke like a dragon. He slipped his red plastic lighter back into his gray, linen blazer. She’s in retail.

Fun, Cherry said, sliding her dark purple blazer over her tight black dress. Maybe she can get you a job where she works.

I don’t want to stop playing with you.

I can see that, she said, ironically. She slipped her phone in her jacket pocket then started cuffing her sleeves.

Come on, Cherry.

Come on where, Vince? she said, slamming her purse on the desk and scattering papers everywhere.

Violent much?

Be thankful it wasn’t your head.

"Really?" he said, smiling condescendingly.

"So, we gotta play this tune one more time, huh? Why don’t I save us the trouble? ‘Cherry, you don’t see me. Vince, you don’t hear me.’ We’re speaking different languages, baby."

I know, Vince said. That’s why I don’t want to do this… Not anymore.

No. No. ‘Cause that’s easier than actually wanting to learn another person’s language isn’t it? It’s easier just to hop from one person to the next instead of... She stopped and said: You couldn’t’ve just told me you were leaving? You had to do it like this?

He blew smoke and stared at her coldly.

I loved you more than jazz.

He stared back at her, blankly. And she saw it then. The look on his face that made her understand when he looked at her he saw nothing special.

I wanna know something, she said then.

He stuck his hand in his blazer pocket. Yeah?

Do I look at myself that way in the mirror?

He narrowed his eyes and said, What?

Exactly, she said.

He sighed in exasperation. I can’t take this shit anymore, Cherry. I still want to work with you. I’m just done with this. He took a drag from his cigarette.

She folded her hands over her chest and stared at the floor. Her curls hung down over her face as she said, Oh, we’re done alright.

Who you gonna sing with? he asked.

She looked up at him blankly and said, I’ll find someone in retail.

He took a deep breath and as he exhaled he said, Bitch. And he turned to leave.

Now, that’s a horrible thing for any woman to hear. Especially as the final word to something that began with, Hello, I think you’re beautiful!

‘Cause it makes a girl wonder what she’s got wrong inside that makes a man hate her so bad, you dig? And as Cherry stood there, her eyes empty of tears, she thought about that word and what she had done wrong.

And it makes a girl crazy to think that she’s this thing that’s built of all wrong. Makes her so crazy that she thinks not even jazz can ever make her all right again.

Chapter Two

Cancer, Doctor Stein said to her.

She’d been sitting in his office at Rosen Memorial for forty five minute before he finally showed up. When he did finally show up, he shook her hand brusquely without even looking at her face, referred to her as Ms. Suda, took out the CT scan, set it on his desk before her and said it. Cancer.

Her blue eyes narrowed as she stared into his face, the wrinkles and raggedy gray eyebrows, the sallowness to his skin, the sagging chin and sunken chest. What was this guy? 45 or 46 maybe? That’s what someone else in the hospital had said to her when she’d asked if he was any good.

Dr. Stein? Oh, yes, the nurse had said to Cherry. He’s at the top of his field and he’s so young to have achieved it. Only in his mid 40’s.

Why did he look so old and feeble if he was supposed to be healing people?

Cancer? she said, swallowing hard. And she could feel the rawness in her throat.

We’ll have to take it out surgically, Dr. Stein continued. But that will probably affect your singing voice dramatically. There’ll be chemo and radiation treatments. You’ll lose your hair… he was speaking so matter-of-factly. As if he were sharing a recipe for lemon meringue pie with her.

But she wasn’t really hearing him. She’d stopped listening at the word cancer. She was hearing again the last word that Vince said to her. It might as well have been the same word that the Doctor now said to her. It made perfect sense suddenly.

The doctor slid the CT scan across