The Sands of Erebus

By Drew Brandon Gardner

Part hyper-analytic philosopher and part everyday college student, the eccentric Jackson Muldoon takes no rest in his quest for a soul mate. His spontaneous adventures begin within his own complex memories. A waterfall promises him clarity of mind, and his journey to Antarctica could cease his yearning for a mysterious woman whose memory overwhelms Jackson's entire existence.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: May 6, 2013
• ISBN: 9781481743655

Drew Brandon Gardner

Drew Brandon Gardner was born in Miami, Florida, where he lived most of his life. He studied business, psychology, and creative writing at Florida State University and Florida International University. He teaches and trains in Aikido, a martial at with a profound philosophy that continues to inspire him.

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© 2013 by Drew Brandon Gardner. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 04/18/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4817-4365-5 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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CONTENTS

The Sands of Erebus—E-book Release Notes

Sources of Inspiration

South Beach

Humble Abode

Cognitive Dissonance

Sushi Sympathy

Civil Disobedience

Cascading Catharsis

Habitual Creatures

Destiny’s Call

Antarctic Affluence

About the Author

The Sands of Erebus

A Novella

Drew Brandon Gardner

The Sands of Erebus—E-book Release Notes

I wrote this novella during 2001 and 2002. In 2006, it was first published with the same title, with only my first and last names as author. I have since polished the manuscript’s original prose while leaving much unchanged. I have also added images that might enhance a reader’s experience.

In today’s novel market dominated by mainstream, genre fiction, some of which proving highly entertaining and meaningful, literary novels and novellas are sometimes overlooked. For readers unfamiliar with the difference between mainstream and literary fiction, a writer of the first places paramount importance on plot, from which important messages may sometimes be derived. Meanwhile, a writer of literary fiction places more emphasis on character development and philosophical meaning. Both fiction methods have surely established their places in the hearts and minds of readers across the world.

Most authors’ works of fiction are somewhat autobiographical, especially first novels like this one, and the main character here does share similarities with me. In the plot, similarities to real events also vaguely exist, but this is not an autobiography. What fun would that be for anyone?

My images, copyright 2013: pp. 8, 10, 16, 24, 44, 51, 54, 61, 69, & 88.

DBG

Sources of Inspiration

Cretu, Michael. The Invisible Man. EMI Europe: 1994.

Enigma. Le Roi Est Mort, VIVE Le Roi. Virgin: 1996.

Herbert, Frank. Dune. Ace: 2009. Cover: John Schoenherr.

Hesse, Hermann. Steppenwolf. Picador: 2002. Cover: Henry Sene Lee.

Journey. Greatest Hits. Sony: 1992.

Leonard, George. The Way of Aikido: Life Lessons from an American Sensei. Penguin Group, Inc.: 2000.

Saotome, Mitsugi. Aikido and the Harmony of Nature. Shambhala: 1993.

Stevens, John. The Secrets of Aikido. Shambhala: 1997.

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Ikiru—To Live

Brushed by Mitsugi Saotome

South Beach

A beach is an edge, a limit defining the ground whereupon a man can walk no

farther. Yet there is no distinct line of boundary—for a while a man can both walk

and swim as the water deepens gradually.

^ from the essay Solid Meets Liquid by Jackson Muldoon

Go for the Gold was printed within Olympic rings on a sandy black towel. Next to it a gray tee shirt lay with Florida State Seminoles printed in garnet across the front. Jackson stood twenty steps away from these objects, near the waves of Miami’s South Beach. His feet were upon those smoothest of sands—the kind periodically splashed by incoming waves of saltwater. He gathered a mild sense of clarity while breathing deeply of the wholesome, pungent air.

The last reaches of a wave washed over his feet and loosened the temporary foundation beneath him. As it receded, the wave pulled him slightly closer to the Atlantic Ocean. While he stabilized his stance, he remembered something one of his high school English teachers once shared with the class.

If you ever want to feel truly insignificant, face the ocean. The sheer vastness can humble anyone.

Every schoolteacher I’ve had has offered profound insights, he thought, enriching his or her students beyond the scope of standard subject material. I’m six feet taller than these waters, all the way to the horizon and beyond. Ah, but could I swim to Morocco before sunset? As a kid, I’d run through the sand at full sprint into the ocean. Once my legs were in the water, I couldn’t go more than five strides before collapsing face-first with a splash. Without a second thought, he ran into the water and fell forward on his fifth stride. Mmm…saltwater…tasty…trillions of gallons of it surround me…humbling indeed.

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It was the year 2001. Jackson Muldoon, known most commonly as Jack, was a senior at Florida State University in the city of Tallahassee. During a break from school, he was staying in Miami with his family. His three years of college had been a challenging and enjoyable rite of passage.

Jack was an only child. His mother’s parents were born in Germany, and his father’s parents were born in Ireland. Jack and his parents were all born in Miami. Throughout grade school, Jack went to church each Sunday with his family. They attended a Methodist church composed mostly of amiable, faithful worshippers.

Since early childhood, Jack befriended so many people of other cultural and religious backgrounds that it was hard for him to believe in the sovereign righteousness of the Protestant Church. The more Catholic, Hindu, Jewish, Muslim, Taoist, Buddhist, Shinto, agnostic, and atheist people he befriended, the less correct his church seemed. In Miami, non-Hispanic whites comprised a minority of the city’s population. Affected by the melting pot in which he lived, he stopped attending church and instead kept his mind in search of a religion of all religions. One practice he found highly spiritual was going to the beach. He often went alone to soul-search.

After swimming back to the shoreline, then facing the endless Atlantic, one word in particular kept surfacing from his subconscious—senior. I’ll be out in the working world in only a year, he realized. Do I face tears and toil from graduation till retirement? What can I do to ensure happiness on the road ahead? When will I find the woman of my dreams? The future is almost completely out of my control. I’m hardly more in charge of my destiny than a Portuguese man-o-war floating mindlessly far out there on the ocean surface.

Fear and helplessness did not always plague Jack’s mind. Often during his moments of solitude facing the blinding ocean surface at sunrise, he could see hope through squinted eyelids. He experienced a consistent memory flow of great times spent with friends, family, and those former girlfriends toward whom he felt minimal bitterness. Bad memories strove to bury themselves in his subconscious, often in vain.

Ocean retreats had actually been quite rare for Jack; they were certainly not as common as simple meditations or drives in his car—a dark blue Ford Probe. The car’s stereo system often played at reasonably high volumes, sending sound waves thorough Jackson’s ears and igniting emotions in his brain. Much of his enjoyment in trips to the beach lay in the twenty-minute journey there and back.

Without warning, a soft, unidentified flying object struck Jack’s arm. He looked