Coexistence

By Sionainn Bowles

What if dreams were real? What if you lived your dreams: if every time you slept, you lived anothers life, seeing through anothers eyes, and living someone elses experiences. Seeing the world you knew, but different- another existence overlapping our own, where we existed, but not as ourselves- in another time, in another dimension.
When MyAnna learns her gift of piggybacking other lives through her dreams is just the beginning, before long she is set upon a dangerous course to save humanity.
Given to the world as a guardian, she will soon develop powers beyond basic reasoning, hidden long ago within her dreams. Powers that in the wrong hands could destroy the world. And every world MyAnna ever loved.
At the turn of the twenty-second century, the world is a place controlled by powerful totalitarian governments. Drones monitoring the regime driven, class-divided society; where money rules, beliefs are suppressed, and someone is always watching.
In a time where there is little left to believe in but the power you have within yourself, MyAnna will have to risk all she has to save the world she never bothered to live in, and learn to live and love in her own reality.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Nov 26, 2014
• ISBN: 9781490751177

Sionainn Bowles

Sionainn Bowles resides in beautiful Victoria, British Columbia, and is the proud mother of twin boys. A former Miss World Canada contestant winner, she is excited to represent Victoria again, this time as a local writer. A nurse by trade and an author by heart, writing has always been a passion for her. This is her first novel.

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Copyright 2014 Sionainn Bowles.

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

ISBN: 978-1-4907-5116-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4907-5115-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4907-5117-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014921032

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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and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Contents

Prologue

Part I

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Part II

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Part III

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

I dedicate this book to my family and friends.

Without your unwavering support, I wouldn’t have the wings I have today.

And to Tidal and Asher.

My reason for everything.

PROLOGUE

This moment contains all moments.

—C. S. Lewis

W HEN I WAS SEVEN YEARS OLD, I HAD A DREAM, YET I could have sworn on everything I believe in that it was real.

My father had taken me to a festival somewhere warm, tropical, and foreign. There were monkeys and other exotic animals and birds, crying out their native songs in sync with the music that filled the night air. And men who were so tall they touched the roofs of some of the tiny and tightly cramped, brightly colored houses.

Some of the stilted men breathed fire from their mouths, and some juggled flaming torches as if they were extensions of their long, thin arms.

Most of the women were dressed with very little on their actual bodies, but the extension of the rest of their costumes resembled voluptuous and beautifully vibrant birds. They were all so colorful, graceful, natural, and confident. The rhythm of the music was mirrored in the movement of their rounded and brilliantly dressed hips. And everyone who swarmed the streets was entranced by the atmosphere, rich and thick and alive.

Life was exuberant and full, pulsing heavily through this crowded, arid, and humid place.

Most of the people in the narrow and crowded streets were as dark as midnight, and they were glistening from humidity and sweat. They danced and sang along with the colorfully dressed women. The ground seemed to vibrate from the music, the dancing, and the crowds.

Music was nothing like I had ever heard before. It was rhythmic, intense, powerful, and sensual.

And there were so many people, they were bumping into each other as they danced and laughed along with the performers. Yet I distinctly remember not feeling crowded. Not a soul bumped into us as if a spot had been cleared just for my father and me.

When I looked at my father, the air seemed to breeze by his face at an odd rate; it was as if I could see a mass of liquid pouring around the curves of his face, collecting at the back of his head, and then each droplet disappearing. And the funny thing was I could see it.

Air was as thick as water. The heat there was moist and fragrant and as thick as molasses. I thought that was maybe why the women wore so little. It was too hot, and my clothing clung to my back, plastered onto me by sweat. I recall some parts of the dream so well, and other parts I can’t remember at all. For one, I couldn’t remember if my mom was there or not, but I didn’t remember seeing her, which shouldn’t be true, because I had never been on a vacation without her.

But more than that, I couldn’t remember how we got there. By car, plane, or boat, I couldn’t seem to recall traveling by any means at all. What I did remember at that vibrant festival was the moment my father took my hand to lead me away, for what could only have been at very least an hour, yet only felt like a minute.

He guided me up a narrow, cracked, and unlined street as if we were ghosts. We were floating through the air at what felt like the speed of light, but the odd thing was I could see everything passing by me in slow motion. Every detail approached my line of sight, magnified, then whisked away in an instant.

The sensation of vertigo settled behind my eyes, and I felt as though I were sinking inside my own brain. I held fast to my father as we sped along the dark street. I could no longer hear animals calling out to me or hear music or the crowd of people as we glided through the lush green hills of this unknown place.

It was as though time had paused, and everything around me was waiting, expecting my next move, silently acknowledging my need for understanding and waiting for my reaction, and giving me time to absorb, reflect, and remember.

Quietly, we ducked inside a small white house, where a very short and plump woman stood in the kitchen next to the cramped counter, humming to herself. She was busy rolling dark brown dough.

She didn’t look up at us; she just kept at her busy work, humming a slow, sad tune. Every low octave she hit, her head moved down and to the left and then swept up to look at the ceiling, her left hand rising with it, like a conductor, and then settling back to knead away at that brown dough. Again, I wondered if anyone knew we were there or if this was all real.

You be ’ere for sometin’ baked? I got a nice coconut bread, jus’ ’bout ready, she remarked.

Her accent was as dark and thick as she was. She turned her head, making direct eye contact with me, holding my gaze intently. Her black eyes fastened meaningfully on me, and it ignited something within my soul.

I knew her. But from where?

I looked at my father in anticipation, not sure of what to do next, and I hoped his reactions would tell me.

No, we came for the rum, my father said in reply.

There was no elevation of pitch in his voice. His face was rigid and tight, and his whole demeanor was completely somber. I had never seen him so serious, so much so I remember feeling frightened of him. He was usually so lighthearted and happy. For the first time in my life, I didn’t recognize my father.

The lady didn’t reply right away; her gaze was fixed on my face. For a moment, I felt as if she were right beside me, and I could all but feel her warm breath on my face.

Ova ’tere, she finally replied, gesturing toward a curtained-off cubbyhole.

In da pantry, she added, not breaking her stare.

Hey, girl, come ’er. She gestured for me to come closer.

Hesitantly, I approached her.

Dis’ be for you. Sometin’ special. Sometin’ you be needin’ soon, she said slowly.

Over my head she placed a necklace. It was a tear-shaped purple amethyst on a delicate rose gold chain.

Watching her intently as she placed the necklace over my head, my eyes followed her hands, and my gaze was brought back to rest on her face, which was warm and gentle. When I looked into her dark eyes, I lost myself.

It was as if she was reading my mind or as if I was reading hers, though I wasn’t sure which one. Both of us stared directly at each other’s soul.

She was now privy to every secret I had, every feeling I had, even things I had never told my parents. I could feel her in my brain, examining, evaluating, judging, and deciding about me.

I felt completely vulnerable and raw as we stared at each other, unspeaking for what seemed like an eternity. But I could also see her. And I saw she was special and trustworthy. Her memories were simple and filled with love, hard work, and compassion. I could trust her.

I blinked, and suddenly, my mind was my own again. How could this be real? I had to be dreaming. I just had to be. She backed away, returning to the counter to continue her work.

My father took my hand, guiding me into another room hidden beyond the pantry; the flimsy cloth that separated the two small rooms deceived me to the size of the cubbyhole. He went directly to the bottom right corner of the parallel wall and bent down quickly to carefully remove the third brick up from the floor.

From behind the false brick, he retrieved a small silver box, etched with a text that somewhat resembled Arabic. The box was glowing and practically throbbing as though it were not an inanimate object but something living. The script shone even brighter as my father handled it, sending stars dancing across my sight.

He stood and passed the box to me; the necklace that Coral had given me began to grow warmer as I touched it, and the purple quartz seemed to shine from the inside out.

He slowly opened the box. And inside, there was a small compact orb. A swirl of lights, minerals, and gases floated around inside, all of which radiated and pulsed with energy as my father placed it in my hands gingerly.

The universe or what I imagined to be the universe, should I have ever had the chance to hold it in my hands.

As I gently held the orb, it floated up just above my hands. The energy throbbed into my fingers and little currents like lightening ran from the orb over my hands, prickling the sensitive skin of my palms, like pins and needles would do.

Tentatively, I passed it back to my father. He barely touched it as it moved back to its place inside the silver box.

There, suspended slightly above an abyss of dark matter that seemed to reach far beyond the bottom of the box, were swirls of dust, tiny stars, and clouds, dazzlingly colorful and sparkling. Bright spots orbited quickly around other minute spheres of light dizzying me. I was completely enthralled; I stood unmoving, entranced by what I saw.

MyAnna, my father said. He turned to look at me, making eye contact, ensuring he had my full attention.

Everything in this box will answer the questions you will search for. This belongs to you and your makers. They have entrusted you, my extraordinary girl, above all else, to safeguard the contents of this precious artifact. When the time comes, you will become guardian of this. You will know the time to look for it, so search your memories and you will find it. Come here alone, and don’t ever tell anyone about what I have shown you.

I nodded slowly and carefully. My eyes were wide with fear from the serious nature and tone of the heavy conversation I was having with my normally lighthearted father.

As we emerged from the pantry, the plump lady stood leaning against the counter, waiting.

I’m Coral, girl. I be jus’ like your father. Here to protect you. But I won’t be around foreva’, so don’t you be takin’ too long to find me, she said, eyeing me before continuing.

An’ I make da bess’ tamarind balls in St. Michael’s. So you always know where ta find me, undastan’?

I nodded slowly, not breaking eye contact with her. I did not speak a word as I gingerly took a small bite of the sweet and tart fleshy ball. The tangy flavor exploded in my mouth. It was delicious.

I looked up at my father to smile, and a flash of light blinded me. And in less than a heartbeat, we were back at the center of the lively festival. I couldn’t remember how we got back; it was as though we had just materialized out of thin air.

The music was bounding in my ears, deafening me. I couldn’t quite hear what my father said to me, but I think he said, Stay close, MyAnna. I don’t ever want to lose you.

I squeezed his hand tight, scared to let go, unsure of what I had just seen. This lucid dream and the realness of it were frightening. I closed my eyes tight in the dark of that warm night, testing myself to see what I would find when I opened them. But I saw nothing but darkness. So I closed them again, afraid I might see something.

Then in a sight hidden behind my eyes, squeezed shut so tight out of uncertainty and trepidation, I saw four exceedingly tall figures staring over me in the darkness.

I was not afraid of them, though they were taller than anyone I had ever seen, as tall as the stilted men at the carnival and just as slender. Their movements were more graceful though, more fluid.

They whispered something amongst themselves, in a language I had never heard before. It sounded as though they were singing to each other. It was heartbreaking, breathtaking, and beautiful all at once. I felt my eyes start to water behind my closed lids. And then they were gone.

When I did part my eyes a moment later, my mother was opening the curtain to my bedroom window, the corners frosted from the frigid cold outside.

Upsie daisy sleepy head. You don’t want to be late for school again.

Mom, I was just somewhere warm, somewhere I don’t know, with Dad. There were monkeys and ladies who dressed up like birds. Where were we? How did I get back so fast? I asked.

Oh, honey. It was just a dream, she said. Now, up you get, beautiful dreamer, and I’ll make you pancakes and bacon for breakfast.

She opened my closet, picking out an outfit for me as usual, a burgundy corduroy dress and a gray knit sweater.

As I sat up in bed, I noticed my nightgown was soaked with sweat, sticking wetly to my chest. Around my neck was a tear-shaped purple gemstone. And that was when I noticed that I also had something tacky clutched tightly in my left fist, and when I opened my hand, half of a brown tamarind ball clung stickily to my palm.

It wasn’t just a dream, I said out loud.

I repeated the words to myself over and over again. I was so certain of what I had seen, and those five little words bounced around in my mind like a Ping-Pong ball; the sensation of them felt genuine on my tongue, trying them out a few times.

Then I thought of my father’s request, to not tell anyone what I had seen.

So I put it out of my mind, not wanting to disobey him. And not long after, I had all but forgotten I had seen anything at all.

PART I

CHAPTER ONE

Dream as if you’ll live forever, live as if you’ll die today.

—James Dean

T HE OVERCAST LIGHT OF THE WINTER MORNING streamed past the open drapes of my bedroom window gently waking me. My sight was momentarily hazed, and I shielded my eyes from the day by dipping my long dark eyelashes down. Taking a minute to awake fully, I looked around to see where I was.

I sat up slowly, cautiously absorbing my surroundings and trying to regain my equilibrium. Then the memory from where I was just moments ago returned to me, the memory of another world, another life, but not my own.

That place was beautiful, a place where there was love, compassion, and reason, a place where people had the utmost regard for all life, a place where humans were not slaves, and a place that was so close to the here and now you could touch it, but so far away we could never conceive it.

It was the world, but a different world. A time to come, should humans follow the right path, and not repeat history, something that we are known to be incapable of doing.

The memories flooded my brain and overwhelmed me, and my stomach fluttered with nausea. And now, I was at home, to a place that was a nightmare at times, but my reality nonetheless.

And this was my room. This little apartment was mine. This life was mine. It belonged to me. But I didn’t want it. I started to cry. My heart was crushed by emotions, the loss of leaving a life that didn’t even belong to me but was better than my own. There was often heartache, a loss, leaving a life I loved, like the despondent feeling when you say good-bye to loved ones after visiting for the holidays or like moving to a new home and leaving the old one, with all its memories behind, or finishing a book you love and wishing it went on forever.

Scanning the room quickly, I searched for my amethyst necklace, which I used as my anchor to this reality. My father told me that it was a family heirloom, something special that was saved just for me, though he never told me whom exactly it had belonged to before me.

I couldn’t remember when he gave it to me either, another memory lost amid the vastness of all the memories I had of other lives. I did remember that he told me to always keep it close, and he told me that it would keep me grounded and that it would keep me safe.

I kept it close now because he told me to and because it was all I had left of him. It kept him close to my heart, now that he was gone. I spotted it lying on the other side of the nightstand. Relief relaxed my always overly tense muscles, and I rolled over while stretching, literally falling out of bed. Hitting the floor with a weighted thud, I snatched up the tear-shaped necklace and rolled onto my back all in one quick move.

I kissed the periapt and clutched it to my chest. And I let the feeling of the familiar ground beneath me sink in as I thought of all the years I had lived, in other lives, in other realities, and in other bodies. It was exhausting.

If I thought about it logically, I had already lived a full life. I was awake and living someone else’s life while I should have been sleeping, blissfully unaware like the rest of the world. So it felt as though I was almost done. I should almost be done. I had put in my time; therefore, my sentence should be up. And that was just it. It was a sentence.

I lived in a prison of lucid dreams, confined to other lives, and existing in another person’s reality, keeping me away from living my own. And to go through this heartache daily was more than anyone should ever have to endure. In theory, I should be the strongest person alive.

How I longed desperately for a dreamless night. I hadn’t had one in almost a year, and I was achingly tired. The fact that I hadn’t truly rested in years tore at my insides, causing a distraught longing for my loss, the loss of my life.

With that thought, a little voice told me that it was a small sacrifice to make in exchange for the knowledge I had. Lying on my back, I stared at the familiar ceiling above, and a single tear rolled down my temple from the corner of my eye, the remainder pooling on the inside corner beside my nose.

I told myself each time I returned that I was happy to be back, whether it was the truth or not. And besides, it just felt more real because it was my own existence, my soul, and my life. And dreams that drag on, that last for days, weeks, or even months at a time, would leave me feeling more disconnected from my own reality, similar to being on a long vacation. Upon returning, your surroundings felt almost surreal. It always took a few days to feel comfortable again in your own home.

Depending on how long I had been gone for, it usually took me an equal amount of time to feel comfortable again in my own skin. I knew it would take almost half the day to get my bearings back, but it was all too familiar. The longer I was gone, the longer it took me to get back to myself, again keeping me away from my own existence. The travel back often left me with a similar feeling to jet-lag, only worse, dream-lag. It was as though the flash I always saw before the journey took something from me, a slice of my energy, then a sliver of my will, and finally, a fragment of my soul.

I stood and trudged my way to the bathroom, pausing to check the mirror. Something I did every time upon waking. Years ago, I would barely look in a mirror, knowing exactly the face that would be staring back at me. I had always been so sure of myself and my life. I knew exactly who I was or so I had thought.

I was MyAnna Auryn Hall. I loved to shop. I loved movies and the smell of real