Bobby Bright

By T.E. Mark

Bobby Bright is 17. He’s remote, a gifted design student and a puzzle to everyone. When Annabeth Bachman, a passionate young therapist, uncovers what it is Bobby has been working on, her world, his and ours will change forever.
(Novelette VI)

• Language: English
• Publisher: T.E. Mark
• Release date: May 13, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463997147

T.E. Mark

T. E. Mark is an Anglo-American Science Writer, Screenwriter and Editor. He has studied Architecture, Music and Literature in the UK and in the US and has been penning stories since childhood. His first novel, Fractured Horizons, set in the wonderful of Bath England, was written at the age of 12.Mark has written novels for young and adult readers and a selection of science articles for national and international magazines. He also writes and edits academic papers on a variety of subjects for universities, governmental and non-governmental organisations.Follow T. E. Mark at:temarkauthor.wordpress.commthomasmark.wordpress.comtemarkurbanscratch.wordpress.comContact T. E. Mark at: [e-mail].

Book preview

BOBBY BRIGHT

COBBLESTONE STREET – SOMEWHERE

A small boy of (4) in a belted tunic and sandals, right from a book of Greek myths, runs quickly up a cobblestone street lined with artfully adorned cottages then stops and looks up.

Concern crosses his young face as he watches the sky, like a vault of a thousand white suns, darken above him.

He turns to his mates; still running and playing - unconcerned. He waves and calls, but they won’t listen and continue on; laughing and taunting. With indecision in his eyes, he struggles but gives in and drops his head. And turns the other way… and runs.

COBBLESTONE STREET (CONT’D)

With the sky still darkening, the boy reaches the door of an elegant, stone cottage surrounded by gardens, glittering like fine porcelain.

COTTAGE – NIGHT

Inside the light, craftily decorated, cottage, the boy sits on a low sofa with an elderly man who may be (70) or (90), wrinkled and bearded with sharp, searching eyes.

He’s thin, frail and has an unhealthy appearance, perhaps from an illness, but his face is wise and kind.

Dressed in a flowing brown tunic, the man turns from his ornate book and faces the patient child who smiles warmly as the man places his blotchy hands out – obviously a ritual between them.

Dutifully, without hesitation, the boy places his small hands into the elder’s where they disappear – closed in by his ancient grasp.

Together they close their eyes and drop their heads until their foreheads meet.

The room falls quiet and dark but for a soft crackle and red-orange glow from the room’s hanging fire plates.

OUTER SPACE

The majestic blackness of outer space – an ocean of stars, galaxies and nebula.

Nothing but the silent beauty of the Cosmos.

Then, as if from nowhere, a spinning satellite with its solar panels extended moves into view; blotting out a million, million stars with its shiny hull.

THE EARTH FROM SPACE

From the view of the orbiting satellite, the Earth – pale blue with wisps of white drifting over the surface – spins as if to a Bach Minuet or Strauss Waltz.

THE NORTH AMERICAN CONTINENT

Closer, our view from this technological wonder sharpens. The North American continent; its forested eastern seaboard; the vast Midwestern plains.

Closer.

NEVADA DESERT – A REMOTE AIRFIELD

In a southwestern desert, military trucks, Humvees and government SUVs sit patiently, quietly in a small, fenced-in lot.

One hundred metres to the east, men and women, most are in uniform, some business dressed, cluster along a lonely airstrip gazing into the distance.

Many have sophisticated binoculars – some high powered cameras.

They continue watching as an aircraft, at a phenomenal velocity, far in the distance, comes into view then slices the sky above them.

As they turn to the horizon, to watch the plane disappear, the men and women at this lonely air strip appear jubilant.

They smile and applaud.

Something amazing has just happened.

CUT TO:

THE BRIGHT HOUSE, SEATTLE

Bobby Bright was unlike his peers. He was a puzzle to his teachers, to his friends and especially to his mother who fought the pangs of concern for her remote son who found comfort in his computers; little else seemed to matter, or exist.

In his darkened room with his drapes closing out a clear, cool October morning, the handsome, 17-year-old sat with his head cocked contemplating a problem.

He’d been sitting with his eyes glued to his large monitors since he’d risen well before dawn.

It was now 11:45 and the colours of the wire frame schematic brightened before him as if fired by his mind or enthusiasm.

He dropped his eyes to the potted fern held tight between his legs – his thumbs caressing the ceramic rim as if it were a priceless, Etruscan artefact.

‘Newt? I think I’ve got it. I figured it out.’ He smiled a broad smile as if awaiting a response. ‘Maybe we’ll continue this later, but…’ He stood and turned to his windows. ‘…it’s time for you to get some sun…’ He crossed the cluttered room, sidestepping mountain stacks of books, cables and technology that seemed to be growing up through the carpeting. ‘…and time for me to get some work done.’

Pulling back the yellowed and edge-curled roller-white shade, he squinted from the light and chuckled.

‘I’m glad you like this, but…’ He placed the plant on the sill, turning it. Turning it again then turning it once more. ‘…it’s too much for me.’ He smiled. ‘Enjoy. I’ll be back for you in three hours.’

He gently returned the blind and found his way back to his chair.

‘And now…’ With the mouse in his slender fingers and mind ready, he selected two outlined components. They brightened on the screen in sky blue and sea-coral lavender. ‘…let’s see if I can make this work.’

Now sharp and focused, he began typing making fantasy and industry and fireworks and miracles happen. With the confident look of a sultan or King Nebuchadnezzar or the Prophet, he typed. His eyes were glowing biscuits of fire and his fingers the handiwork of Michelangelo.

There was no disturbing him now. No distractions lived in his head. Nothing but deep concentration, pure creativity and the promise of something wise and wonderful and satisfying.

He was supremely happy.

THE BRIGHT KITCHEN

Bobby’s mother, however, was less than happy as she sat in her breakfast nook peering out through the window into her moist autumn garden.

The mug she held, held coffee and cream, and her morning green eyes were showers of her mounting concern.

‘What is it he’s working on Clarisse?’ asked her friend Semele who lived next door but came over more often than invited. ‘Have you any idea?’

Clarisse Bright, a not unintelligent woman, frowned and shook her muddled head.

‘Architectural design, I think.’ This was her typical reply. ‘And other things.’ Her more-often-than-not follow up one. ‘It looks technical.’

The truth was, Clarisse had no idea what her son was working on in his room. A room he left for school and seldom for anything else.

It was technical, and she wasn’t. And whenever she’d questioned him wishing to understand, after being granted audience in his room – a room so overgrown with books and technology there was nowhere to sit but the edge of his bed or the floor, she would find him virtually, if not entirely incomprehensible. And