Perspectives

By Sarah Barnett, Caitlin Larkin, Macy White and 3 more

Perspectives is a captivating collection of short stories inspired by "To the Sky" including everything from murder mystery to fantasy to historical fiction. Each of its authors took a short section of the song to act as a muse for their individual storylines in order to create a unique interpretation of Owl City's beautiful lyrics.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Sep 6, 2014
• ISBN: 9781312494664

Book preview

Perspectives

PERSPECTIVES

Princess – India Alexander

Sarah Barnett

Jim Delgado

Stephanie Gutierrez

Caitlin Larkin

Macy White

Copyright Information

The Spilled Ink Society

Published by Spilled Ink Society Publications

Just a group of crazy people getting together to have some fun

This is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the authors’ imaginations or are used factiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locals is entirely coincidental.

Rights to art, fonts, and song belong solely to their respective authors.

Embers copyright © 2014 by Princess-India Alexander

Fate’s Design copyright © 2014 by Sarah Barnett

A Contraption of Feathers copyright © 2014 by Jim Delgado

Heaven’s Eyes copyright © 2014 by Stephanie Gutierrez

Fire Flight copyright © 2014 by Caitlin Larkin

Fleeing Freedom copyright © 2014 by Macy White

All rights reserved.

This books, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law.  Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.  Your support of the authors’ rights is appreciated.

First edition: August 2014

Printed in the United States of America

Editor’s Note

I’m listening to Two Steps from Hell as I write this.  Gotta love that group.  I’ve always been partial to the instrumental side of music, and Thomas Bergerson and Nick Phoenix are some of my favorite composers.  Give me pounding drumbeats, frantic violin trills, and epic choral vocals any day.  Makes me feel like I’m charging into battle, which isn’t too far from the truth.

This journey has by now means been an easy one, and from day one we’ve had our trials.  We knew from the get-go that the theme for this book was going to be based on a song, but what that song would be took us about a month to finally decide.  While we eventually agreed on Owl City, I’d say that conciliation was more for the expansive interpretation of the lyrics than the actual song.  I had actually never listened to it until last week.  Only one of us seemed to like pop.  Another liked hard rock.  Jim preferred the driving beat of the 1920’s, Macy the wacky tunes of Weird Al and Pokémon theme songs.  And Caitlin, when prompted, declared she liked whatever the radio happened to be playing at the moment.  It’s a miracle we were able to agree on anything.

But now as I look back and peruse the finished word documents, making the final touches before I transfer the files on my computer to a paperback template, I see the advantage of having such vastly diverse preferences.  To the Sky was only the base, a springboard to an infinite sea of possibility.  It was our individual music choices that gave us the tools to navigate, that built us beautiful, immense ships to sail cleanly through the choppy waves of our imaginations.  For each of us, that was something unique, something special.  The easy swing of roaring jazz mixed with the bubbly synthesized notes of today created a completely new world wedged somewhere between the two eras.  The dark rumble of bass diluted with up-tempo, commercialized melodies invented a sinister and ominous background mitigated only by a happy ending.  A complete indifference for what styles, harmonies, and pitches were carelessly mashed together gave birth to an eclectic universe, free-spirited and full of wondrous mischief. 

To the Sky played a vital part in all of our stories, and the muse of those carefully versed lines is prominent in just about every twist and turn of what we wrote.  But it was only a single color used in the painting of the finished masterpiece.  There is still an entire rainbow of vermillion, chartreuse, and amethyst that was used in the shadows, the tinting of gray, the shading on the edges.  It is a rainbow you can’t always see, but you know is there, lingering just beyond the horizon.

So sit back, enjoy the artwork, and crank up the music.  Whatever you like, whether it’s a good laugh, a swing down memory lane, or a thorough head-banging.  It’s your hand on the dial this time. 

After all, life’s a long walk.  Enjoy the music.

Best,

Sarah

Perspectives

Embers

Princess-India Alexander

Shipwreck in a sea of faces

There's a dreamy world up there

Dear friends in higher places

Carry me away from here

Travel light, let the sun eclipse you

'Cause your flight is about to leave

And there's more to this brave adventure

Than you'd ever believe

Cold swirls of wicked air twisted their way around Chicago like an agile predator on the hunt for its next meal. The winter wind tore through the streets, picking up stray papers with its long fingers and tossing plastic bags into the air as if to give them life. No one was safe. Icy hands shoved their way into the small crevasses between flesh and coat, while chilling breath washed over the frozen faces who dared brave this Herculean monster. The reason for which Chicago was named the windy city was in full force, stomping through the streets to claim its victims and declare its dominance. But to seasoned natives this was only a minor factor in the beginning of their busy days.

Monday morning Chicago meant the buzz of cars speeding by and the bustle of citizens hell-bent on getting to their destinations, stubborn wind be damned. For Mrs. Atson it was the business meeting on The Loop. To Mr. Hudson, and the two small children nicking at his heels, it was the kindergarten classroom they would not be late to again. Everyone had a place, a time, and a face to see. In this rush the only thing of importance was the destination. Everything and everyone else faded into the background.

The busy air settled around each area of the city. It could be seen most readily at the water taxi on Michigan Ave. People pushed and prodded their way through the thick line leading to the yellow boat in the same manner in which the rest of the city barged their way through the streets. This particular day, however, happened to be the last trip of the season for all of Chicago’s water taxis, for the heavy snow simply forbade passage for much longer. Consequently, this elicited a flurry of people in desperate need to board the ship before the opening of the next season in far off March.

Though as the last tickets were accepted and the doors to the ferry closed, the unlucky members of the crowd were denied their final ride. The horde slowly dissolved to half of its original capacity. The rest scampered into their alternate routes of subway trains and bus rides as to not be late for whatever their morning demanded. The ferry sat on the dock ready to set off on its (not-so-maiden) voyage with the engine humming beneath the iron vessel. In the bustle of such a busy city, no one noticed the fact that the boat sat at the harbor longer than normal; fifteen minutes longer to be exact.

Harrison, go check what’s going on with that goddamned ferry. If we get behind schedule I’ll have Johnson’s ass! The ferry manager yelled from within the small office. Harrison, hoping to avoid the wrath of his boss’ gravelly voice, sprinted off towards the dock. Walking towards the boat he noticed nothing wrong in particular. The engine hummed steadily, void of any pesky knocking, while the air around the vessel was clear of any smoke that may hint at possible problems. But it was silent, the type of silent that simply screams in a city known for its noise.

He walked down the last of the wooden dock and up the steps onto the boat nonchalantly as on any other day. It wasn’t until he reached for the steel door that he noticed something just wasn’t quite right. He tugged on one of the double doors only to find it was locked, closed firmly shut. Face crumpled and brows furrowed, he shoved his hand into his pocket to retrieve the door’s key only to find that he left them on his desk in his haste to leave. A bit annoyed with himself, he peered into the window in the door to get a quick look. What he saw stayed with him long after that brief moment had passed.

Bodies lay strewn across the ground in haphazard arrays while breathless people stretched over taxi chairs the way one might have carelessly tossed scarves upon well placed hooks. To the left he saw business charts scattered across the ground bent and crumpled, to the right sat a singular body apart from all the rest. It was a small girl no more than three, her hands still clinging to a tattered blue baby blanket and her body laying limp only a few feet from the door. But it was her eyes, her lifeless baby-blues that stared directly into his eyes, helpless and pleading and innocent. He ran.

Harrison’s heart pounded in his ears like the sound of a steadily booming timpani. His feet couldn’t carry him fast enough; his mind was unable to comprehend accurately enough. When he reached the office he could literally feel the fear ripping itself through his body and ravishing the planes of his face. Apparently his boss noted too.

Harrison, what the hell is going on?

The boat….people….I mean. His mouth pleaded for the words to come but his mind was simply too far behind. 

Out with it boy!

Call 911!

Harrison dashed for the phone on the desk completely forgetting the cell in his pocket. His fingers smashed upon the buttons in a frenzied blur and his hand was clutching the phone until his knuckles showed white. His breath was ragged and uneven by the time the other end picked up.

They’re all dead help now! He screeched, his brain finally cooperating with his mouth.

Sir, could you please speak calmly. What is the problem and where are you at?

Water taxi on Michigan Ave, we’ve–

A blast rumbled violently through the room. Harrison’s nerves roared to life and slapped the phone out his hands whilst an involuntary scream scampered its way out through his lips. He looked out of the blind covered window and all he saw was fire. Smoke encasing what was the Michigan Avenue water taxi filled the scene, and flames reaching high above his view towered into the air. Standing there in shock, Harrison’s muscles ceased and the outside world surrendered to his disbelief.

embers

Detective Inspector Morris Rutherford chewed on his distinctive toothpick, the thirteenth of the day in fact. But this was just that type of homicide, the one where his nerves never stopped and his teeth chewed one toothpick after another. He strolled along the dock for the umpteenth time after going over the story with his assistant Greg.

Rutherford fit the chief of police persona with perfect accuracy. He was tall, six four to be exact, and his hefty weight was distributed evenly over his body so that his enlarged stomach wasn’t in too much of a disproportion. The time he had spent in the field showed evidently in his face, the thirty years of work exhibiting themselves in his stern, confident look and the natural wisdom living in the way he dealt with this situation. The last of his age was proven through the light gray slowly beginning to dominate his thinning hair.

Night had already fallen and the (now burnt) water taxi port was taped off with bright yellow caution tape. Now only field scientists from the precinct who were picking up the last of the evidence and a few straggling agents getting last minute witness reports remained. Rutherford only stayed behind because he was in charge of this mess.

A hundred n’ seventy two people dead, he mumbled to himself, and not a single lead so far.

Sorry I'm late chief.

A young man of 26 jogged up to Rutherford, slightly out of breath and holding onto an Office Max clipboard.

’Bout time g’all dammit, he responded, cursing the southern tongue that just wouldn’t go away.

Sorry for taking so long, but the taxi is a bit chaotic, Sebastian apologized and both men stopped in front of the massacred boat.

He was one of the few men that could almost look Rutherford directly in the eye without having to look up, and he did it with confidence. This was always something Rutherford secretly admired. A whimpering man was nothing to uphold or tolerate, but Sebastian was a bit different. He had spent less than two years in the precinct’s laboratory yet Rutherford was sure he was bound to be its head before he turned thirty. His common sense rivaled that of any seasoned vet, and the fact that he didn’t have the annoying bit of youthful ignorance that ran ramped among his generation was a large plus as well. Truth be told he liked him much more than his needy assistant.

Don’t I know it. Rutherford spit out his now demolished toothpick only to stick another in his mouth. They suddenly drop dead without anyone noticing and then before the emergency can even be reported the dammed boat catches fire.

The press will enjoy it at least, Sebastian joked.

Mr. Sebastian Grey had the looks of a walking cliché, the build and face of a model, and with his Puerto Rican complexion and light brown eyes Rutherford caught women looking at him all the time. To him it was a bit comical. But the boy’s brain is what mattered; it was what made him actually value his opinion.

Yeah, it’ll be a free for all at this point. He paused, squinting his eyes in the direction of the vessel. So. Wuddid yah find?

From looking at the ashes and analyzing the time frame in which the ferry worker said, it couldn’t have been burned by the typical kerosene oil that so many past arsonists have used. Combustion of this size and in such a short time just isn’t possible. Yet the entire scene simply reeks of its smell.

Well shit. Anything else?

Not really. Whoever did this is a bit too thorough for my liking. All else I’ll have to find in the lab. A dozen correctly placed chemicals, a few microscopes and a plethora of coffee and I should be able to get something.

Hmmf, Rutherford began, his mind trying to stay engaged in the conversation. So you headed home?

Sebastian took a moment before responding, hating the way the chief would change a conversation when he was tired or irritated with the current one.

No, he began, I'm actually headed to a friend’s.

That Pepper girl? Rutherford said with just enough suggestion to send a pang of irritation through Sebastian’s head.

Yes, he responded slowly. It’s poker night.

He wanted to add that she was only his best friend, but felt that that was unnecessary, and a bit pointless.

Rutherford barely looked at Sebastian. Instead he was slowly slipping into his investigator mood, knowing that this was going to be one of those cases. Sebastian noticed. He had spent enough time in close contact with him to take note of these moments of concentration. So he uttered a quick goodbye before beginning to walk away.

Rutherford analyzed the scene once more, ardently looking for some type of mistake. Criminals always left those hanging around somewhere. But with a sigh only audible to his ears, he gave up for the night. Besides, he had been there since twelve. Now as he peered down to his flip phone the numbers clicked to show eleven thirty.

Rutherford turned on his sensible black orthopedics and began to walk away. His night was ending but he knew that the hunt had just began, just one of the few things his gut told him. He walked down the rest of the dock and turned right, passing the dock manager’s office to get to his 1990 pickup. Yet before he could get there something caught his eye.

To his right a small half sheet of paper wiggled in the bullying wind. It was tucked partially beneath one of the loose bricks surrounding the hut of an office and only stood out because the white contrasted the dark brick around it. Curious, Rutherford bent down to pick it up, his knees creaking and his back protesting in the process. He unfurled the paper and leaned closer to the light so he could squint to read it.

Shipwreck in a sea of faces. There's a dreamy world up there.

embers

Sebastian felt his brain slowly liquefy within his skull. Within a few moments he was sure he would be able to feel squishy gray matter begin to ooze its way out of his head and onto the counter in front of him. Defeated and wallowing in mental exhaustion, he slammed his face onto his desk, his left cheek making contact with its cool metal surface and his glasses digging into the side of his face. It was official, marked in irrefutable fact. He had hit a wall.

He had been working on the water taxi case since he arrived at the lab around seven that morning and he had gotten nowhere. In fact, going back to the drawing board was even a bit out of his reach. To do so would insinuate that he had gotten somewhere in the first place. Instead he looked at slide after slide of evidence and remained firmly planted at square one. As a matter of fact, if he stayed there any longer he would have to begin paying rent.

He looked through remains from the victims, scraps of clothing, and even samples taken from the water surrounding the ship that day. Nothing. That’s what was (or rather wasn’t) found. Instead there were closed doors and unanswered questions. It was something that Sebastian hadn’t experienced since writing his thesis for his Masters and, quite frankly, he hadn’t exactly missed the sensation.

It was completely silent in the lab, and all Sebastian could hear was the puttering of the cogs grinding within his mind. Everyone had clocked out about half an hour ago and while on any other day Sebastian would have finished his work early, here he sat, staring sideways at a stark white microscope praying for the data to match something, anything, familiar to him. 

Ey! What are you still doing here?! A voice boomed, causing thick goosebumps to involuntarily sprout from Sebastian’s skin.

Working, he responded through gritted teeth while lazily removing his glasses to rub his face in dramatic agony.

Well then, how’s it going, I’ve heard this case is quite the toughy, the woman said in characteristic cheer.

That depends, Lynda. You want the truth or a well-constructed lie?

Well in that case! She bellowed again, this time slapping a heavy hand across Sebastian’s shoulder before sitting down next to him. A nicely formed fib has always been much more interesting. Let’s have a go at that.

Sebastian swirled on the wheels of his chair to face the tall woman beside him. Lynda’s long arm was already propped up on the desk, supporting the face that stared back sarcastically. Her mouth smiled, showing well-worn laugh lines while her short blond hair slightly shuffled with the motion of her facial muscles.

It’s going perfectly. I finished my analysis three hours ago, turned it into Rutherford and they’ve already caught the guy responsible. Because of my work I'm being promoted, receiving a Nobel Prize, and later on the Queen plans on knighting me in Buckingham Palace. How’s that?

Not bad. The whole promotion part was a bit too far though.

Hilarious, aren’t you? He mumbled dryly.

Very. Now what’s the truth sound like? Is there still a knighthood involved?

Not quite. Let’s put it this way. I have looked over almost every sample and still nothing adds up. The boat exploded so quickly we may as well call it spontaneous combustion, and yet there isn’t enough of any chemical found to create a reaction that powerful.

Thought of a mixture of chemicals? The person that did this could have been trying to be clever and–

That was idea number five.

Look, I’ve been doing this for a while, ten years now, and I know that the worst part is all but over. At least you’ve taken in all of the evidence. There can’t be much more than a bit of connecting ideas from here, she said letting the sarcasm drop away.

That’s not the point though. It’s been a week now and I should be much further on than I am. Sebastian paused to take a wayward look back at the microscope before continuing. Rutherford wants my part of the report by five and I haven’t got nearly enough information to hand him.

Then ask for help. I might not be on this case, but I know at least five other analysts working on it and I'm more than sure they’ve found something to make your data more sensible.

Oh, no they’re not. They’ve got just as much as I do only they just don’t want to admit it. Besides, I'm not that desperate yet.

Sure then. But did you say that meeting was at five o’clock? Lynda asked quizzically.

And yet there is just so much that makes so little sense. It’s like trying to put together a jigsaw puzzle with all the wrong pieces. I swear the universe is out to get me. And it was going so well. I had never messed up a case before and my work has been spotless. Spotless I tell you.

So at five? She asked again shifting her eyes back and forth between the rambling man and the clock on the wall.

And what’s worse, what’s so much more than all of that, is the fact that if this person decides to kill again then it is my fault because I couldn’t figure it out. More murders. More deaths. And even more sad letters to surviving family members. Good God if something doesn’t give I’ll–

Okey dokey then be stubborn, Lynda sighed rising up from her chair. But to be fair, it’s oh, about thirty minutes past six.

Shit.

embers

She was small for her age. No. Actually it was more like she was small for a human being in general. Pepper Ponds barely reached five foot, enough to not be considered a legal midget but not quite enough to be deemed average. Then again, nothing about her really fit the term ‘average’. Genetics simply ruled out that possibility.

Her skin was impossibly light, especially when compared to the darker mahoganies gracing her parents’ skin. But no, she had apparently gained every recessive trait her family’s gene pool had to offer. Her fair skin, which was barely dark enough to be labeled dark tan, allowed for her face to be dotted with freckles the way others’ cheeks are covered in a permanent blush. Instead of brown, her eyes were faded green speckled with haphazard bouts of a light brown that all too closely matched her cinnamon colored fro. The curls of which gave her so much trouble that she usually referred to her hair as The Beast.

This was the girl sitting upside down in her living room, clad in a pair of cotton shorts and a spaghetti tank top. Her short legs wiggled childishly on green cushions while her back rested comfortably on the wooden floor in the space offered between her coffee table and the couch. This was typically how she worked best. Her iPad resting on her lap, The Beast let loose in a massive array around her head and her mind working away at whatever occupation she had chosen for the time being.

The television was blasting on at full volume, the channel Pepper knew not. That bit wasn’t important. In addition to the screaming television she had her iPad blaring music at top volume. Again, exactly what was playing was of little consequence. All that truly mattered was the sound, the distraction. She required just enough of it to effectively ward off the silence. For, when living alone in an old brownstone, silence was all too available.

The home had been passed down to her by her grandmother when she died and with four bedrooms, a basement, and large backyard, it was built for a large family. Yet Pepper opted to fill the empty rooms with books. In fact, the addition of each filled bookshelf and dusty pile of pages was the only change to the home. It might have been aged well past Pepper’s twenty-four years but the brownstone hadn’t seen a single renovation since 1950. Even now Pepper’s legs were resting on a couch bought when her grandmother first moved in forty years ago.

This was the majority of her life, easily summed up in this singular scene: a girl fretting away at a random task to keep away the boredom. Such was only necessary for a mind like Pepper’s. It churned on in continuous motion, never stopping, never ceasing to process information. That was the reason for the needless