To Walk in the World: Twin Tales of Inception

By Winnie Winkle

Unpacking life's chaos and circles isn't always a choice.

 

Before breaking, she considered the edge of normal an ideal — cluttered with the screw-ups who couldn't handle life. Now she's engaged in a bonkers conversation with her heart and mind as she and her mental miscreants scrabble through a facetious struggle to figure out life after loss. 

 

She soon discovers leaping from 'normal's cliff' is a sloppy free-fall of rebirth loaded with cosmic oddities and ludicrous miscues. Standing on her edge, she wonders whether living beyond the boundaries is worth the cost of stepping off the abyss into the unknown. She's about to find out. 

 

Discover what happens in this unique, insightful story about when your mind breaks and you have to learn the true meaning of living.

 

Author's note: When my fingers first hit the keyboard in late 2017 I had no idea the adventure ahead. This book morphed into a love letter to my mother, to myself, and to woman everywhere, ones who examined their lives and said:

 

"I can be more. In fact, I'm called to change, and I must answer."

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: J. S. Netwal
• Release date: Apr 19, 2021
• ISBN: 9781732905054

Winnie Winkle

Winnie Winkle is a fabulous Central Florida broad who swills bourbon, likes dogs and cats, and practices yoga, but not with any degree of grace. Supporting live local music is a pretty big deal to Winnie, so if you pass a gravestone that admonishes, 'Go see the band and hit the tip jar', it's probably hers. But, since she's not dead yet, she'll keep penning fun stuff to rock your reading chair. Winnie has lived in Florida for 30 years and splits her time between South Daytona Shores and the Mount Dora area. She prefers writing beach-side as much as she can because, if we’re baring our souls here, the ocean is a mighty muse and there’s only so much that coffee can do. Winnie writes humorous fiction with a new series, "The Record" releasing three titles in 2021 )Boogie Beach, Slat Shaken, Speedo Down). She also released a literary fiction, "To Walk in the World: Twin Tales of Inception in 2021. Winnie also writes (6 books so far)  paranormal and sci-fi romances for the series "The Worlds or Magic, New Mexico".

Book preview

To Walk in the World

Twin Tales of Inception

Winnie Winkle

JS Netwal Publisher

© 2021 by Winnie Winkle

All Rights Reserved

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No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

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For permission requests, contact JS Netwal, Publisher, 3408 S. Atlantic Ave., #128, Daytona Beach Shores, FL 32118

Vellum flower icon Created with Vellum

This book is dedicated to Patricia Silas.

Burn bright.

Contents

Acknowledgments

Author’s Note

Prologue

First Calling: The River

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Second Calling: The Prairie

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Third Calling: The Woods

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Fourth Calling: The Road

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Fifth Calling: The Healing

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Sixth Calling: The Sea

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Epilogue

The End

About the Author

Upcoming Releases!

Boogie Beach: The Record, Book 1

Salt Shaken: The Record, Book 2

Let’s Get Social!

Other Books by Winnie Winkle

Acknowledgments

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner.

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I’d like to thank Jennie Rosenblum for excellent editing, Melody Simmons for gorgeous cover art, Narelle Todd and S.E. Smith for helping me navigate the world of writing, and Gina Ford for listening with unflagging support during a tough year. You are each amazing in your own right.

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Every author has a safety net of friends and family. I’d like to thank Elizabeth O’Leary, Patricia Melum, Julie Sutherland, Jaymati Weaver, Deborah Kroh, Trace Mathews, Joseph D’Amico, Anita Jackson, Bryan Biery, and Rhonda Taylor for lending inspiration to this work. Great love to my brother Jim for the chunk of wood that inspired that winter scene. You are a rock. I’d also like to thank the local music scenes of Tavares and Mount Dora, Florida, for providing a wonderful, vibrant opportunity to glean details on your craft, especially Jeffery G. Whitfield, Richard Lawrence Hull, Mount Dora Brewing, and O’Keefe’s Irish Pub. And, of course, all my love to my children for their indelible imprint on my soul.

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I’m forever thankful for every reader who bought, read, left reviews, or contacted me to share their enthusiasm for my stories. To Walk in the World is for you.

Author’s Note

When this book first tugged at my heart, it came through clearly as two stories, both of strong women enduring and embracing the challenge to change. Their combined stories tell the struggle of becoming who you are meant to be when that path isn’t clear. I hope these twin tales pull you through to a place of victory and the peace of arriving, not in the same body you started with, but in a better, more nuanced one.

In the end, that’s living.

Prologue

Mama, why are there so many stars?

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It’s a big story, my love. Are you sure you want to hear the whole thing?

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Oh, yes… tell me!

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Well, once in the world, there was a child named Andatsi. Along the river, through the bright prairie, within the dark woods, and across to the sea, she walked. Along her way, there was abundant life, and she learned that each thing held beauty and purpose. The petal of each flower was beautiful on its own but grouped together made a complete and new wonder. Each created the seed to begin a new flower. Andatsi saw this in the world, again and again.

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In the sea, the single scale of a fish caught rainbows, but together, held a fish against the brine and tempest of the sea. In the river, a stone is beautiful, but together, they made the water tumble and dance, giving the river air to feed its creatures. Deep in the woods, the elusive light dappled, casting shadows everywhere and making places and spaces for life to hide and thrive.

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Andatsi knew that all the circles coexist and that she herself was a circle.

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But, what of the stars?

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The stars are coming, Child. They always come.

First Calling: The River

Chapter 1

~January~

Sis? You in there? Wake up, girl.

She blinked at Tici, her face coming into focus while the rest was fuzzy, loose watercolors heeding the whims of gravity. Sliding down, a flow of inevitability.

Hey.

Welcome back, honey. Where did you go?

I… I dunno, Tici. She looked at the porch, realizing she sat on the steps, slumped against the railing. I was heading out, but then I don’t remember.

Tici glanced sideways at Brad and the two of them squatted down on the steps, faces reorganizing, concern yielding to gentleness.

I think you need to come back inside, Brad said, holding his hand out, palm up.

OK.

They exchanged looks over her head.

Let’s get you something to eat, and, Tici sniffed, how about a shower?

OK.

Good girl, Brad said, the edges of his voice crumbling. He cleared his throat.

At the far end of the porch, lost in the camellia blooms, a spirit sighed.

Sipping the cooled coffee, she felt, again, like not doing a damned thing with those piles of photos and letters mocking her from the dining room table.

Screw that mountain of dishes in the kitchen, too.

She rubbed her face, craving to unsee the prompts. A whimper caught the corners of her mind. The soft pleading eyes of her dogs, Piper’s head bumping her knees, tugged her upright. This was a call to action she could handle.

Let’s go, doggos. These piles will be here tomorrow. They are the permanence.

I’ve got to get a grip on my life.

This assessment intruded twenty times a day. The standby platitude, you are grieving, you are OK, you have time, this is normal, swam forward, and she let it settle once more, with diminishing healing.

Piper and Rocco finished the perimeter and joined her for butt scratchies. Their goofy dog grins were two pegs propping up a heart broken by a world that hurt, insisted she keep going, but held no mercy.

I guess that’s part of it. I want to stop and be still in this pain, but the world is grinding and grinning, ginning the deal forever. My life’s circle has a vanished chunk. To me, it’s everything. I’m not spinning; I can’t.

She rubbed the dog’s heads, unseeing, hating the chaos theory of life. It resembled a spaghetti monster of circles. The intertwining made no sense. Life, bound into a squirming, wanton craving to continue, a clot of parasitic worms.

In the macro, that need is the essence of life. But calling it normal empowers it with licentiousness that has no sensitivity to the individual’s circle… to my fucking circle.

The result? A broken curve that used to be a whole life.

Juggler extraordinaire. Now, I’m sidelined with a blown knee and it’s raining plates.

This is normal, soothed Standby Platitude, determined to de-wrinkle, keep it smooth, all actions explainable.

There’s bourbon in the cupboard, offered Sad Heart, who stopped giving a shit about smooth the moment she saw a soul take the off-ramp.

I’ve lost my goddamn mind.

Piper pushed his gigantic head against her knee.

He doesn’t know, but he knows. What an exceptional dog.

Kissing the top of Piper’s nose, she murmured, not today, heart. Today we will wash dogs, the sheets, and my sins. But, we won’t look at those photos and letters. Those are for tomorrow.

Chapter 2

A life blinked, surprised. A world gleamed to eyes opening for the first time. The river gurgled, Welcome to the world, Andatsi, in loving approval.

The spice of the world filled her chest. Ahead, the river bubbled and curved, so she toddled beside it, skirting the tall trees, drinking the river’s bounty. Fish leapt, their rise and fall the river’s laugh as she wondered, curious, along the edge.

The world buzzed and chirped, ripening with gratitude as the river tended her. The sun and moon shifted within her upward gaze, peering from her bed made among the mighty trees along the river’s banks. As she rested on the edge of the dream world, she watched the moon glow, a circle in the black empty sky above the whispering water. This was the only sky Andatsi had ever known, and in its ebony beauty, she slept.

In the morning’s warmth, the river and the plants fed her body. Happy, she walked with the river, kneeling to see the leaping fish and the quick creatures that dwelt along the edges. If she pushed rocks into an almost closed circle, sometimes she could catch the darting fish and eat them. Andatsi grew along the edge of the river, gaining strength and wisdom.

The river stretched wide, broken by gleaming black rocks, causing the water to foam and tumble in fluid anticipation. It was Andatsi’s time; the rushing river stole the earth along its sides, and without warning her path gave way. She tumbled off the pitched bank. Rolling in the water, it suspended her body, holding her fast, flashing past killing rocks then tossing her over a fall. There, it caught her within a pool, pushing her toward the firm edge, relinquishing her from the flow.

Why did you save me? she asked the river.

I made you, the river replied. Then you walked with me, learning of me and of yourself. You appreciated without trying to change a thing, showing your love for me as myself.

I do. You are perfect.

That night she saw, next to the moon, a single dot in the sky.

A star?

Yes, sweet one. A star.

Chapter 3

~February~

Breath flowed as she looked at her lawyer.

Come on, take notes! There are steps, and it’s important to do things in order. I’m paying for this expertise.

I am tired.

It’s not as though Emma and I don’t share a personal relationship here. She’s been in my orbit for twenty years. She isn’t helping me for the money, and I’m lucky to have guidance that gives a crap.

How are you? Emma asked, and she met her eyes, letting the storm show, the visions of death heads and tumbling.

Emma was working through her own loss, and the parallel helped. Their shared normal meant nothing to anyone outside, but between them were hard truths that required space for kindness.

Back in the car, she sat with the trappings of togetherness. Tidy file folders of certificates, wills, and documents, and a laptop bag with the bits necessary to show her shit was in an orderly pile and not spread across the Universe in a howling mess. There was a tap on the glass, and Emma’s face hovered.

I thought you needed a hug, she said, through the declining window.

A hug? A straitjacket might work. How about a life that makes sense?

With a nod, she climbed out of the car and embraced Emma, the act salving and healing them both.

We may drown, but I’m grateful to have this star in my fucked-up miserable sky.

That night, she gave Sad Heart bourbon, but outside, with the dogs and the stars. Today was more endurable than yesterday. Sort of… maybe.

Hey, Standby Platitude, she told herself. Here’s a high five. Hooray for playing at normal.

At least, a half-assed normal… the world was such a see-saw, a seep-saw, a monotonous ride of hitching tears and careless cuts. She poured another normal, er, bourbon. Then two more.

Fueled with brown boldness, she cleaned the kitchen, stagger style. Glass raised to the dogs, swaying, she self-toasted.

Yay, me.

The morning’s pounding on the door was unwelcome, the barking not unexpected, and the bourbon brain earned. The text reminding that she agreed to go walking with Tony swam into view as she jammed glasses on her nose and rolled upright. On the run, texting that she’d be out in five, she dressed, hit the bathroom for as much damage control as possible in forty seconds, microwaved yesterday’s (was it?) coffee, poured in enough milk to make it drinkable, and chugged. To a cacophony of bounding, barking joy she opened the door, and Piper and Rocco swarmed out in search of a morning pee.

You look good, Tony said.

He’s a terminal smart-ass, so she rolled her eyes and muttered, Bourbon. With a whistle, she called the lolling tongue brigade back inside.

Tony was a safe place. They were old lovers who weren’t anymore but managed to pull off the true friend shtick. Once in a while, the conversation about rekindling came up, but it was always after drink number four. The hell-nos beat out the hell-yeses years ago.

Tony once said, We’ve read the book, Doll. We know how it ends.

They walked along the sidewalks of their insignificant waterfront town, commenting on the neighborhood and listening to some 70s stuff Tony had on his phone. 1972 had been an excellent year; Tony nailed his way through half of Bay Ridge, New York, sixteen and king. He loved telling stories; after 10 years many were repeats. Her mind tuned in and out.

The sun feels good. I’m glad I didn’t ditch on this walk.

Sunshine and moving her body was much better than stooging around the house. Tony started talking about marketing because he ate the stuff and it’s exciting, both as a game and a lifestyle. Life was eternally funny in his world; he loved the joy of the edge. If Tony’s world had a soundtrack, it’d be circus calliope music.

While laughing at his own tale, he got her to laugh.

How long has it been?

She realized, with a mental wince, how rare laughter buoyed her these days. Typical Tony and his delight in life; a near-death experience involving twenty broken bones, a pulverized spleen, and a four-month coma released him, and he never looked back.

I love his quick brain and his kind Italian heart, piped Sad Heart.

Hmm, we loved his wandering eye less, Standby Platitude reminded.

That old hurt held no power anymore. These days, having a friend that was real mattered, and Tony, flawed or not, fit.

They separated after two miles, and she walked through the door, taking in the photos and letters covering the dining room table. Still a no.

Sitting at the antique desk that was new to her, she pulled out the folders and her phone. They might be the emblem of coping’s farce, but at least they weren’t faces, places, or the written voice of the dead. Today, this dusty dry pile of detail and legalese was what could be. Today, dry was enough.

Chapter 4

The tumble in the river scraped and bruised, so Andatsi stayed beside the calm pool and cared for her wounds. Each night, lying on her bed near the tree, she wondered about the fresh light gleaming near her beloved moon.

Her scars were taking shape, closing the space between searing and solid. Pleased, she looked at the twinkling dot in the sky and asked, Who are you?

Around her, the wind moved and whispered, small stories of fondness and longing. The glowing spot did not answer but sparkled, while the moon, no longer lonely, smiled.

While healing, Andatsi played with the grasses along the edge of the river, finding that turning them back upon themselves was a way to make things. Delighted, she spent days in the warm sun picking grass and perfecting her weaving. She wove a tunic for her body, and, after several failed attempts, created a strong net that would let her catch a fish and hold it fast, squirming silver as she pulled it from the water.

This is a useful thing!

Andatsi danced with the river, sturdy feet splashing in the shallow water along the edge, gleaming droplets flying up to return, reclaimed by the fluid skin of the surface.

The peeking light broke across the end of the world. Hands to the sun, she stretched and tested her body, a deep pull within insisting she walk beyond the river’s edge. Standing in the current, she lay a piece of her weaving on the water.

Thank you for making, loving, and saving me.

The river pulled the gift down. Walk with purpose, beloved Andatsi, it gurgled, rippling in gratitude.

Her chest tightened as she turned away from the curving mother and stepped into the cool half-light, moving toward the call.

Second Calling: The Prairie

Chapter 5

Wednesday was salvation night; she slipped from the crushing structure and flew into the music. This habit, of going to little places to hear guitars, morose songs, and boozy tunes of redemption, was a vast part of what kept her current and somewhat ‘in sane’ mode. The irony, that this was a mere space-bar click away from ‘insane’, was not lost on her.

Over the past five years, music was her safety net, her one gift to herself, to replace a few minutes between jumps in the actual world. Whenever she fled toward music, it let her set down the heavy yoke of life for a few precious hours. As the burden crushed, her dependence on the stolen moments deepened. Her favorite was Erik Johnson, whose baritone was a rapture event. Erik was the king of songs of loss.

There was a connection; it might be something, but she told herself it could be more lifeline than heart-string. She didn’t believe that but kept it on auto-repeat. Avoiding vulnerability simplified.

The first time she saw him she did not know he sang, only that she walked into a pub, locked gazes, and the world went sideways, airless and warm. Her eyes followed his tall frame, taking in the blond hair that fell over his face and down his back, while she had a private coronary.

For two years (two whole fucking years!) she convinced herself she was nuts, that he was too young, that she was too something. But one night, their eyes met and his were a kaleidoscope of silver, bronze, sage, and twinkling approval.

Floor opening beneath her feet, she reached a hand out and he enveloped hers while she free fell in his stars.

These glances weren’t isolated, but she didn’t know what to do with them when they happened, again and again. There was a million tons of responsibility on her and adding him was not a possibility. The knowledge of futility did little to halt the spin.

You’re out of control, Standby Platitude snapped, more than once. Get a grip.

It doesn’t make sense, but I can’t get upright.

We could make a move, Sad Heart offered. Show him our light. Complete the circuit.

Now? Are you nuts? I’m using every second of time just to keep us on track. Sit down, Heart. Stop being fanciful and unnecessary, Standby Platitude said with finality.

I don’t trust it either. It’s an unknown, and keeping all the balls in the air requires control.

Each time they shared space, his presence landed with a snap that squeezed her heart, with a side of puking, joy, and astonishment. Something about this man jumbled her at an unknown level.

It feels like vertigo. I have no order.

Erik makes me happy, Sad Heart whimpered. I think we need to try.

We sure as hell do not, Standby Platitude rebuked. I’ve got this. Take a seat with your foolishness, Heart. Unsubstantiated yearning is stupid.

If it’s nothing, why can’t I get beyond it?

Often, they sat together after his show, talking about the world as arms and knees touched and withdrew. These conversations tempered the whirl; she learned that lost love defined him.

I expected to remain married for life. That restriction imploded her soul, Erik said one night over whiskeys. Her spirit’s fallout seared me. After six years, I’ve barely moved beyond her. Love is not for me. I find bonds in friendship and sex in dating, and this works. Friendships are rare but safe. A sympathetic friend feeds my spirit without making my heart bleed.

I’ve never fallen like that, so far gone that the damage mutated my heart.

That’s a good thing, Standby Platitude nodded. Safer. Besides, he’s adapted.

Sad Heart sighed, silenced.

Erik looked much younger than he was, so he had as many partners as he wished. He dwelled in the valley of low hanging fruit. Erik was a happy barfly, and she was…

I have no damn idea. At this point, I’m upright, bruised but still walking. That’s good enough.

Liar, said Sad Heart.

Love, real, soul-naked love, was elusive; she’d never figured it out.

After two marriages, was this a personality flaw too deep and embedded to fix?

Twice committed, she stayed with men, trying to love them, for as long as she could. She left when the risk of losing herself forever outweighed the desire to maintain the marital construct that ate her, closing in on her bones.

Stripping it down, the enormity of the emotion and relinquishing control were my issues. I can’t settle again, but the world no longer knocks. I’m growing through to the point I’ve got a smart, scarred heart to offer, but there are no takers. In a universe full of humans that value fresh women, we who aren’t, languish. And hear the word, my brethren, valueless is a shitty outhouse on the highway of life.

That’s harsh, Standby Platitude acknowledged.

And sweeping, Sad Heart protested.

That doesn’t mean the assessment is unfair. Or fixable.

She arrived early enough to get a seat, wondering for the hundredth time if that made her resemble a groupie or other desperate moniker.

It’s not that I do anything other than listen, and over the years we’ve become friends. But I suspect I’m not deceiving everyone. So, while fucked up, it’s my sanity thread, and when you’re going down, you hang on to those bitches like they’re spun gold.

Erik started setting up, and she settled into a seat close enough to enjoy without having to filter out the blather of the un-sad people irate about terrible drivers, politics, or whatever else had them righteously roiled.

Pish, they won’t recollect tonight within six months, Sad Heart murmured.

She had little energy left for this social adaptation. The communing of dramatic comeuppance is a skill that death and dying flat-out shits on until you smell nothing else.

You swim for the surface, but there’s no given you will break through, Standby Platitude agreed.

Am I bitter? I don’t want to become bitter. Can’t I find joy and peacefulness, then feel happy within that quiet?

I remember joy, Sad Heart said. In the beginning I wasn’t miserable, just a heart expecting that love would come and be happy and groovy, and we’d get old and stuck in our ways and play cards, then he’d have a heart attack and I’d go on a cruise.

Jesus, I need to get the fuck out of my head.

The first song rolled over her, a breeze on a scorching day. No reprieve, just the promise of one. She gave the music a meticulous listen, noting where he stretched a note, changed timings, and pushed the arrangement.

He is a Viking troubadour, so tall, silver-blond and fearless, filling the room with his brand of what life is, and daring us to deny he’s right.

There was always some curmudgeon complaining that the song choices were too sad, and how he wanted something peppy. Tonight was no different. Amused, she watched the red-faced man who could not see his besotted companion’s face. Twisted in her seat, her back was to him and her light on Erik.

Erik reaches people who have overcome. This was the witness to survival, the feast at pain’s banquet. He sings the songs of the soul.

Three hours and four bourbons later, she cleared her tab, hit his tip jar and shared a hug and five sentences that would turn in her head for the next week. Another quick embrace and a thank you, and she left, understanding that staying blocked off was what you do when you are in the friend zone, when you are dying about that, when you are unwilling to risk losing your dregs, and when you cannot yet begin.

Chapter 6

There was much within the thicket beyond the river’s edge that moved; in amazement, Andatsi watched tiny lives buzz, click, and fly. She jumped into the air to try this thing for herself, but the moss left her feet and re-joined them in a single heartbeat.

This gift is not for me.

The teeming motion and color captivated her eyes, and she meandered, lost in this dream, to where