by Abra Ebner
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The Master laid the owl’s dead body on a rock, her feathered head broken by the devil herself. “My Missy,” the Master whispered.
The owl heard her but could not reply. All she ever wanted was to be human. All she ever wanted was the chance to finally meet him and win his love. Since the day she saw his picture, her animal instincts had changed. She was stuck in a body that was not her own, and now she was dead inside it. Hope was lost.
The Master left her on the rock with a kiss, her guardian and friend for so many years. From above the owl watched as wind tickled at feathers she once possessed, feelings she once felt, and hope she once believed in. Her soul lingered for a while over the body she once called home, now filled with nothing.
Just then, as she floated above a world she was destined to leave, a blue light drifted toward her through the air with no direction. It was a strangely enticing blue light that drew her in, all the while still above the lonely body she once owned. She watched it curiously, danced around it until the light no longer danced back. Staring longingly at it, the owl was no longer able to avoid its beauty. The two collided.
Alone in the woods, a new life was born to a human girl, left lying on a rock where a friend once left her. Opening her eyes, the world seemed foreign, and quickly, the past she once knew faded away. Slowly sitting up in a body so suddenly natural to her, she noticed that around her lay a bed of brown and white feathers. Her soft, human skin was in strange contrast to these feathers she felt she knew, but something inside her forgot how.
“Who am I?” she asked out loud. The words sounded foreign on her tongue, but words she knew and understood nonetheless. The world whispered back, but it was too quiet to hear.
“Who am I?” she asked again, gently plucking a feather from the rock and inspecting it, pulling her knees to her chest against a chill.
The world whispered back on another gust of wind, but still she did not understand. Twisting the feather in her hand, a strange sensation overwhelmed her. “Stella,” she whispered, but she didn’t know why. In a second her body had changed, owl wings flanking her side. She did not understand how or why she had so quickly changed, but again it did not surprise her. A part of her felt this was what she’d wanted all along. Testing her theory, she once imagined the soft skin of before, and before she knew it, she again found herself sitting on the rock with human hands that were full of lose feathers.
A Natural Shifter had been born to a life already used...
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About The Author
Abra Ebner lives in Washington State with her husband and two cats. She loves to golf, read, cook, write, and dream. She graduated from Washington State University with a degree in Graphic Arts, as well as studying abroad at the Queensland College of Art.
Aside from writing, she says there is nothing that gives her as much joy, other than love and memories. Every day we live our own story. Never forget that.
Visit her blog at:
www.AbraEbner.Blogspot.com
Visit her websites at:
www.KnightAngels.com
www.FeatherBookSeries.com
www.ParallelTheBook.com
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P R E V I E W
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PARALLEL
The Secret Life of Jordan McKay
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Letter
Found in the Personal
Effects of Patient #32185
Vincent Memorial Hospital, Boston
July 12, 2009
My name is Jordan Mckay, and if you’ve found this, then you have seen the consequences of what led me to my death. There may be things about me that you will find strange, but if you could understand the life I’ve lived, then you will know more about the nature of my makeup. I am different from everyone; special, unique. I am what I have come to understand is called a Shifter.
Within the boundaries of our life from birth to death, we can travel from one age to the next, leaving a foggy line between our present, past, and future. Here we are able to see how events can change the world, or at the very least, change just one life. If we can manifest a thought hard enough, then we can go there. This is the key to our talent.
I am not completely certain how many of us there are, or why we were created, or even where we came from. I can only guess that it’s a glitch in human kind and a chance at playing God. In this world, we learn to fend for ourselves and fight for our basic need for selfish gain. For me, my gain was the love of a woman. A selfless act in my eyes only, but now as I grow to learn what it’s done to her, I can see that it was all a mistake that I can no longer take back.
Either way, I have seen that there is a pattern for disaster in this world, and a fear so dark it could swallow the night. I have learned now that you cannot hope to erase all the wrong, only replace it with another. After all, you cannot change your luck; you can only try to change the events that caused the misfortune in the first place.
Manipulation of time is a powerful tool but something I fear is deadly if not completely understood. I hope to reach out to those like me, to save them as I have failed to do for myself, and to tell them that no matter what you do, you cannot hope to make things better. My personal belongings will tell the story…
Jordan McKay
Statement from Dr. Ashcroft, Vincent Memorial Hospital, Boston
August 3, 2009
11:56 p.m.
Agent Donnery:
When did you meet him?
Dr. Ashcroft:
I met him at twenty-five.
Agent Donnery:
But it say’s here that you knew each other since you were six? How is that?
Dr. Ashcroft:
I met him a couple times throughout time, but if you understood what Jordan can do, then you would understand what I mean when I say that we met for the first time when I was twenty-five, and he was twenty-seven. At least according to his driver’s license.
Agent Donnery:
What do you mean, according to his license?
Dr. Ashcroft:
Think of Jordan’s life as a timeline, only his timeline has been chopped up and rearranged in an order that does not fit science. He could leap around from one place to the next, each place revealing something that has changed, each a parallel life of the one you were just in. When I met him at twenty-five he may have been in the body of his twenty-seven year old self, but his mind had just been six. It’s a terrifying thing to have happen to you when you think of it.
Agent Donnery:
I see. So what happened? How and why do you believe, or I suppose know, all this is true? (laughter) It just seems far-fetched is all. I’d like to hear your side of it.
Dr. Ashcroft:
It’s hard to believe, I know, but considering the fact that you’re from a branch of the C.I.A. that is set up in order to research just such happenings, I believe that there is more out there than I can even try to understand, and that you actually do, or can, believe me.
Agent Donnery:
I can see your angle. It is true that the somewhat fictional nature of what happened here is not too uncommon. Our world has been polluted with so many chemicals and synthetic agents that you would not believe the things I’ve seen, the things you never thought possible, but of course, you’ll never know of them either.
Dr. Ashcroft:
(laughter) Except this.
Agent Donnery:
True, but I also expect your explicit secrecy on the subject.
Dr. Ashcroft:
I’m a doctor, Agent. I’m good with confidentiality.
Agent Donnery:
Then we understand, so please, tell me about Jordan McKay.
Dr. Ashcroft:
(pause) It’s difficult for me to accept, even still, but my life was stolen from me. If I had known all along about what was happening, I suppose I would have tried to stop it, though it would have been hard. I have been lied to, led down a path that I no longer see as my own but I am now
forced to live. When I was a little girl I used to think I was lucky, that all the great things in my life were God’s choice for me, but now I see that God had nothing to do with it.
Agent Donnery:
So you believe that you were at the mercy of Jordan instead?
Dr. Ashcroft:
Yes, he made the decisions, took over God’s roll, so to speak, but I only saw it as my reality. I did not know I was like a modern day puppet. (pause) There is nothing left of my real destiny but the stories of a man describing a life I thought was no more than a faint memory, imprinted on my mind like a dream.
When I think back, I can remember it all but it hurts too much to imagine. As I sit here I still can’t believe that I fell for it, that I took the easier path that ended with a life that was false.
In the end, I suppose all I can do is live with the cards I have been dealt. I’m in love with my fate, the fate that took me on this parallel path into a place I was never meant to be. I only hope that grace can still find me here, and that I will be forgiven. After all, if God was no part of it, then I guess love is the devil’s creation.
Agent Donnery:
I see, so you loved him too?
Dr. Ashcroft:
Yes, I suppose that no matter what, I would have always found myself drawn to him. It was fate after all.
Agent Donnery:
Will you tell us how it happened?
Dr. Ashcroft:
I can try.
Agent Donnery:
(pause) Here, these are the journals you requested, that we found in the office, splayed across the floor.
Dr. Ashcroft:
(pause) Thanks, I (pause) I’m sorry it’s just that that the last time I held these, everything changed and my whole world came crashing down.
Agent Donnery:
I understand. (pause) We’ve gone through it and tried to make sense of it all, but unfortunately it jumps around and it seems things may be missing, or are out of order. Many of the dates are very old.
Dr Ashcroft:
(laughter) Agent Donnery, I’m certain it isn’t out of order, that’s what you need to understand. See here, each page is numbered in order from beginning to end. You cannot go by date because his world never worked that way. (pause) Here, let me begin telling you what I know, what he knows...
Formulated from the journals
of Patient #32185
May 21, 2009
9:34 p.m.
I was ripped from the park bench where I sat eating the melting popsicle and dreaming about my life, now thrown through a dark tunnel, landing with a sudden crack on the seat of a bus. I grabbed my head in agony, the blood pounding through my swollen veins, making me lightheaded.
A woman in a pink nurse’s uniform ran toward me. “Sir, are you okay?”
Her concerned green eyes blinked rapidly, and her figure blurred as I tried to focus on her face.
“Sir?”
She referred to me as sir, but I was only six, or so I had thought. The pain in my head subsided and I sat up, looking at my hands. At first I was confused by the size of them and the aged appearance of my skin, but upon closer inspection, I found they were still my hands, as the scar I had gotten when I was four lingered on my palm but was faded as though healed over time.
“Sir?” she asked again, her voice reverberating loudly in my aching head. I quickly put my hands into the pockets of my jeans to hide them, also shocked by the size of my legs as they protruded from the seat.
What was going on? I looked at her as I finally nodded, swallowing to ease spit down my dry throat as I looked around the bus, unable to handle her stare for too long.
Was I dreaming? I had to be dreaming. I pinched my leg through the pocket of my pants but it didn’t work. I then thought about the fact that if I were dreaming, I wouldn’t be wondering if I was because in dreams you typically aren’t as conscious as I felt now. As far as I could tell, I was wide awake.
As my eyes darted around the bus, I noticed that the nurse and I were the only ones on board. I could see the driver eyeing me from the front seat through his large rearview mirror, judging me in a way that reminded me of the mean teachers at pre-school. Looking away, nerves overcame me and I grabbed my head as it throbbed like a swelling bruise. The driver cleared his throat and shifted in his seat, and I knew I was making him uncomfortable.
“He’s alright!” the lady yelled to him, also noticing his discomfort.
The driver looked relieved as she said this, and he nodded, focusing his gaze on the road ahead.
I rubbed my eyes with my giant hands, feeling as though my brain had somehow expanded in the split second since I had leapt from the park bench to here and I feared it might leak through my ears. It seemed that all I had once known had tripled in size as though someone had plugged a microchip into the back of my head, filling it with years of information and knowledge.
“Sir? What is your name?”
I looked back into the woman’s green eyes, finding them piercing and beautiful as a feeling I had never felt before rushed over me like a hot wave of water. I shrugged, finding myself at a loss for words, my memory too scrambled to speak. I had no recollection of how I got here, no clue as to where I had been.
“May I?”
The woman motioned to search my pockets and I nodded, feeling like a scared little boy. She felt in the lapel of my coat for something, finding whatever it was and pulling it back toward her. I was wearing a green coat that I recognized as my father’s, except I now filled it out like I never had before, my body like that of a grown man. My brow began to sweat below the black baseball hat on my head, so I pulled it off, resting it in my lap as I pressed my sweaty curls back, my hair an unacceptable length and a far cry from the maintained crew cut my father had forced me to wear.
A wallet now lay in her grasp and she flicked it open, fishing inside with her dainty fingers, her fuchsia nail polish chipped around the edges. I watched her as she scanned through the compartments, my gaze turning to her face where I noticed a scar. It spread from the right side of her nose back to her ear, leaving a large discolored patch of skin that had tried to mend itself over time, as though a burn from her childhood. Her hair was a deep auburn that was pulled back in a messy ponytail and fastened with a pink rubber band. A few thick strands fell on the right side of her eyes, shielding what it could of the scar, though the attempt was useless.
“Is this you?” She pushed the wallet toward me and I tried to focus on the tiny image as I looked down at the card behind the clear plastic cover. There was a dusty driver’s license squeezed into the slot and I touched it with my dirty finger, finding the dates and photo all wrong as I furrowed my brow, my stomach now nauseated. I swallowed hard, reading the name and recognizing it as my own; Jordan McKay, blue eyes, brown hair.
I opened my mouth and narrowed my eyes.
“Er…yes.”
I swallowed, frightened by the deep tone of my own voice as I brought my giant hand to my throat, shocked by the Adam’s apple that now protruded from the front like a broken bone.
“But…” I brought my hand back to the image and tapped my finger against the plastic, looking at her.
Her green eyes scanned my face.
“It looks like you,” she assured.
I nodded, taking her word for it.
She sat down beside me and looked about the bus with frantic eyes. She seemed to be trying to formulate some sort of plan for me, her lips parted as a gentle breath escaped into the air. She looked down at the wallet one last time, her mouth forming words as her eyes traced the blurred letters of the driver’s license and address. She perked up then, causing me to shy away out of sudden fear.
“Driver, next stop please!” She looked out the dusty windows that reflected the neon lights inside, searching for some sign of where we were on the route. I couldn’t stop watching her and I wondered what was wrong with me, and why I still felt the same strange wave of warmth crash over me, again and again. Anothe
r sudden sharp pain racked my body but this time in my stomach, and I winced, grabbing my side.
“Oh!” The woman touched my arm and my mind forgot about the burning in my side and instead focused on her warm hand. “Are you alright?”
I nodded and gave her a shaky smile, forcing down the pain. She focused back on the bus, looking out the windows. I watched her blink as I continued to shut out the pain and swallow the sick taste in my mouth.
My grandmother had often taken me on bus rides, so I was used to the ride and motion, though my large body was hard to keep still. I looked back down at my hands and legs, wondering what had happened to the time between ages six and now. I must be dreaming but it felt real, as though that time had been stolen from me, like what I imagined would happen if I had been in a coma. I wiped a bead of sweat from my brow, my hand scratching across the stubble that grew on my face. I felt my chin, amazed by the feeling of it as it scrubbed my fingers, reveling in the fact I was man enough to grow a full beard.
