by Nesly Clerge
THE FIRST CONCEPTION
Rise of Eris
(The Conception Series Book 1)
BY
NESLY CLERGE
“The First Conception”
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved
Copyright © 2018 by Nesly Clerge
(Print) ISBN: 978-0-9993235-2-6
(Electronic) ISBN: 978-0-9993235-1-9
Publisher: Clerge Books, LLC
Editor: Joyce L. Shafer (http://editmybookandmore.weebly.com)
Cover: Damonza.com
Formatting: Ebooklaunch.com
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 permission of the author or publisher.
ALSO BY NESLY CLERGE
When the Serpent Bites
(Book 1 of The Starks Trilogy
Readers’ Favorite 2017 International Book Awards Gold Medal Award)
When the Dragon Roars
(Book 2 of The Starks Trilogy
Readers’ Favorite 2017 International Book Awards
Silver Medal Award)
When the Phoenix Rises
(Book 3 of The Starks Trilogy)
End of the World: The Beginning
(Book 1 of a Serial - Amazon #1 Bestseller)
The Anatomy of Cheating
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My sincere thanks to my editor, Joyce L. Shafer, for continuing to believe in and supporting my storytelling abilities, as you did from the start. Thank you for helping me get to the finish line for each novel adventure.
Tierra Guy, not only are you my significant other, you also provide straightforward critiques amplified by encouragement and enthusiasm. My efforts and accomplishments are enriched by your presence in my life and contributions to my writing efforts.
Kay Smillie, you’ve been with me from the beginning of my writing endeavors, and are always the first person I look to for comments about and reviews of my published novels. Your feedback and diligence are invaluable; your support of my efforts are far more than significant to me. I count my blessings that you’re my #1 fan.
I owe a debt of gratitude to my Goodreads reviewers and fans, whose comments assist me in more ways than I can list here: Diane Lybbert, Lynn McCarthy, Kimberlie Lashley, Julie Green, Tamara Lewis, Brenda Telford, Patricia Brooks, Shannon Fairley, Maxine Groves, Dee Cherry, Irene Appleby, Anthony Richard Parsons, Dianne Bylo, K Morton, Lorraine Sithole, Torrie Angel, Tracy Watson Fisher, Laura Cerone, Russell Dent, Linda Strong, Veronica Joy, Nicki, Lesley Marino, Sue Ward, Kostas Kinas, Sue Leonhardt, Roberson Lapierre, and Hensie Lapierre.
Shayla Eaton, because of your exceptional marketing skills, you make things happen. Thank you!
I also have profound gratitude for the input of these esteemed authors: Rebecca Mcnutt and C. P. Bialois.
Table of Contents
ALSO BY NESLY CLERGE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
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
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
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
CHAPTER 69
CHAPTER 70
CHAPTER 71
CHAPTER 72
CHAPTER 73
CHAPTER 74
CHAPTER 75
CHAPTER 76
CHAPTER 77
CHAPTER 78
CHAPTER 79
CHAPTER 80
CHAPTER 81
CHAPTER 82
CHAPTER 83
CHAPTER 84
CHAPTER 85
CHAPTER 86
CHAPTER 87
CHAPTER 88
CHAPTER 89
CHAPTER 90
CHAPTER 91
CHAPTER 92
CHAPTER 93
CHAPTER 94
CHAPTER 95
CHAPTER 96
CHAPTER 97
CHAPTER 98
CHAPTER 99
CHAPTER 100
CHAPTER 101
CHAPTER 102
CHAPTER 103
CHAPTER 104
CHAPTER 105
CHAPTER 106
CHAPTER 107
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PROLOGUE
Viewers around the world ceased whatever they were doing as BREAKING NEWS flashed on the screen of every TV and electronic device. The year—2015. The time—5:21 p.m. on the West Coast of the United States.
Recognized by most, a woman with spiked magenta hair, ivory complexion, and brimming turquoise eyes stared into the camera.
“Good evening, viewers. I’m Sasha Aspen, with a Global Media breaking-news announcement. Make that a heartbreaking announcement.
“We’ve just received word that Amber Lake, our miracle woman, the only woman on our planet to conceive in the last five years, has suffered a miscarriage.
“As you know, some of the brightest minds have been unable to determine what initially caused this—there’s no other way to say it, conception catastrophe—or why even in vitro fertilization, our last hope, continues to fail.”
Tears spilled onto her cheeks. “It’s been four years since the last child was born anywhere. If this does not change soon, our human race faces inevitable extinction.”
She gave her head a hard shake, flashed gleaming white teeth in a broad smile and said, “We now return you to your program. This is Sasha Aspen, wishing you a better tomorrow.”
The inevitable extinction of the human race.
I’m here to tell you it’s something more. Much more. How did we get to this point, you may ask? It’s best if we start from the beginning.
Who I am is Katherine Eris Barnes. My name means nothing to you now. But it will.
Sometime around mid-July, 1977, my fathe
r did what was required to cause his sperm to infiltrate my mother’s egg, creating that first spark of the zygote that resulted in my not-so-immaculate conception, and me, who made my entrance into the world mid-April, 1978.
Several years later my father made the career choice to become a drug addict. Then an inmate. I was seven at the time. Mom demonstrated strength for about five minutes and divorced him when I was eight. We never heard from or about him again. Nor did we inquire—we, being my mother, Sally, and myself.
His absence was a relief but proved to be only a temporary reprieve.
Knowing my mother’s behavior patterns, I seriously doubt their union ever had anything to do with love, despite the frequency with which he climbed on top of her. I used to bury my head under the bedcovers and read aloud to myself from one of the many books about molecular biology, genetics, or geometry, borrowed from the school library. I stumbled over some of the larger words, fingers plugged in my ears, to avoid hearing his grunts as he did the old push-and-pull. Nor did I want to hear her sounds in response.
The first time I heard this barnyard event was in our rat-trap apartment in the Cabrini-Green housing projects located in the Near North Side of Chicago, referred to by locals simply as C-G. Hearing these strange sounds, I climbed out of bed and went sleepily to their open door. Revolted at what I saw, I returned to bed and barely spoke to either of them for days. When I finally admitted what was bothering me, my mother shrugged. My father said I should get used to it, and the idea of it. That one day I’d find out how much I enjoyed it.
As with nearly everything else, he was wrong.
It was later that I learned how generous a man he was. That he didn’t limit sharing his joy-juice, as he called it, with just my mother. Not long after he retired from a life of idleness to a cell in the Joliet prison, I discovered that a woman didn’t have to be married to a man for him to crawl on top of her. Or beat her.
My mother always could pick them. There were times when I wondered if she drove up to the nearest mental ward and yelled out the window, “Got any new ones in?”
That apartment no longer exists, thankfully. The building was razed in 2011. A far easier task to cleanse that property than my life. Or my memories. I still chuckle when I recall that in 1981, the then-mayor moved into C-G to prove it was a safe place to live. She lasted three weeks. My parents lacked her option to relocate.
As a child, I approved of my first name, resented my middle name, pondered how we arrived at our surname. It’s anyone’s guess why my African-American mother gave me two Greek names in front of the Old English surname that, as far as I could learn, came from an old Norse word that means warrior. I never once saw her read any of the classics, or any printed word on a page other than the phone book, much less demonstrate any knowledge or interest in Greek gods or goddesses. She didn’t even like Greek food, not that she ever tried it.
However, it would be years before I appreciated the appropriateness of all three names. They became my secret inspiration.
As to why my African-American father allowed those first two names, I don’t think he gave a damn. I wasn’t much more to him than the product of a good time had by him. For all I know, he has a number of such products running around, though I doubt any of them turned out as well as I did.
Katherine means pure, in case you were unaware of this. That’s nice and all, except it didn’t take long for me to discover that neither my mother nor others in my early years, or later, for that fact, had any intention or inclination to keep me that way.
As for Eris, I initially resented being named after the Greek goddess of strife and discord. Right up until the moment when I realized it was appropriate after all.
Homer wrote this about Eris, “Strife, whose wrath is relentless … she who is only a little thing at the first, but thereafter grows until she strides on the earth with her head striking heaven. She then hurled down bitterness equally between both sides as she walked through the onslaught making men’s pain heavier.”
Homer knew what he was talking about. In part. My wrath is relentless. And I do intend to make men’s pain heavier in a way they can’t fathom. But I never measured up to the original goddess as far as size went. I was small as a young girl and, though round in the places where women usually are, remain petite now that I’m older. A distinct and dangerous disadvantage. At least, in my reality.
At some point in life, most of us wonder about the nature of reality. Quantum physics tells us there is no such thing. That peering at the smallest particle under the largest microscope reveals there’s nothing there. But there is something there. We see, hear, taste, smell, and touch what we call reality. Initially, what I read about this topic led me to believe reality is all in the mind.
With one exception: that theory or concept is extraordinarily difficult to accept when you’re being abused.
Plato said that in the universe, “things are taken care of far better than you could possibly believe.” All you have to do is look around at the confusion, the chaos, and the hideous acts people perpetrate on one another to realize that his statement is a load of nonsense. And if you’re willing to be honest, most of the discord is perpetrated by men.
Until now.
Now, I’m on the scene.
Some might say I sound like a woman scorned. Believe me—it’s way beyond that flimsy, often-used expression. Men have long dominated women, possessed and oppressed them. Have taken advantage of them in ways some don’t risk imagining.
Some of us don’t have to imagine.
Like me.
Reasons given for this inequality included that women are mentally and physically inferior, therefore, need a strong man to look after them. They should see what kind of strength is required to carry a child, to relinquish their bodies for nearly a year, while they grow another human inside of them. Let’s see how they’d manage that while maintaining the beliefs about themselves they hold so dear. What woman hasn’t wished this on a man at least once in her life?
Warriors? Ha! They love war because it boosts their egos and their assets.
Providers? Like the manner in which my sperm-donor father and subsequent men provided for my mother and me? No thanks.
Adept thinkers and hunters? Certainly. Especially when what they’re thinking about is how to hunt a defenseless woman.
Or a defenseless child.
If these are the qualifications required to rule the world, well, it explains why the world is the way it is.
Long ago, adding insult to injury, men posed as religious leaders and doubly enforced this belief system. Raised themselves up, subjugated women. Forced everyone to believe or accept their superiority until it was assumed a “fact” of life.
Time for this erroneous posturing to disappear into antiquity. This is the twenty-first century, after all.
I’m no longer a child. Or disillusioned. Women have made strides in some measure, in some locales. Despite our meager advances, only a few countries have had women rulers. We’re allowed positions of power, but only so much. We’re allowed better salaries, but only so much. We’re allowed—some of us—certain freedoms. But only so much.
Frankly, I’ve had it. It’s time to make them pay.
And if I could find him now, I’d start with the man—Mom’s boyfriend number six in two years—who slipped into my darkened room when I was ten.
CHAPTER 1
Tummy-down on my bed, I was desperate for the sun to set so the temperature outside, and in, would lower even a few degrees. The window on the front wall of my room remained stuck shut. No one attempted to fix it, no matter how often I complained.
I’d found a rusty metal geometry compass discarded near a storm drain and took it home. Some would have left it there, while others might have kicked it into the drain. I was thrilled to have this mathematical tool and cleaned it up as best I could.
I twirled the compass in circles and read aloud, “Geometry bridges the One and the Many. A circle is the most perfect f
orm known to man and in nature. All shapes are within it and are derived from it.”
What is that racket?
I marked my place in the book, flung open my door, and marched into the living room that opened into the kitchen. “Mom? What’s going—?”
I said this as the fist of my mom’s latest boyfriend—Buster—made contact with her jaw, sending her sprawling against the crappy, crud-covered kitchen cabinets.
How I wanted to kick him but didn’t dare go near him. “You leave my mom alone! You’re nothing but a gross pig. You should be wallowing in mud somewhere and eating what you defecate.”
He turned and snarled. “Get yo’ smartass self back to yo’ room. ‘Less you want some of this.”
“We don’t want you here.” I pointed at the only door to our apartment, wishing him transported to the other side of the peeling paint and buckling wood.
He looked at my mother. “She right? You want me to go?”
My mother licked her bloodied lips. “No, baby. You know I want you to stay.”
He grabbed her by the wrist and yanked her into him. “Then you need to show yo’ man just how much.”
He sneered at me as he dragged Mom to our ratty sofa and unzipped his pants. “Wanna watch, Little Katie?”
“It’s Katherine. Not Katie.”
“Maybe you oughta let your mama show you how it done then take over for her.”
He pulled IT out. Grabbed my mother by her hair and said, “Little Katie think she so smart. Let’s see how fast she learn the only thing she need to know.”
My mother took hold of IT. “No, baby. This all mine.” Her head swiveled in my direction. With one normal and one swelling eye aimed at me, she said, “Get on back to your room. Leave us be.”
I left him standing in front of her, her holding IT in her hand, while she told him how great he was.
She went quiet.
He moaned.
I glanced back.
Nearly made me puke.
***
Why didn’t my mother come when I yelled for her? What is she doing that’s more important than saving me? Buster’s hand over my mouth makes it hard for me to breathe.
Stop touching me there!
Even in the dark, his eyes and face are scary—it’s like he sees me and he doesn’t.
His beer-breath stinks.
Get off me. You’re too heavy.
