Praise for I Am the Storm
Author Jean Larch (Dying to be Free, Hazelden 2006) wrote the following about I Am the Storm:
“We can all use more (good) entertainment and adventure in our lives; similar to The Hunger Games and promising of equal success. Halaas’s tales of the future are brilliantly engaging and offers a trilogy to look forward to! A real page turner for readers everywhere!”
Megan Bajorek, contributing blogger for Love What Matters shared the following about I Am the Storm:
“The writer takes time to sew in tiny intricacies that give her readers a ton of light bulb moments. A metaphysical mystery with biblical references, set in a post-apocalyptic world, this story is The DaVinci Code meets The Hunger Games meets something all on its fascinating own. Be ready for adventure.”
I Am the Storm
Trisha Lynn Halaas
Junkyard Dog
I Am the Storm
Copyright © 2020 by Trisha Lynn Halaas
All rights reserved.
Visit my website: www.trishalynnhalaas.com
Published by Junkyard Dog LLC.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. References to brands, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. All characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
ISBN 978-1-7352036-0-7
eBook ISBN 978-1-7352036-1-4
For Shane
Contents
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
Acknowledgments
About the Author
1
I sprint all the way to the edge of the cliff, one breath from air born, and scream, “Is this real?!” until no words can form and only a garbled growl remains. I stand there in silence. Everything is frozen. The air stands still. I listen. Nothing.
I turn. Defeated. Falling to my knees, sobbing, I don’t see or hear the small, white swallow flutter overhead.
Hours later, I lift my eyelids and survey the scene in front of me. It hasn’t changed. The blood remains. He’s still dead. I’m still alone.
Picking myself up, I amble drunkenly to his body. I kneel down and close his beautiful, once vibrant, honey-green eyes. Eyes that reflected a hidden pond speckled with the golden remnants of a fading sunset. Falling over him, crying, I weep and weep, sobbing for hours more. I can’t accept this. It isn’t real.
Night creeps on in its obstinate nature. I fall into a deep sleep next to him in the cold alcove. The water smashes onto the rocks below. During my dreamless sleep, that same swallow lands gently on the rock near my head, emanating a nearly imperceptible coo before fluttering away.
At sunlight, I wake bearing grave acceptance that he’s gone. A black veil cloaks me in darkness yet makes everything clear. The picture has gone black and white. The brilliant and vibrant Technicolor of Oz fades to dull, lifeless slates of grey. Everything is flat. Everything is silent.
I hate silence. I detest it. Yet now, it’s more than fitting. It’s punishment. Silence has always been louder to me than noise. It makes it impossible to hear them. There aren’t even the sounds of nature. It’s as if God hit mute. I can’t hear anyone inside my mind. The barrier is impenetrable. I’ve been deserted. I attempt to lift my head from his chest, but I’m completely depleted. Nothing left. Flat-lined. A deep black puddle of despair.
Cerebral movement. Someone new. Someone with strength. I foolishly expect it to be my brother, but I don’t recognize this one. I would know my brother. I’m fearful because my connection to him has been physically severed. I can feel it. The light cut out. The line went dead, just like him. This presence doesn’t feel deceased.
My unknown company takes over. Picking myself up with steely grace, I move over my brother. I clinically wrap him in the linen sheet I have with me. It’s the only thing big enough. I remember the tomb. I realize that’s where he should rest; that’s the place. I can visit whenever I want. It’s meant to be, and I know it.
I hike down to the water through the steep rocks that descend to the beach. It’s quite a trek, but I don’t notice. Finally stepping on the pink sand, I spot a large piece of driftwood near the shore—just large enough.
Balancing the wood on my back, I climb the way back up. Struggling and slipping on several rocks, I make it back in a trancelike state. I tie him down, securing him so many times he’s tethered head to foot. I then attach my weighty sling-back bag with him. Again, I balance the board on my back, this time with an insurmountable weight.
He’s a big guy—a really big guy—6’3” and all muscle. I take many tries to stand up. Dangerously teetering for quite a few feet, I fall to my knees, yet again. No matter how hard I try, it’s hopeless for me to carry him as far as I need to carry him.
I lay him back down on the ground in silent resolution. I’m going to do this. I get up with renewed strength and balance him on my shoulders. Still unsteady, I sigh deeply. One last pull and my mysterious guest returns. Growing more familiar, I begin to trust. I still hear no voices, but the presence is calm and controlled. I let go and sit in the corner of my mind’s bleak and cold darkness, letting my visitor carry us along.
Somehow, I make it to the tomb. It appears as I left it.
I set Shane down, plopping next to him in the dirt. My Greek warrior tie-up sandals have worn to nothing during the journey. My feet are ripped and bleeding. I don’t even feel it.
I need to open the tomb. A boulder seals the entrance. I have nothing.
I untie my bag from the wood, unzip it, and look inside. Nothing doing, only my silly belongings. Some clothing, okay—a lot of clothing, sunglasses, wallet, cigarettes, a kist key, makeup, a barrette, my Slab, shoes, some high heels—all of it useless. With a deep sigh, I sit on the ground. I’m so desperate to get my brother to his final resting place.
I grab one of my silly shoes. The shoes I just ‘love’ so much. I look at the impractical heel with its ‘cool’ snake wrapped around it. Its eyes—hammered metal slits—gleam in the sunlight. Great. I’ve got a pair of ridiculous stilettos. What am I gonna do? Put on a fashion show? Balance on a runway made of rock. Why did I even pack these?
Closing my eyes, I cry and shriek holding the shoe. My screams bounce off the rock, desperate and palpable in my ears.
Suddenly, the shoe feels different. I open my eyes suspiciously. The snake has slithered. I look down horrified. I’m actually deathl
y afraid of them. The snake wraps itself tighter around the heel. The shoe spins, faster and faster, a blur of merging materials. It halts—leaving only a giant hammered nail where was once the heel. I pick up the other shoe.
The same thing happens.
I stand there holding two metal nails. They have grown in size. From the tips of my fingers nearly to my elbow. They are ancient and rusted. Heavy. Dried blood appears in the trail of the snake.
Shaking, I turn toward the entrance, spotting a crude indentation near the top and another near the bottom. The nails pull to the indentations as if by magnet force. I shove them in, first the top and then the bottom.
Nothing happens.
Tired, abandoned, and empty of any presence, I slide to the ground, my back on the rock. I have no tears to give. I look at my brother—my baby brother. I remember tiny glimpses, precious moments from here and there. A collage of images, sounds, and scents.
The baby blanket you came home in, thin and speckled with tiny baby blue footprints, you practicing your antique guitar, opening chords of “Smoke on the Water” on repeat. A whiff of wintergreen Copenhagen long-cut tobacco. Your fishing pole. Your sweaty hockey equipment with remnants of humid locker room. The scent of Ralph Lauren Polo Blue cologne. The safe warmth of your solid chest against my cheek when you had to give me bad news. Your unwelcome laugh after purposely scaring the bejeezus out of me, until I would join in savoring the sound of our giggles. A taste of old-world movie theater popcorn with butter and white cheddar powder. A flash of you falling asleep in that same theater, me following suit to the lull of your deep breathing in leather recliners a bit too comfortable. Your voice singing “Slide” along with the Red Hot Chili Peppers in your red ancient Ford Mustang. Our favorite movie quotes. Our laughs. Your laugh.
I turn my face to Heaven and shout, “I miss you. I miss you so much, Shane. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I love you.”
I feel the earth quiver, then shake forcefully. The stone begins to recede from my back. The nails begin to thrust into the solid crevices as if driven by a massive invisible power drill. Slowly it creeps, widening its slice of blackness.
I let out a shaky breath and peer inside. It’s just as I left it. Empty and cold but the sense of peace lingers. It’s welcoming after the harrowing journey.
I go into the cave alone. The chill remains. I sink to the ground to rest for a minute against the cold rock facing the opening. I can see his silhouette from where I sit. I want to cry. I feel the dawn of realization try to break through the resolute black veil that has descended. It’s pointless. The veil is sealed. The cold resolve stays. I stand up and go to him. Pulling him inside the tomb, I rest him squarely in the middle.
I walk outside the tomb and stand near the cliff’s edge. On the side of the ledge, I see wildflowers growing. Among them, there is a lone tiger lily. I pluck it and bring it back to the cave.
I pull down the fabric that covers him and lay the flower on his chest. I say a prayer to Heaven.
Please hold him and keep him safe for me.
“I didn’t try hard enough, God. I’m sorry.”
One final tear drips from my eye onto the speckled orange petal gently trailing through the flower and landing on his chest. I kiss his cheek and replace the cloth. Saying one final prayer and apology, I turn to leave.
One last look at my beautiful baby brother, I step out into the sunlight. The nails lie indifferently on the ground near the opening.
During my previous visit to this place the door opened and closed on its own. I’m not sure how to use the nails to do it. I pick one off the ground and then the other. The second my hands clutch both, the gigantic stone rumbles steadily closed. A slow crawl closes the gap.
The nails begin to spin in my fingers but don’t take on their previous form. The snakes slither into flexible hammered, metal-like snake straps. They do not look unlike my weathered sandals, much sturdier though. I put them on and begin the long journey ‘home’—wherever that is.
What I couldn’t see was the rock glowing briefly in its final shove.
2
On my own again, I trudge downhill. Silence remains. My new company—long gone. My line to my brother—still severed. I fear it may be permanent. This must be my punishment. I tried. And failed. I worked so hard to get there in time. I just didn’t make it. I should have tried harder. It was out of my control. Yet, the entire situation was my fault.
The silence continues incessantly; I worry it’ll be eternal. I’ve become used to the voices in my head. Jarring at first, they bring me great comfort and strength now. I don’t understand it. I have no idea how it works, but suddenly I don’t mind arguing with them so much.
Now, this muteness is unsettling. Especially since there is no word from Shane.
I felt it the instant he died. The line had been cut. It had been a line of light and strength. A strong invisible light stretching between us since before birth. If he got hurt, I felt it in my own body, and vice versa. It didn’t matter how much distance stretched between us. Now it’s gone, and I remain a floating, empty vessel.
At some point, I begin to see the start of a small town. It doesn’t seem fitted with Artificial Intelligence. I assume it’s the Unconnected Shire.
Thank God. Anything to make it harder for him to find me. He took my brother away from me; you’d think his job would be done, but I know better. Plus, he and I have unfinished business. For now, it seems the black veil protects me from his radar. That’s a blessing; I need to grieve and strategize.
On the left, I spot a tall steeple-shaped bed and breakfast, a perfect place to hole up for a couple days. I need a shower desperately and some food; although, I have absolutely no appetite. Carrying only my bag, I step into the air-conditioned room. A strong scent of fresh lilacs fills my nose, although none are physically present. A flash of bright green akin to a lush grassy field.
An older woman, about seventy-five, looks up at me behind wire-rimmed glasses. This confirms Crystal Shire inhabitants dwell in this town, no eye-enhancements. Her thick, most likely once blonde, now white hair topples from the crown of her head in a messy waterfall of curls. She’s reading a paper book; I sigh a breath of relief, unquestionably Crystal.
“Hey honey,” she says with a tone of concern, setting down her book.
I realize at this point how I must look. Glancing down, I see the remnants of my clothing splattered in blood. My long blonde hair is snarled and tangled around my head resembling a platinum lion’s mane, only more unruly. I’m dirty. My skirt and top are ripped in many places. I can feel the layer of dirt and grime smeared on my face. Only my shoes appear untouched. Whatever that means.
Crossing my arms over my chest, with my weighty bag slung over my shoulder, I manage, “Hi, yes. I’m wondering if you have any vacancy.”
She’s already across the room before I finish my sentence.
“Of course, I do, sweetie. Let’s get you settled in. Actually, you’ll be my first and only guest in some time. I’m Regina. It’s nice to meet you…”
“Lyvia,” I supply.
She pulls an eggplant purple afghan out of nowhere and slings it around my shoulders. She walks me up the cramped, spiraling staircase.
“I’m putting you in our penthouse suite,” she says with a wink. “That’s what my husband always called it. It’s our biggest room and on the top floor technically, so you know. It has a separate living area and a giant bathtub. I’m sure you’ll be comfortable.”
“Oh, you don’t have to do all that. I don’t need much…”
“Oh nonsense, it’s just me and you here; we should make use of the amenities,” she says with a conspiratorial giggle.
With that, she opens the door to an impossibly large lavish, yet cozy, living area. A giant white couch resembling a cloud swells in front of me. Other white pieces scatter around the room. The walls reach so very high, stretching to a cathedral ceiling yielding its original wood. Steeple windows display a sky decorated with
bloated white puffs, not unlike the couch.
The walls are fitted to the ceiling with bookshelves. Thousands of ancient paper books balance precariously on aged stubborn shelves. Each is crammed with covers well-worn, yet in great shape. I’m instantly curious about those books. A large mahogany desk takes refuge facing the sole floor-to-ceiling window. One lone book waits patiently on its surface. A door to the right of the desk opens to a large balcony.
An old flat screen TV is fastened to the wall. I even spot a remote control. Welcome to Crystal Shire. To the right, there’s a bedroom fitted with a giant bed. Resting on top of it, a down-filled comforter, also a billow of fluff. Two nightstands frame the bed; one holding a rotary dial telephone, the other a brand-new spiral notebook and pen. These items are unfeasibly old and impossible to find. I should know, as a collector of such things. Seriously, where am I?
Paintings hang all around the room. Not in any systematic way, more as a patchwork quilt with each frame a different size; some big, most a bit smaller, still many very tiny. They stretch up the massive walls to the ceiling.
There is no theme; some pictures are dark and gory, others whimsical and harmonious. Some beautiful landscapes, others gloomy and sinister forests. There are many portraits. Faces, none of which I recognize, though, a few stares look eerily familiar.
I Am the Storm Page 1
