Charlie's Triad

Here is the first chapter in the book, Charlie's Triad. Every other Friday a new chapter will be posted, so follow along!

Chapter One: Charlie Wakes Up

The hatch flips open on the silenced bloped to a deafening sonata of cicadas amongst the overhanging green skyscape. As you step out of the vehicle this chorus makes you feel very small. It sounds like electric rain, a comforting rapture.

After a helluva day you need this crowded space to think things through. After all, it must have been four hours straight of office work, writing and analysis, sketching and translations. Midge in the cubicle next to you must've had a bad night, her cough was like a snoring bear set to constant growl.

Distractions like that can make you feel empty, as if you've lost the plot and forgot to plan the week's groceries or something.

Ah, walking, walking, with the tweeny birds keeping you company between the branches. You look up and glimpse the yellow around their eyeballs and feel like even they know something you don't.

"Believe in yourself," your builder used to tell you. She still does, as you repeat this line and others, frequently, in your mind. She must be with her partner Dan right now, only a few minutes away, settling into the new house. You are glad she met Dan and think that was a long time ago. He likes to listen to 70's rock and roll - Fleetwood Mack, Peter Frampton, Wings. You can dig, it was a different time then. People say it was radical, but the sounds seem pretty mellow to your ears. Like there is something being muffled.

Now you have to look forward - to what, not sure. But only five sleeps until your 17th birthday, the Day of Directions - DDay. And on your DDay you must decide which book to read, Yellow or Blue. That will give you direction forevermore.

The wind wooshes, a cool nudge, and your eyes look up to the treetops. There are so many leaves, so many you are glad you don't have to count them. That wouldn't be a job in either book, you think.

Where is there a Sorter amongst the leaves, you wonder aloud. You really need a Sorter to talk this through with. After all, it is not like you can just talk about things to anyone, talk about what is really going on, or what might go on. People just live and do things, sure they share a lot, but it feels weird that they can't speak about what's in their minds.

Why do you have this uneasy question, do other people think it too? Remember to ask Gemma, she is about as honest a talker as any friend you have. But she is different.

After about ten more minutes of walking on the forest trails, and a few more blurry headed puzzles forming themselves into questions, a Sorter appears, barely visible tucked beside a radiata pine tree.

"Hey," you say, and its eyes meet yours, invoking a chill.

"It feels strange, like the choice you will make is no one else's. While that is new for you, keep in mind you are being watched, which is not new," it says, in fizzy language that instantly warms your head.

"I know, but I do not know if the yellow book, which they say is easy to read, is better for me than the blue book, which I hear is more interpretive."

Not sure if the cicada or the Sorter starts the reply, which you know is final and starting with a tone rising up, up, up, to the advice: "Listen only to what you say, and the direction will be yours."

What is not in our global brain?

While it is common currency that "everything" can be google'd, and - still amazingly - there it is!...would that mean that our "global brain" is developing?

Back on the topic of my dog, the question persisted. When she is very excited, she runs like a tornado, like a cartoon image in my head from somewhere of a bottle, racing, bent slightly so the bottom leans a bit back and the neck cranes a bit forward. With wheels.

Where did this image come from? Being in a cartoon form, I could assume it may be from years ago, when as a very young child cartoons were the medium of informing.

The bottle racer image is nowhere to be found on google. (Without wasting time persisting, obsessing.) So does that mean it does not exist? My memory is faulty? Is it merely a figment of my creative imagination?

That alarms me.

It is 2012 and strong minds still have ownership of what went before. With reliance on the internet's search functions for "everything," will we eventually lose hold of what is real?

Predictions & Predilections

Our thoughts are not only limitless, they are magnified when shared. It truly is amazing how, now, whilst cleaning up the dishes, for example, the thought crosses my mind as Bix the beagle is only too eager to put her face into the dishwasher being loaded: "Bet I could google 'dogs and dishwashers' and someone else will have had the same feeling I am having right now." It is a quiet alone moment that lives a wee bit longer after I start the machine, do google just that and get this: http://blogging.typepad.com/funny_pictures/2006/02/why_run_the_dis.html

So at this moment there is not much I can think or type out that has not been "owned," real estated into shared memory on the web. This is astounding progress, yet still merely a cyber reflection of humanity. "We" may not have improved. Or have we? Will we?

Marching on into the future, we are!

"Sorted"

Sarha had a way with words, usually. But there were the odd instances when she was misunderstood. On Friday she opened her mouth during tea time at her workplace, and instead of saying she was preparing for a 22k run on Sunday, she uttered, "Does anyone have a sports bra to lend me?"

The temperature dropped and so did a tim tam. Eyes were on the goofy stranger who publicly announced her nose is indeed in everyone's underwear drawer.

James, who had given occasion to consider Sarha's underwear drawer at least once before, stole the moment back, and said, "No, but you are welcome to my rugby lycra compression shorts."

Snickers and mutterings filled up the air and Sarha had no place to put a face-saving verbal fix. She smiled and left the room, latte in hand.

Back at her desk she wasn't fluffed. She was anxious to move forward. She googled "sports bras on sale" and decided to dedicate the last few minutes of break to finding an answer to her question. Before the coffee gets cold.

A big event requires some preparation, and her big build requires consideration for optimal performance. Pounding the pavement for two plus hours is a mental feat, but equally physical.

No sooner had Sarha opened a web page purporting to purvey undergarments of girth when slight tickles to her back alerted her a crowd was quietly forming, of several female office mates.

"Oh, I would definitely chose the black one," Reza said, pointing at the sport motif panties on screen. "No, it needs lace to make it worth that price," Gina said pointing to the $49.99 price listing.

"Really click on the 'view more' button, let's see if they have lacy bike shorts, in red," Alice added.

"Hey, please, this is a bit off topic," Sarha said, turning around and looking each woman in the eye.

"She's right, and it's 10:40, time to get back to work."

They didn't move, caught up in a quiet smile, when Sarha whispered, "Okay, let's form a team here. We can have a lady from the new lingerie shop bring some of her garments to my house on Saturday. They do that. We can all have a look at her selection and waft our opinions around then. Happy?"

"I'll bring the red wine," Alice said.

"I'll bring a plate of nibbles," Reza added, as the others chorused in agreeably.

That sorted, each made their way back to their desk, and Sarha clicked the web window shut. Back to work, ready to shift focus, she clicked on her inbox where one message was unopened.

It was from James: "My drawers need an update. I'll bring a pudding."

Having a look around...

This is the start of a new day and the sunshine is beginning to hit all the right spots. Waking up is how the first bit of a writer gets on the horse. Hope keeps it from falling off. Patience for the unfolding must be prepped with big doses of courage and bravado.

What next?