Bliss: Chapter I - The problem with immortality is...

Dive into a metaphysical fantasy with ancient Greek Gods in modern day America. Join them in this dark comedy/horror thriller as they seek to discover the answers to the past.

The problem with immortality is that you can still die, it’s just that when you show up for the big ol’ grand finale without a ticket, like I do, you lose a little piece of yourself on the way back. And when you’ve died as many times as I have.. well let’s just say my memory’s not what it used to be. So who am I? Well, let’s not ruin that surprise just yet.

Our story can begin in Tijuana, a lovely little bordello snuggling Lady Liberty’s snatch. Of course technically the story began long before then but that’d be getting ahead of ourselves. Or is it behind?

Puritans used to call the city Satan’s Playground, which when you think about it had to have been seen as a pretty great sales pitch. A bootlegger’s paradise, Tijuana shone out like a beacon to the world: come one, come all to the City of Sin; and come they did.

It’s been a century since the golden days of prohibition, and yet Tijuana still beckons to the darkest corners of the human heart. That’s always been my problem really, I’m drawn to sin: a fly to honey and this time round it earned me two bullets to the chest with a dip in the deep Pacific blue.

Death isn’t that bad once you get used to the fall, it’s the coming back that hurts far worse. Even so I’d never drowned before, not once. The irony of drowning is that it’s inherently peaceful, ironic because if you’ve ever watched kittens drown, well it doesn’t look very peaceful.

Alright, alright, so no kittens were harmed during the writing of this narration. But speaking from experience, the act of drowning expresses the human condition perfectly. The violence we express as we struggle to breath is that desperation to survive. The pain flooding our nervous system, a klaxon to the wet meat inside our heads as every cell in our body get's starved of oxygen. But when you surrender to that moment, when you finally let the water flood your lungs: that torrent of dark cold liquid soaking up inside you, well all that pain goes away in an instant. For a few brief last moments you get a respite, suspended between two worlds with an equal measure of both hind and foresight.

That's when I saw it. Caught between life and death, the fractured rays of sunlight scattered through the ocean’s waters, a prism of cool light against the skin. Whereupon that final moment on the cutting edge of life’s stage, a creäture of shimmering blue tendrils swam towards me from the depths of the oceanic abyss. Glowing with an ethereal light I made out the face of an old man before succumbing to the darkness of death's sweet embrace.

Our story should have ended there, with my bloated corpse floating away in the North Pacific Current, but the Fates really do have a perverted sense of humour and believe me, I’ve met them.  This right here folks is a bona fide modern-day Greek tragedy, or is it a comedy? It’s hard to keep it all straight in my head sometimes, sadly death ain’t a cure for senility and it leaves you with one b***h of a hangover.

Tijuana’s outskirts catered to the poorest of the poor, small fresco concrete and rusted tin shacks baking under a desert sun. The cool blue water of the ocean the only solace found in the unbearable heat. This particular stretch of sand played host to a scrap-yard of washed up trash. A pack of stray dogs wandered along the damp sands of the shore, puppies chasing each other whilst their mother investigated a washed up cooler in their path, making sure to mark it as they moved on.

The sickly sweet scent of urine and sharp tang of salt in the dank and humid air of an enclosed space brought me back with a start. Gasping desperately for air, putrid water dribbled from my lips as I sat up with a bang, my head smashing against the cooler’s hard lid. I collapsed back into a fetid puddle of water soaking through my clothes, before throwing the lid open with a heavy kick, the muffled caws of gulls outside exploding into a ruckus upon intrusion.

I flinched at the scorching sunlight, my pupils too sensitive to cope. Arms thrown up, my eyes could barely make out the sharp beams of light cutting through the blades of my fingers, each aglow with a rosette hue.

“Well you’ve gone taken ya sweet time coming back,” a Caribbean baritone greeted me, accompanied by the overwhelming smell of burning ganj which was pungent enough to make me rench in my current state.

“Water” my lips croaked out in a hoarse whisper, raw with need, blinding thought and reason.

“Ah’ve done spent da past hundred lifetimes looking fa you and dat’s da best you gotta offa me?”

The tight veins in my arms strained, wrapping tightly around the brown parchment of my wasting flesh as puncture marks tracked their course, a neon road map of vice. Unshaven, gaunt cheeks gave way to blood flecked orbs popping from sunken sockets. Dark locks of damp hair clumped against my shoulders. Half-heaving myself from the wet sarcophagus I hacked a violent cough before collapsing onto the wet, sun-kissed sand headfirst. With a mouth half-full of ash and eyelids snowed in fairy-dust, I finally turned to the voice in question.

I lifted myself up by my arms, shaking cold and nauseous. Not five feet away an old man of rich mahogany, sat with legs crossed. Garbed in a 70’s wish list fashion-line, he was a thin man but for a comfortable pot belly, his diminutive form standing in contrast to the exceedingly large wispy grey afro he boasted, tied back with a ragged strip of cloth.

A wave of the periwinkle smoke greeted me with his infectious smile, a fat spliff drooping between his fingers. Suddenly, a wave of dizziness overcame me, his words echoing as my vision blurred.

“Easy, boyo, I’ve got you.” He was at my side in all but a moment, hands lifting my head gently as my arms gave out. His skin felt like soft worn-down sandpaper and for a moment I thought I recognised that touch, something in the depths of my buried memories stirring.

“Who are you?” my throat scratched through split lips.

“So it’s true den, you’m don’t know who you are?”

Suddenly my body began to shake violently, spasms coursing through my nervous system leading to a full-blown seizure, froth foaming at my mouth. Opioid withdrawal sank its claws into my clammy, sweating flesh.

“What have you gone done to ya-self, sweet boy. Hush now, I’ve got you. Jas take a sip a dis and you’ll be feeling right as rain.”

Something wet moistened my lips, sweet and warm to the taste. I followed that sensation, rode it far from the sun and sand into the darkest of dreams.

At last the world falls silent and the boy floats in an aquatic gloom, hair twisting with the slightest of motion, he stares wide-eyed with wonder into the abyss. Far above lightning grazes the heavens, flash-by-flash illuminating the endless space surrounding him, shards of light probing the water. An eternity passes in this place, the distant heaving roar of storm-ridden waves smashing in upon themselves far above, perpetuating a sense of peace and sanctuary.

Every now and again, bubbles escape the child’s lips until a pod of jellyfish appear from the depths, rising towards him, aglow with a natural radiance of cerulean blues and malachite greens. These denizens of the deep pirouette around the boy, an aureole of will-o-wisp’s dancing in delight, a cadency of melodic hums rippling about their forms.

With every pulse they glow more incandescent, drawing closer together until one by one they coalesce, each distinct in melody and pitch, yet a harmonious chorale of one. From the heart of this new-born star a tendril of light extends slowly, wrapping the boy in its embrace. He looks directly at it, his honey brown eyes sparkling with joy, devoid of any fear, wide with reverence. Thus a face forms within the light, that of an old woman with a warm and virtuous smile.

“Dionysus” a word without sound, but a woman’s voice nevertheless, soft and overburdened with love.

I know what you’re thinking, there goes the suspense, right? Well you’re not wrong. But this isn’t a mystery adventure for Scooby Doo and the gang to solve, we’re dealing with a tragedy here wrapped up in some warm and fuzzy comedy. So pick your poison and buckle in, because this little story’s only just begun.

Reviews

[JayG]

You might want to have your computer read this to you, aloud. You've written this as the script for a verbal storyteller. But that's a performance art, where HOW you tell the story matters as much as what you say. Your tone, cadence, intensity, and all the vocal tricks vanish on the page, as do facial expression, body language, and gesture. All that remains for a reader is a mental voice that contains only the emotion suggested by your punctuation.

Remember, you can tell the reader how a given character speaks lines of dialog. You can make us know the character's mode, so we can assign a tone. But we can't tell the reader how the narrator speaks their lines. And making things worse, the reader can't tell what a given line WILL say. And after it's read it's too late to add in the emotion.

In short, you're using the techniques of a visual and audible medium in one that reproduces neither sound nor vision. In other words, skills inappropriate to our medium.

Not happy news, given how hard you worked on this, I know. On the other hand, it's a problem you share with pretty much everyone who turns to telling stories on the page because our schooling is in the nonfiction skills employers require—skills meant to inform—not the specialized skills of entertaining the reader that the fiction writer uses.

The solution is pretty simple, though. Add the tricks of the trade to the writing skills you already possess. Given that the goal is to please readers who are used to seeing those tricks used in the fiction they now enjoy, doesn't it make sense to find out what they are, and why our medium mandates them?

Check the local library's fiction writing section. It's a HUGE resource. And while you're there, seek out the name,s Dwight Swain, Jack Bickham, or Debra Dixon. They're pure gold.

Hang in there, and keep on writing.

Jay Greenstein
https://jaygreenstein.wordpress.com/category/the-craft-of-writing/

[Wolf Beaumont]

Thanks for taking the time to read and review these opening couple of pages, Jay. I appreciate the advice, though I'm not entirely in agreement with it. This is a manuscript I've been writing for about 5 years and it's been one of my more challenging works due to the narrative style being the protagonist in 1st person, speaking from a future perspective. Whilst I absolutely agree the narrative style is lax and more given to a vocal/visual interpretation, that's the way I wanted it to be. A conversational, relaxed narrator. You can't assign tone to a narrator, that's some 4th/5th wall breaking stuff right there. This work absolutely requires a bit more imagination on the part of the reader, than usual, but that's also what I wanted as well. I wanted this odd, head-spinning experience. I like it personally, when it comes to Bliss and I've had some good feedback from others off this site, so I know I'm not entirely alone in that thought. But I do appreciate your thoughts, sincerely, and I think they will help me remain conscious of these choices and careful in how I edit. Thanks.

[Wolf Beaumont]

I forgot to also thank you for the writer recommendations, I'll absolutely look into their works.

[JayG]

• that's the way I wanted it to be. A conversational, relaxed narrator.

Never lose sight of the fact that when we release our words into the wild, we, our intent, and everything about us becomes irrelevant. It's the reader, our words and their placement, and what they mean to THEM, based on THEIR background, not ours.

As we read our own words we cheat. We begin reading knowing our intent for the meaning. We read our opening pages knowing where we are, whose skin we wear, and what's going on—something the reader lacks, which is why we need to edit from the seat of a reader.

In this opening, you hear your own voice speaking the words, complete with the inflection and intensity changes, the small hesitations to take a breath, and all the elements of your performance.

The reader? They hear an un-inflected monotone, devoid of any change in rhythm not dictated by the words as THEY interpret them. And since they open the story knowing nothing but what the words have said to any point...

They can't see that small shrug, and the spread hands, as the text says, " So who am I?" So the impact is lost. Have the computer read it aloud. Or, as Sol Stein suggests, choose a friend with zero acting ability. Tell him/her nothing about the story, even that it's yours, and ask them to cold-read a few pages aloud. That will give you the effect of the words on the average reader.

Be warned, though, it's a really humbling experience.

I know how hard something like this can be, especially after the time and work you've put into it. But bear in mind that what I say is NOT a reflection on you, your talent, or your potential as a writer, because everything I mentioned in that critique applies to the vast majority of hopeful writers, myself included when I began writing. And that makes sense, because we leave school believing that writing-is-writing, and that we have that part taken care of, so all we need is a good plot idea, some practice, a knack for storytelling, and a bit of luck.

If only.

• This work absolutely requires a bit more imagination on the part of the reader, than usual, but that's also what I wanted as well.

But readers come to us to borrow OUR imagination. If you ask that reader to work harder than usual you need to pay that for it with increased enjoyment, as-they-read. And the payment must be apparent immediately. Why? Because in the acquiring editor's office or the bookstore (including the self-publishing pages online) if you confuse, lecture, or bore the reader for a single line while trying to get them to commit to spending time reading this work, they leave right then. So those great characters, and that great story? They won't see them if they close the cover on page one.

Does that sound discouraging? Sure. In effect, I just called a favorite child ugly, and that really hurts. I've been there. In fact, I'd written six unsold manuscripts before I learned that I was trying to use nonfiction skills coupled with verbal storytelling in a medium where neither work because the reader is seeking to be moved emotionally, not learn what happened.

I'm not trying to discourage you, only save you time on the path to publication. After all, if we don't know how a scene on the page differs from one on stage and screen can we create one for the page that works? No. If we don't know what the short-term scene-goal is, and why it's necessary, will we make use of it? Of course not. You can't use the tool you don't see a need for. And if we don't know why scenes usually end in disaster for the protagonist will we include such disaster? I sure didn't. But after working my way through Dwight Swain's, Techniques of the Selling Writer, and mastering the skills he mentions, I sold my next novel submission. So perhaps I'm a little biased.

And while learning just how screwed up my writing was, was traumatic, the result, my first sale, was most pleasing.

Hang in there, and keep on writing. It doesn't get easier, but we can, with work and study, become confused on a higher level, and, change the crap to gold ratio for the better.

In the end,the world needs more people who, when someone asks them why they are staring at nothing, can honestly say, "I'm working."

[Alexa Apothic Red]

So what I love about this piece is how your intelligence screams through articulate vocabulary, fantastic imagery that leaps to my mind’s eye as I read lush descriptions. I love that you pay attention to the details of describing your scenes.

What I’d like to see polished up a bit would be subject-verb tense agreement, particularly in your introduction and transitions. You’re describing a past event and then switch to present tense. I realize that this is a story that takes place in both the past as well as the present, but you want that transitions from one time period to another to be smooth for your readers.. also I think extra punctuation would help as there is such a flowing conversational style to this piece, which is very nice, but because it’s conversational in nature, as a piece of writing that one reads, we need the punctuation to make it easier to follow/read. There is a LOT of humor, sarcasm, wit and undeniable flavor to your characters, and not everyone can do that well. Thank you for injecting your writing with that dark, sarcastic voice... just remember to help us read it better by polishing up your writing devices..

I must give you MUCH credit because I have like 4 books “started” and I’m the sincerest state of chaos, I’m too much of a perfectionist and I know how I want it to sound/look in my head.. and it’s so hard to articulate into a well-formatted book... ahhh that is such a daunting word for me!!! So, that said, I have to give mad credit to anyone who has even attempted to write a book. I lend myself more to poetry and lyrics because I get overwhelmed trying to approach the big “B” word and resign myself to just free verse that tumbled out from my brain in a few minutes.. no heavy literary lifting here! Plus I can somewhat “hide” out in poetry.. for whatever reason, I feel that writing out characters, descriptions, scenes and plot are far more vulnerable and revealing, at least in my case it is, as the 4 books I’m writing are all very personal to me...

Didn’t mean to ramble on in my review, except to say, I hope you accept my feedback and can use it and that you realize it’s blanketed in a tremendous amount of respect for the genre of actual BOOK-writing!!!

[Wolf Beaumont]

Thank you for your in-depth remarks, they're extremely clarifying and much appreciated.

[Ahnjolie McKenna]

Your writing is wonderfully engaging... :) Your choice of words and how best to use them to your advantage, was brilliant. Your presentation is conversational, always anticipating the reader's response...and never disappointing. Absolutely delicious...thank you for sharing. :)

Soft smiles for you...
Ahnjolie

[Wolf Beaumont]

This review means so much to me Ahnjolie. Thank you so much for reading and sharing your feelings about it. When you read your work over and over, you start to get really overly-analytical and critical of it and words like these are a balm for the soul. I'm so glad you enjoyed it and I hope you'll subscribe to my writings to catch the next chapter that will be posted soon.

Sincerely & Gratefully,
Wolf

[Ahnjolie McKenna]

It was my pleasure, love...and I shall most definitely subscribe.
Ahnjolie