A Life Transparent Read online

  A LIFE TRANSPARENT

  * * *

  Todd Keisling

  Precipice Books

  A LIFE TRANSPARENT

  Copyright © 2007 by Todd Keisling

  First Digital Edition: January 2011

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9830019-2-8

  PUBLISHED BY:

  Precipice Books

  precipicebooks.com

  Cover design by Erica Keisling

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owners and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  For Erica

  CONTENTS

  Prologue: This Banal Coil

  1: A Life Ordinary

  2: The Flickering

  3: Gray Sight

  4: The Omitted

  5: Puppets

  6: Monochrome

  7: The Missing

  8: Candles

  9: The Good Doctor

  10: Negative Spaces

  11: A State Of Love And Liminality

  Epilogue: Life Pitch

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  • PROLOGUE •

  THIS BANAL COIL

  Albert Sparrow didn’t know the man, which made him easier to kill. Smith huddled near the mouth of the alley, his dirty paws reaching out in supplication to the people passing by. Sparrow admired Smith’s humility even though it would profit him nothing. The man controlling them made it clear: the populace was unable to see them.

  “Spare some change?”

  Smith’s pleas fell on deaf ears. Lunchtime crowds raced down the sidewalks, busy with daily tasks and self-importance. The smell from a pizzeria across the street carried over, displacing the funk of garbage and exhaust fumes.

  Sparrow lifted his tired face to the sunlight, basking in its simple radiance. He licked the air with his tongue, tasting its intricacies. Every moment of freedom from the gray was a cherished blessing. He couldn’t remember how long he’d been trapped there, or what today’s date was. Fortunately, it wouldn’t matter for much longer, not after he’d done what he had to do.

  “Anyone? Change for food? Haven’t eaten for days.”

  Sparrow tried to ignore Smith’s grating pleas, busying himself with the task at hand. He knelt beside the dumpster and shoved his arm into the dark gap underneath. His fingers blindly searched through the grime that blanketed the alley floor. Where was it? His heart rate rose with nervous fervor. This would be his salvation, and he would have only one chance to do it.

  Thoughts of their warden, the Gatekeeper of the Gray, filled him with adrenaline. He would not go back. Not to the fate that awaited him. The master had plans for him. Grand plans. He could hear that monotone voice in his head, booming: We will shuffle you off your banal coil, Mr. Sparrow, and it will be glorious.

  Sparrow’s searching fingers finally skated over the blade. He smiled, pulling the knife from its hiding place. The warden had little control in this colorful void.

  “Mister? Coins for a sorry soul?”

  Albert Sparrow climbed to his feet, brushing away the grime from his clothing. He took a breath, listening to his heartbeat, and tasting sweet murder on his tongue. Smith continued his futile begging, oblivious to Sparrow’s slow advance toward the mouth of the alley.

  Overhead, the sky dimmed. The cars which crowded the street began to fade from view. The people on the sidewalks were as transparent outlines, ghosts wandering a desolate painting of civilization. Sparrow gripped the knife. It was dull, the blade spotted with rust. He stood behind Smith.

  “They can’t hear you,” Sparrow said.

  “I can try,” Smith said, offering his companion a fleeting glance before his attention returned to the street. The world lightened, flooded once again with color. Cars and people returned in full form. “There’s always hope I can change things.”

  Sparrow raised the blade, but hesitated. He almost pitied the man. “We made our choices. Some of us belong here.”

  Smith scoffed. “Easy for you to say. You’ve got his favor. The rest of us are going to rot.” He pulled back his sleeve, revealing pale flesh marked with clusters of gray pox. “Bastard’s sucking us dry.”

  Nothing ventured, he thought. He sliced the air in a short arc, plunging the rusted blade deep into the man’s back. Nothing gained.

  Smith let out a rattling gasp. He turned, eyes wide in shock, one hand grasping for the weapon. In an act of twisted benevolence Sparrow helped him withdraw the knife, gritting his teeth as blood flowed from the wound.

  “Why—”

  Sparrow again thrust himself upon the man and pressed the blade against his throat.

  “Sorry, friend. You’re my ticket out. I figure murder is random enough to break the strings.” He put force against the handle, inching the blade into Smith’s neck. Sparrow watched as life left the man’s eyes: they dilated, lost focus, and finally went blank. Smith gurgled one final breath. Blood gushed from the wound.

  He let go of the knife and stumbled backward—it was done. The sky dimmed, and the world flashed gray. He felt a force wrenching at his stomach, threatening to tear it from him, but after a moment it relented. Crowds and traffic reappeared. Sparrow sucked in the air as if for the first time.

  Sparrow calmed himself, methodically wiping Smith’s blood on his pant leg before walking out of the alleyway toward traffic.

  The voice coming from behind him was unmistakable—the warden, his master. In the gray world it would’ve boomed across the heavens, through the very fibers of his being. Here in the real world, full of its wonderful colors and depth, his master’s voice was but a whisper on the breeze, a tickle at the back of his neck.

  You are breaking the rules, Mr. Sparrow.

  But Sparrow was running, and he would not look back.

  • 1 •

  A LIFE ORDINARY

  Donovan Candle’s alarm sounded at 6:30 AM. He stirred in his sleep, eyes fluttering behind their lids as the blaring noise rose in waves of stabbing intensity. He struggled to keep himself wrapped in the warmth of sleep, treading the peaceful waters of an otherwise vivid dream.

  Donna’s elbow promptly connected with his ribs. His eyes flew open, and his hand found the alarm. After switching it off, Donovan rose, saw the time, and frowned. He’d already lost two minutes of his morning.

  He was careful not to disturb Donna, whose alarm was set to wake her at 6:45. She justified those fifteen minutes, saying she needed them on account of beauty rest, and he didn’t argue with her. Donovan paused at the door and looked over at her sleeping face. He smiled, and made his way to the bathroom.

  An unsettling feeling rose suddenly within the pit of his stomach. It caught him off guard, a sensation that felt like clammy fingers curling around his insides, tugging. He put a hand to his belly and waited for it to pass.

  What the hell was that? he wondered. The sensation relented, giving way to a low rumble of hunger. It was still a while before breakfast, and so he busied himself with a shower and shave.

  Donna was awake when he finished, as evidenced by the sound of the coffee maker gurgling dow
nstairs. The scent of frying eggs made his stomach growl. He went to the bedroom, saw the time was 6:53, and began to dress in his Monday clothes: a dark green Oxford, khakis, black belt, and matching shoes tied left foot first. His watch struck 7:00 as he fastened its band. He smiled. Right on schedule, he thought, and wandered downstairs for breakfast.

  Donna greeted him with bleary eyes, a tender smile, and a kiss. He poured himself a cup of coffee, took a seat at the table, and folded a napkin on his lap. That odd pull in his stomach resurfaced briefly, but he forgot it as Donna brought over the frying pan and served his eggs.

  “Thanks, hon.”

  “There’s bacon on the stove, too.” She returned to the counter and placed the pan in the sink.

  “Aren’t you going to eat?”

  Two pieces of toast popped out of the toaster. Donna tossed them onto a plate and returned to the table. “I’m starting a diet today.”

  “A diet?” He took a bite of eggs and dabbed his chin with his napkin. Donna nibbled her toast.

  “Yeah,” she said. “I want to lose a few pounds.”

  “I think you look great, honey.”

  “But I don’t.” She took another bite of toast. They finished breakfast in silence. When he was done, Donovan took his plate to the sink, poured himself a second cup of coffee, and went for the newspaper. He checked his watch again. It was 7:22.

  When he returned to the kitchen, he kissed Donna once more.

  She blushed. “What was that for?”

  “Nothing,” he said. “I can just tell today’s going to be a good day.”

  “Yeah?”

  He nodded. “It’s just a feeling, I guess. Besides, everything’s still on schedule, so that always makes for a good day.”

  Donna chuckled. He delighted in her laughter. The sound of it made his heart skip a beat, and always brought a smile to his face. A good morning indeed. Still grinning, Donovan sat and unfolded his newspaper. There wasn’t much worth reading—mostly articles about local politics, the announcement of a new reality television show’s premiere, rising taxes, falling stocks, and so on. He beamed when he saw a familiar advertisement:

  Has your identity been compromised? We can help!

  Contact Identinel, your security sentinel.

  He’d worked for the company going on nine years, although it had been a bumpy road at first. Fresh out of college, he’d quickly learned that an English degree was useless. The liberal arts were sinking fast, and needing something to make ends meet, Donovan had finally taken a low-end position in the sales department of Identinel. Nine years later, he’d managed to work his way up the corporate ladder rung by agonizing rung, and now he was a team leader in his department. Sometime soon, hopefully tomorrow, he would receive another promotion. Spotting their latest ad in the paper was a good omen. He skimmed the rest of the paper and finished off his coffee.

  “Anything good?”

  He passed the newspaper down to her and shook his head.

  “Same ol’, same ol’.”

  The microwave clock read 7:39, which Donovan confirmed with his watch. If he left now, he’d make it to the office with a good twenty minutes or so to spare. His punctuality could earn him a few points when it came time for his review.

  “I think I’m going to leave early today, hon.”

  “What’s the rush?”

  “No rush,” he said, rising from the table. He took his jacket from the back of the chair and put it on. “That review’s tomorrow. I want to impress Butler.”

  She snorted. “I hope he paid attention this time.”

  Donovan shared his wife’s disdain. Impressing Butler was no easy task, given his inflated sense of self-accomplishment, but Donovan had proven himself reliable and earned the highest sales record for four years in a row. How could he not have earned this promotion?

  “I’d better be going,” he said.

  “Don’t forget to charge the cell phone.”

  He double-checked his pocket, nodding as the phone knocked against his car keys. Donovan had resisted acquiring one for as long as he could, but Donna wore down his arguments, and they’d settled on a pre-paid model. A new addition to his morning routine, he struggled to remember it needed charging. The damn thing drained its battery almost every day.

  “Got it.”

  Donna’s attention remained with the newspaper. “Have a good day, dear.”

  “What, no kiss?”

  She looked up at him, arching an eyebrow.

  “You’ll get more than that tonight, Donnie.”

  Donovan grinned, leaning over to kiss her. He felt a flush of heat in his cheeks. He loved it when she called him Donnie.

  “Hold that thought,” he told her, and opened the door. Their brown-haired Persian, Mr. Precious Paws, scampered out past him, furry head and tail held high. Excuse me, your highness, Donovan thought, winking at Donna before closing the door behind him.

  He stood on the porch for the moment and breathed in the crisp, morning air. That phantom hand tugged at his gut for only a moment and then it was gone. Donovan steadied himself. He looked up. The sky was clear. Birds chirped overhead.

  He slowly exhaled, and smiled.

  A good day, he thought. A very, very good day.

  • • •

  The morning commute was bumper to bumper for most of the way, as it seemed to be on every weekday, but nothing could dampen his spirits. He began the day feeling that all would be well, and he wasn’t about to give it up for a few angry drivers. The heavy traffic let up after ten minutes, and soon Donovan was speeding down the freeway listening to a morning radio host welcome a guest on the air.

  He didn’t pay much attention to their conversation—he was busy concentrating on the road and its collection of Monday morning idiots. Still, bits and pieces of the show worked their way into his thoughts. The guest was an author promoting his latest book.

  “—itle of the book is A Life Ordinary: A Comprehensive Study in Human Mediocrity.”

  Donovan frowned. A life ordinary? What was wrong with being ordinary? He was content with his life. Sure, he didn’t have the best job in the world—not the kind he’d imagined having during those dreamy days of college—but for now he had to give up that youthful idealism and work nine-to-five like every other John. Q. Taxpayer.

  Though Donovan still dreamed of writing the Great American Novel, the demands of work and marriage limited him to only an hour of writing per night. Perhaps, someday, it would be Donovan on the radio promoting his latest work. Floating in the back of Donovan’s mind was an image: Seated in his home office, fingers poised over a computer keyboard, he could hear the echoes of his wife playing games with their children.

  That fantasy took him away from the radio program and back to Donna’s pleasant face. The two of them had wanted a baby for so long, and now, after several years of saving and planning, they were finally giving things a try. Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday evening, Donovan and Donna made love with hope of conceiving a child. Sometimes he daydreamed about that happy day when he’d burst into the Identinel offices and proclaim “It’s a boy!” Or a girl. He wasn’t picky.

  The radio program cut to a commercial as Donovan took his exit. He looked at the console clock: 8:38. The lights at each intersection turned green upon his approach, and he sped through them without interruption. When he reached the Identinel parking lot, he pulled into a space near those reserved for upper management.

  The odd pulling sensation in his stomach intensified as he walked across the lot toward the building. He paused at the door, took a breath, and put his hand on his belly. What did I eat last night?

  His stomach lurched, accenting his recollection of the mystery meal: curry. He’d had curry the night before.

  Donovan shook off the discomfort, promising himself antacids for lunch, and pushed his way into the building.

  • • •

  Click.

  Donovan removed his headset and sighed. Another sale lost. He tapped a
few keys on the keyboard, adding another phone number to the growing “no call” list. The old tricks to save that sale just weren’t working anymore, and people did not want to guard their identities as much as they should.

  From somewhere beyond his cubicle, he heard the screeching call of the Two Tammys, Identinel’s dual Human Resources Coordinators. Tammy Perpa and Tammy Quilago formed an unholy union of professionalism, leaving most employees trembling in their wake. The mere sounds of their voices stirred the acid in his stomach, the effect making him nauseous.

  Around the office, many called them “The Terrible Tammys.” Tomorrow, along with Butler, they would preside over Donovan’s review. Understandably, this did little to ease the tightening discomfort in his gut. It slowly climbed up into his chest, giving pause to his heart for a brief moment, and he had to gasp for breath. Then, as quickly as it came, the phantom grip around his torso was gone.

  He stood, peeked over the wall of his cube, and watched the two women make their way down the main aisle of the call center. After an unproductive morning, the last thing he wanted was a conversation with them about performance.

  Donovan ducked back into his cube to check the time again: 10:30. He reached for his coffee cup—a custom-made mug featuring a screen print of Mr. Precious Paws—and made his way to the employee lounge. The Terrible Tammys were no longer in sight.

  The lounge was furnished with two refrigerators, three microwaves, and four coffeepots. A lonely water cooler sat in a corner. A few of Donovan’s coworkers loitered around the tables in the room, chatting about their weekend exploits. Donovan, on the other hand, wasn’t there to make small talk. He needed coffee.

  “Hey, Candle!”

  Timothy Butler entered the room with a grin that cut across his face. The other employees scattered. Donovan shot a quick glance over his shoulder, muttered “Shit” under his breath, and began to pour his coffee.