Stretching out your hand towards the familiar face, the one you remember from the mirror, your fingertips brush lightly over the surface of the tank; the occupant’s eyes blink open and the mouth gapes back at you in surprise – or is it horror? Recoiling from the unexpected engagement, you step back, a silent oath escaping your lips, as your companion – or rather, your colleague – takes you gently by the elbow and steers you to a desk in the corner of the room.
Gazing nervously over your shoulder, you look down at the journal that lies open before you. Recognizing your own handwriting, your eyes explore the text, the calculations, the diagrams – it’s all here – your head whips around once again and the face which floats behind the glass implores you: end this!
Mind whirring, you page desperately through the journal’s dated entries – puzzle pieces click and unclick, form and re-form – you sweep the journal from the desk and rush from the room, through the door and into the corridor; footsteps follow as you hurtle down the stairs to the exit, where you throw open the fire escape doors and run into the street; your only instinct is to flee… straight into the waiting arms of the blank-faced orderly.
He eases you into the waiting wheelchair and pushes you back into the building where the homely-looking nurse in her crisp white uniform stands waiting, clipboard in hand; she smiles: ‘Welcome back, Dr Conel, we’ve been expecting you.’
Confused? You might be! Read previous episodes of The Facilityhere.
The ‘Team’ on a Christmas trip to see the movie, Long Walk to Freedom. (My photo)
It’s been a sad week. I lost someone who was important in my life. One of the first people whom I met when I arrived to live here on South Africa’s shores. A man I met at the clinic here in Somerset West, where I was part of a volunteer group providing help and support to people living with chronic diseases like HIV and TB, whichI talked abouta few weeks ago. His name was Johannes and he was part of our team (pictured above).
He had already been living with HIV for some 12 years when we first met, although you wouldn’t have thought he was sick. He was our greatest advocate in the campaign we were running to dispel the myths and the stigma attached to HIV. Within our group was a safe place to speak, a place where people could share their stories without judgment. It was through sharing these stories that I started to get to know Johannes.
In my guest post ‘From the Writer’s Desk’ on da-AL’s blog, Happiness Between the Tails, back in January this year, I talked about how some of the main characters in Song of the Sea Goddesscame to be. Johannes was one of them.
“A few of my key characters are based on people I met when I first came to live in South Africa. …people who come from what are euphemistically called ‘formerly disadvantaged communities’…
I could have written about some of their struggles, about the conditions in which they live, about the poverty and lack of opportunity… but as I got to them better, I realised that none of them wants to dwell on any of that.
So I decided I could give them better lives, locate them in a much more pleasant place and put a positive spin on this beautiful country.”
Our support group folded after a couple of years, but by that time Johannes was working for me as a gardener, painter and general handy man. In fact, there was little that he couldn’t turn his hand to. His stories continued through our coffee breaks – of how he ran away to sea at the age of twelve and worked on the deep-sea trawlers for years, how he came home, got into a fight and was jailed and then, after he was released, how he turned his life around.
There’s a lovely little pen portrait of ‘Jannie’ by Robbie Cheadle in her recent review of Song of the Sea Goddess on her blog, Roberta Writes. I was delighted the way she ‘got’ all of my characters, and these few lines sum up the character Johannes inspired (and a little part of Johannes himself) perfectly.
“Jannie is an ex-convict who has discovered the errors of his ways and allowed his better nature to reassert itself. He is a lover of animals and the stray dog featured in the story, and Toti, the monkey, both love him.”
The fictional Jannie gets his long brown-black dreadlocks, his watchfulness and his willingness to help from Johannes. He gets his understanding, his gentle ways and his kindness too, as well as his ability to fight in the defence of his friends.
It’s ironic that the da-AL’s post was prefaced by her and her husband’s Covid experience. Fortunately, they came through. Johannes wasn’t so lucky and it was he that I was thinking of when I wrote my poem, Last Gasp on Monday. He lost that particular fight late on Tuesday evening.
Johannes wasn’t just a gardener and handyman, he wasn’t just a source of stories, he was my friend and I shall miss him very much. But just as he will live on in the hearts and memories of those who knew him, part of him will live on in the pages of Song of the Sea Goddess, and the so far unfinished sequel, as well.
White-knuckled, you grip the handrail as your companion urges you to hurry down several flights of stairs while the words you’ve just seen written on the wall, seemingly in your own hand, still circle around in your head, nudging at the nodes of your memory; puzzle pieces trying to assemble.
At the next landing, your companion motions you to stop while he peers through the viewing panel in one of the double doors; satisfied, he motions you over and you slip through the door after him, across the hallway and along another anonymous corridor until you come to another unmarked door, where he withdraws a key-card from his pocket and thrusts it into the lock, before hauling you inside.
You stare about the space, where a multitude of machines are whirring; a large central desk dominates the room, on it is a photograph showing twelve people, dressed in white lab coats like the one you’re wearing now: all of them look familiar.
Your companion guides you through a second door and when you enter what you see triggers the puzzle pieces to click into place; you fall to your knees, the burden of your understanding crushing you, but in this newly-established reality, the bioethics of what you now realise you and your companions have done are not the priority.
Within the blue-lit gloom are a series of twelve tanks, each contains a body connected to a central station via a series of wires and tubes.
One of them is yours.
Confused? You might be! Read previous episodes of The Facilityhere.
It’s my great pleasure to welcome Jacqui Murray to this month’s Launch Pad spot. You may well already be familiar with Jacqui through her blog, WordDreams, others of you will know her through her books. It is Jacqui who introduced me to the wonderful world of prehistoric fiction, a genre I hadn’t heard of before, but now I can tell you, I’m totally hooked!
So, let’s find out a little bit more about her. We’ll start with her official author bio:
Jacqui Murrayis the author of the popular prehistoric fiction saga, Man vs. Naturewhich explores seminal events in man’s evolution one trilogy at a time. She is also the author of theRowe-Delamagente thrillersandBuilding a Midshipman, the story of her daughter’s journey from high school to United States Naval Academy. Her non-fiction includes over a hundred books on integrating tech into education, reviews as anAmazon Vine Voice, a columnist for NEA Today, and a freelance journalist on tech ed topics. Her next prehistoric fiction, Natural Selection, is due for release in winter 2022.
~~~
Before we come to Jacqui’s latest book release, let me share what Jacqui as to tell us about her journey into self-publishing and finding her authorial voice.
Finding my Voice– by Jacqui Murray
I have been writing fiction for about 25 years (non-fiction longer, but that’s a different story). When I started, I wanted to write the biography of a prehistoric female – how she survived when experts said she shouldn’t. I took some classes, attended conferences, read a bunch of books, and got excited about writing as a craft. An agent suggested I not write prehistoric fiction because the market was too small so I switched to thrillers. I wrote one, another, both well received but they didn’t sell much. I figured if I was going to write and NOT sell, I might as well write what I wanted so I switched back to prehistoric fiction. My first novel, Born in a Treacherous Time, was rejected over one hundred times but still, I wrote another, Survival of the Fittest.That too was rejected one hundred times (I stopped sending out queries when I received my 100th rejection). Repeat for two more and then I stopped submitting to traditional publishers. I got whatever message they were sending and decided to self-publish. Yes, I was confused and intimidated, like a web browser with nineteen tabs open, seventeen of them frozen and one with music blasting but I couldn’t tell where it came from.
But none of that mattered. I was in charge of my destiny and that felt good. I peacocked for a while and then went back to work.
Somewhere along the line, I figured out my voice. That was scary at first, putting a book out to the public written the way I wanted but I felt good about what I was writing. I knew the rules, which to follow and which to bend, and understood the importance readers place on how a story is told. In fact, that is as important as rules. By the third book written my way, I began to gain traction and sell enough that I could even call myself a writer.
Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had some success. A first place in a writing competition. Quarter finals in a national competition. I even had an agent for a while… That’s another story. I’ve tried quitting, but I’m back at it within weeks, like an addict. I know people who quit smoking and their rough period starts when they quit and continues till they die. Is that what being a reformed writer would be: “Hello, my name is Jacqui and it’s been ten days since I edited my last novel.” I get the shakes thinking of that.
If you’re trying to find your voice, here are my suggestions:
Know the rules of writing in your genre
Talk to professionals in that genre about your writing
Then, write the way you want to, with passion and energy. That’s your voice. You’ll find a group of people who like it and that will be good enough.
Someone once said about the death of one particular amazing writer whose stories seemed to be effortless:
Talent on loan from God. Talent returned to God.
When you find your voice, that’s what it feels like, as though someone greater than you is whispering in your ear and you darn well better listen.
~~~
Jacqui’s latest release is Laws of Nature, the second book in her Dawn of Humanity trilogy. I finished reading this only last week, and Irecommend it whole-heartedly!
The Blurb
A boy blinded by fire. A woman raised by wolves. An avowed enemy offers help.
In this second of the Dawn of Humanity trilogy, the first trilogy in the Man vs. Nature saga, Lucy and her eclectic group escape the treacherous tribe that has been hunting them and find a safe haven in the famous Wonderwerk caves in South Africa, the oldest known occupation of caves by humans. They don’t have clothing, fire, or weapons, but the caves keep them warm and food is plentiful. But they can’t stay, not with the rest of the tribe enslaved by an enemy. To free them requires not only the prodigious skills of Lucy’s unique group–which includes a proto-wolf and a female raised by the pack–but others who have no reason to assist her and instinct tells Lucy she shouldn’t trust.
Set 1.8 million years ago in Africa, Lucy and her tribe struggle against the harsh reality of a world ruled by nature, where predators stalk them and a violent new species of man threatens to destroy their world. Only by changing can they prevail. If you ever wondered how earliest man survived but couldn’t get through the academic discussions, this book is for you. Prepare to see this violent and beautiful world in a way you never imagined.
Book information
Title and author: Laws of Nature Series: Book 2 in the Dawn of Humanity series Genre: Prehistoric fiction Editor: The extraordinary Anneli Purchase Available (print or digital) at: Kindle USKindle UKKindle CAKindle AUKindle India
You stare at the unlocked door as the disturbance outside retreats; alert to danger, you slowly get to your feet and shuffle towards the door, where you hesitantly turn the handle; now, peering around the edge, you hear frenetic footsteps pounding back along the corridor towards you.
It’s one of them – one of you, your mind corrects itself – you’re about to shut the door, when the figure, with its blurred blank face, just like yours, bursts into your room and thrusts a lab coat at you, gesturing to you to put it on.
Dragged along the sterile bright-white corridor, counting off the doors, you recognise the route to the elevator; your companion urges you to hurry and you break into a shambling run-walk; then you turn the final corner, the sliding doors open and, stumbling inside, the elevator swallows you both up.
Your companion punches a button and slumps against the control panel breathing heavily; the elevator ascends: you count the floors – counting has become a habit – and when the elevator slows to a stop, you realise you must be on the top-most floor.
The elevator opens and your companion beckons you across the hallway to a set of double doors, leading to an endless stairway; the doors snap shut behind you and bile rises in your throat as you, in a moment of clarity, read the words daubed on the wall opposite:
YOU WROTE THIS
YOU CAN MAKE THIS STOP
Your companion thrusts you towards the stairs.
Confused? You might be! Read previous episodes of The Facilityhere.
Come, join hands let’s walk together our hushed feet will fall softly on verdant ground pause by the sapphire stream listen to lush sounds murmuring water rustling leaves bird song, insects whirring breathe in, breathe deeply scents of the earth fragrance of flowers close your eyes breathe in, breathe out taste the emerald air feel the dappled golden sun warming your face here, safe, embraced enfolded by nature let us share our stories in our woodland bower.
The image shows shows a tree trunk. We can see hands placed next to each other along the length of the tree trunk. The hands belong to people of different race, age, and gender.
My response to Sadje’s What do you see?picture prompt on Monday, suggested to me that it might be nice for us all to hop on the tour bus and take a little virtual safari together to recharge our batteries. Also, my right shoulder is in particular need of a little rest from too much typing, so let’s just feast our eyes and listen to the sounds of nature….
Now you see me… Giraffes can disappear into the bush in a wink of an eye – this one was just outside Moremi Wildlife Park in Botswana – not all game is inside the Park!Addo Elephant Park, Eastern Cape, South Africa – yes, he was that close!A rather splendid stork from a boat trip on the edge of the Okavango Delta, BotswanaVervet Monkey ‘traffic warden’ outside our accommodation at the Island Safari Lodge, Maun, Botswana – is this why little monkey characters, Fingers and Toti appear in my novels?Monitor lizard snapped on the way back from breakfast on the banks of the Thamalakane River in Maun, BotwanaHippos on the Zambezi
Days become weeks, the visits to the basement continue, the treatment-experiment-conditioning, whatever it is, each time washing over you in a stream of detached disinterest; each time, returning to your room and recovering in bedafter another steady shuffle around the green garden with your fellow patients-subjects-inmates where, trapped on this endless treadmill, no-one speaks or makes eye-contact.
Food arrives on a tray – greyish porridge, brownish soup – delivered by the blank-faced orderly; later, a shot-glass of something sweet and very orange; later still, the lights dim and you sleep: is the orange liquid drugged you wonder, as you drift away again.
You request a newspaper for some distraction, but the request’s denied; instead, the orderly brings you a mindless magazine filled with photos of people you don’t recognise; you consider the art of paper-folding, but your fingers won’t cooperate. You study those fingers; your fingernails never seem to grow, still short and neat, just as when you arrived; your hair, as far as you can tell without a mirror, is the same; are you groomed in your sleep?
Another day, and when you return to your room, a TV screen has been installed, high up in the corner, just below the dull red camera eye; the orderly switches it on and just as the picture flickers into life, there’s a commotion in the corridor outside; a siren wails, there are shouts, running feet; the orderly spins around and rushes from your room.
In his haste, he leaves the door unlocked.
Confused? You might be! Read previous episodes of The Facilityhere.
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