Authors: Danielle Bourdon
The Fate of Destiny
Published by: Wildbloom Press
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, any place, events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
For Jason Bird. Your laughter and kind
heart inspire me.
The phenomenon began when she was eight. Farris remembered that rainy Friday as clearly as if it were yesterday; she'd gone straight to her room after school, threw her backpack on the bed, and sat down at her desk.
Her fingers itched to write. The urge was stronger than ever. She hadn't just
to write. She'd
to write. All those stories swirling around her head
to come out. Someday, she'd decided, she would be a famous author with a ton of books filling libraries and bookshelves.
Oh yes. Writing was all she'd ever wanted to do.
She even remembered whose story she wrote for the first time. His name was Jonathan Thomas Murray the Second. She filled in that auspicious moniker at the top of the page before proceeding, with exquisite care, to craft every blessed event from birth through young adulthood.
Jonathan Thomas Murray the Second came to life off the end of her fingertips. She wrote and wrote and wrote. Back then, at the beginning, she'd used those composition books with the black and white covers.
She filled half the notebook before Mom called her into dinner. Since Farris had been too absorbed in her writing and hadn't heard, Charlotte Landry came into the room to make the announcement.
Farris Landry, didn't you hear—what are you doing?”
The suspicious tone of her mother's voice had drawn her out of the writing haze she'd descended into.
Charlotte had bright pink rollers in her short blonde hair, lopsided lipstick and a puke green chenille robe over her regular clothes. Nothing unusual for her mother back in those days.
Just writing some stuff down. What is it Mom?”
Charlotte walked over to the desk and peered down at the composition book.
Farris slapped it closed.
Is that a story?” her mother asked, still sounding suspicious.
Yes. I think I'm going to need another composition book.” Jonathan Thomas Murray the Second's life had taken up a
Farris had never seen her mother go pale that fast. Even though she'd been only eight years old, she'd known something was up.
Well, let's just see if you fill that one up first, honey-pot. Come on now, dinner's getting cold.”
Farris had always loathed the nickname.
Her mother wound up buying more composition books after that, which seemed to make her grumpy and fretful. Charlotte never denied Farris her passion, but she made it well known she didn't approve.
The urge to get the stories out over rode Farris' desire to ask why.
Almost ten years later, Farris had left composition books behind. She preferred parchment paper that felt good under her hands and a quill type pen. Colored paper clips held her stories together: red, blue, green, orange. Every color under the sun.
The thrill she felt every time she knew she was going to write was different than it used to be. It was more vibrant and enthralling than ever. Electric, even.
Sometimes, at the very beginning of a story, a tingle slipped down her spine. As if her story was more than a story, as if, perhaps, the character might come to life, pop off the page and become tangible right before her very eyes.
Ripping herself out of her reverie, Farris climbed the steps to her apartment. Loft was probably more appropriate. Or attic. Located above old man Henson's garage, it had a barn shaped roof, one tiny bedroom, and an even smaller balcony.
Farris loved her loft, and she hated it. Loved it because it was her own space, with her own furniture, and no one dictated what she had to do. She hated it because it represented the sudden, stark change in her life six months ago when the bank foreclosed on their house. The house Charlotte had raised her in, the only home Farris had ever known.
Unlocking the door, she stepped inside and closed it behind her. The living room was decent sized, considering. Two tall windows sat on either side of a door leading to the balcony on the opposite wall. A small kitchenette sat to the right, replete with oven, fridge and microwave. The bedroom was straight back off a short hallway, along with the bathroom.
Along every single wall, stood a table. The folding kind, with metal legs and a thick plastic surface. On each table were stacks upon stacks of stories. So many that they blocked out the wall itself all the way to the ceiling. More stacks sat near the plaid sofa, on both sides of the television and against the base of the kitchen counter where bar stools should have been.
The loft was
with paper. Some stories were thicker than others, comprising all the details of a character's life.
Farris navigated the piles with that familiar tingle she always had in the presence of her work. Dropping her purse on the counter, she backtracked to the windows and closed both against a deepening chill with the approach of late afternoon.
Old man Henson lived on a sixty-four acre farm on the outskirts of Newcastle, Oklahoma. The view from the loft encompassed acres of farmland and part of Henson's white clapboard house. His wife, Bertrice, a lovely woman with large brown eyes and a kind smile, had passed on three years ago, leaving the widower alone in the rambling home.
When the bank informed Farris they were taking over her old house, she had scrambled to find some place to go. She couldn't live with O'ma, her grandmother, because O'ma was now in an old folks home. She surely couldn't stay with her mother—Charlotte had been admitted to an insane asylum when Farris was fifteen.
Beelah, her best friend, had demanded she come live with her. Beelah's parents seconded the invitation, and just when she'd been about to accept, old man Henson offered up his loft. A hundred-fifty dollars a month rent, all utilities paid.
Farris, with her passion for stories and a collection that needed its own space, took it in a heartbeat.
Staring out the window, lost in thought, the jangle of her cell phone drew her out of the reverie. Katy Perry's
Last Friday Night
informed her it was Beelah calling. Grinning, she jogged back through the living room and fished her phone out of her purse.
Bee! What's up?” Farris and Beelah Bosley had been best friends since they were four years old.
Are you off work, yet? We're supposed to be at the Rocket at six. Where are you?”
Farris covered her lips with her fingers. She'd forgotten all about their jaunt to the Rocket. “I totally forgot. I'm ready though, you want me to come pick you up?”
Of course! Hurry up. I don't want to be late.”
What are you in such a rush over?”
This totally cute guy came in to work yesterday and he said he was going to the Rocket tonight. I just, you know, want to see if he shows.”
Farris marched down the short hall into the bedroom. It was so small that the only place to stack stories were on shelves she'd attached to the walls. There was the bed (okay, there were fifty or so stories on the bed, too) and a nightstand big enough to hold a lamp and an alarm clock, nothing more. The style was shabby chic, the colors straight out of the seventies.
All her clothes were in a closet that measured two by four feet.
What guy? Someone from school?” She and Bee both worked at Betty's Diner as waitresses. They'd had their jobs since a month before graduation in June.
No, I've never seen him before. He's all dark and broody.
Farris laughed. She'd never heard Bee call any guy broody or hot. “All right, all right, I'm on my way.”
You don't need to change your scarf!”
Farris was even then pulling a mint green, sheer scarf off a huge pile of them in her closet. She loved scarves, had a passion for all kinds. Knit, silk, cashmere, sheer, you name it, it was in there. Unraveling the white crocheted one, she traded it for the green.
Bee knew her so well.
It only takes a second. I'll see you in fifteen.” Farris hung up while Beelah was still talking. Stepping over to the oval mirror tacked to the wall, she checked the scarf, which she twirled around her throat once and let the end dangle down over the white tee shirt she wore. A pair of jeans fit snug on her hips and she pulled a buckskin colored suede coat, her best one, off a hanger to go with it.
Stuffing her arms into the sleeves, she fluffed the layers of her brown hair and checked her make up. With a critical eye, she surveyed the angular lines of her face, the modest slope of her brow, and the delicate point of her chin. Beelah was fond of saying Farris had 'refined' features. Farris just didn't see it. She thought she looked like all the other girls at school. There wasn't anything overly special about the color of her hair, even with a few golden streaks put there by the sun in summer, or the brownish-green hue of her eyes. If she had to pick a favorite feature, it would have been the olive shade of her skin. Rouge looked great on her cheekbones and she hadn't ever suffered the indignity of zits.
Exiting the room, she plucked her purse off the counter, dug out her keys, and dropped the phone into a side pocket.
A distinct pang rolled through her stomach when she glanced at the piles of brittle paper clogging the loft. The same pang she'd experienced from the time she was eight and couldn't wait another second to start writing. Sometimes it felt like a gnawing beast, the urge to sit down and put pen to paper. Farris chalked the compelling sensation up to a high creativity level. She had the kind of mind that needed to purge ideas on a very regular basis, that was all.
Farris left the loft and trotted down the staircase to her beat up Chevy truck. Two toned silver and blue, it had more pocks and dents than she could count, but it was reliable—or had been since she'd been driving it—and got her where she needed to go.
Firing up the engine, she glanced across the flat landscape toward a gloomy bank of clouds rolling in from the southwest.
Could be rain in another two hours or so.
Putting the Chevy in gear, she tore down the dirt drive toward the paved lane and on to Beelah's house.
. . .
Beelah Bosley was the classic definition of a nerd. She carried a Hello Kitty organizer with her where ever she went, wore multiple colored barrettes in her auburn hair, and thought polka dot went just grand with plaid. A thin, wire framed pair of glasses perched on her pert nose, adding a scholarly flair that helped combat some of the geekiness. Even at eighteen (her birthday was a month before Farris'), Bee hadn't outgrown the comfort zones of her childhood.
Farris honked the horn of the Chevy while it idled in front of Beelah's parents house. Situated on several acres on the outskirts of town, it boasted a broad front porch, shutters on each side of the windows, and a lawn Mister Bosley maintained with meticulous care.
Beelah bounced out the door, down the steps, and ran to the truck. Of course, the Hello Kitty organizer was tucked under her arm. Today, much to Farris' surprise, Bee wore jeans (she hardly ever did) and a long sleeved sweater of deep green. The riotous, rust red curls had been swept back into a manageable ponytail and Beelah's gray eyes were lined with a smudge of eyeliner.
Farris stared. Was all her playful harassment of her best friend paying off?
lah Bosley.” Farris had a habit of greeting Beelah with a lilting tease of her full name. “Look at you, with make up even!”
I know, right?” Beelah climbed in and closed the door, grinning. “Mom and I went shopping and I bought a few new things.” She gestured to the deep green sweater.