Book one in a series, this newly-released, independently published novel for teens, features a headstrong heroine named Apple peterson, who lives in a world quite different from the one American teen readers know well. online reviewers called this novel, “illuminating” and “captivating.” if you enjoy sci-fi, fantasy, and mystique, you will love this story.
Book one in a series, this newly-released, independently published novel for teens, features a headstrong heroine named Apple peterson, who lives in a world quite different from the one American teen readers know well. online reviewers called this novel, “illuminating” and “captivating.” if you enjoy sci-fi, fantasy, and mystique, you will love this story. Here’s an excerpt from the author:
The sound of shuffling fills the silence of the hall as my dad makes his way over to Mango. I can hear him fiddle with the bandages, then mutter under his breath. The unbinding part of the ceremony is taking too long. He is supposed to uncover Mango’s eyes, but he was never the one who did it at home. It was always Grandma who carefully unwrapped the old, sweat- stained, stinky bandages and then rewrapped Mango’s eyes with fresh, clean cotton. Or sometimes I did it. Occasionally Peach. All those days for the past six years, he never did it once. And now they expect him to do it.
I feel Grandma push past me. From the audience, a few people make subtle clicks to try to figure out what is going on up on the stage. Though I don’t know what a click would do in such a crowded place. I am not the best at reading the echoes, I admit, but even the best would not be able to determine much more than, Yes, there are a lot of people in here.
Grandma has pushed past me, and I hear my dad murmuring. She is undoing the bandages, but she cannot speak so maybe, just maybe, no one will realize that Dad is not doing it.
“And now,” the Regional Vice President continues, after a pause of too many minutes, “I pronounce you, Mango Peterson, daughter of Raccoon Peterson and Patricia Peterson, may she rest in peace . . .”
The Regional Vice President pauses long enough to allow the audience to respond, “May she rest in peace.”
“I declare you…unbound! May your eyes be smooth and beautiful." One by one our family—Dad, Grandma, Peach, and me—run our hands over the smooth eyelids of Mango’s face. As my hand runs over her tiny little eyelids, I say, “May you always be smooth and beautiful.”
Then the chorus starts. About half the room, those who have voices so well trained, so clear, so beautiful that they are permitted to sing in a public function such as this, break into the Song of Our Unbinding. I am not allowed to sing, of course, but Peach is. Peach’s voice stands out because she sings most of the solo parts. But I can pick out her voice even when she sings along with everyone else. She was singing at birth, or so they say. She won her first competition at four. From then on, her natural talent was fed by endless lessons, performances, throat massages, and special care, so now she is one of the best. I’ve never heard better. All those official soloists and “Best Singer Friends of Our Best Friend” are good, I agree, but not really better than Peach. And yet she is eighteen and still here with us, singing at family events and school assemblies. She didn’t even make the third round of Selection.
They all sing together at first, then break into six different melodic parts that dance and go up and down and around each other, as if they were children running around a schoolyard, playing tag. The melodies occasionally approach each other, threaten to resolve into a unified chord, but then at that last moment before resolution, dart away again, into a new flurry of suspended tension. The voices sing an old song from the early days after the revolution.
Our hearts are still with you, Oh country that I love. My voice will still sing for you. Oh country that I love. Should they crush our fields and steal our rice, My stomach will still wait for you, Oh country that I love. And if they take all our land, my heart will still know That only one place, One people, And one family belong here, Oh country that I love.
I, along with the others who are not allowed to sing, just sway gently back and forth, as if the voices and the music and the melodies are a wind that carries me to and fro. With its complex rising crescendos and gentle, simple cascades off the high notes, the song should feel like being out in a nice park with the warmth of the sun, singing birds, and a sweet, natural smell in the air. I pretend to be uplifted, but I feel flat and bored. I am more excited about the feast that comes afterward.
The song finishes and Peach and I line up next to Dad and Grandma. One by one, all the people in the room, all hundred or so, walk past us. They shake my dad’s hand and put their hands on our faces, occasionally muttering words of congratulations. But mostly they run their hands over the eyelids of Mango and say “Smooth is beautiful” again and again and again.
I hope it works for her. I hope her eyes stay shut and she never faces the disease that results from letting them drift open and encounter that strange, confusing jumble of the imaginary eye-world. I hope she has a nice, simple life in which everyone loves her and does not question her loyalty. I hope it works for her.
Because it never worked for me.
Author Erik Nickerson is a passionate fan of all things science, science fiction, or strange. Since his childhood, he has been obsessed with alternative worlds, unusual viewpoints, and possibilities undreamed of, and he explores these themes in his work. When not teaching or writing, he enjoys being outside in the wilderness. Sign up for Erik’s VIP mailing list at pencilspaceship. com. Purchase The Fifth Sense book on amazon.com.