From time to time I will have sections of new writings, plays, poetry, passages form novels that intrigue, that need to be published, etc. – Bob Banner

Mothership 2012 Book One: The Immortal

Chapter 6


Alana—Flashback: November 1988, Denver


The next morning, Alana’s eyes popped open early. She smiled to see fresh snow on the high branches outside the window. She couldn’t believe how lucky they were. The search was over!

   Through all of the boyfriends, girlfriends, romantic disasters and accidental lays, she had been careful to save the very core of her heart to belong to her true mate.


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   Over the years, anyone who’d ever wanted to get her into bed had managed to give a very convincing argument about why they were The One. The TinTin college ex. The Nigerian exchange student who sold her the motorcycle. The Black Panther chieftainess.

   There was always a special feeling of Destiny when a connection was made. Yet, despite Alana’s elaborate screening systems, none of them had turned out, it seemed, to have been anything more than just another lost soul, like herself.

   And, Lord knew she was “Queen of the Unrequited Crush,” nurturing many a deep infatuation for a man or a woman, making them for that time the pivot point of her entire cosmology.

   Yet, the one time she’d let herself go home with someone for no reason at all, just as a fling, she’d hit the cosmic jackpot!

   She couldn’t believe that life really brought her Soulmate to her so easily and unquestionably. Miracles really did happen! She wondered what grand adventures awaited them, now that they had finally found one another.

   Alana perched on the side of the bathtub, watching Nico brush his teeth. She waited till he was done rinsing.

   “So,” she asked cautiously, hedging her bets, “what exactly happened last night?”

   Nico lathered his face next, as if he had a beard to shave. “If you’re asking whether we should date,” he replied, stroking the old-fashioned straight razor along his jaw, “I’d have to say . . . No.”

   No mention of the Starfield, the music of the spheres, or how he had whisked her out of the body to survey Eternity?

   “Hm.” Alana tried to sound casual. “So . . . why not?”

   He paused, as if considering whether to answer at all.

   Then, finally: “Because I’m working on the End of Time.”

The End of Time? Alana was startled to hear those words. She’d been writing a book with nearly those same words in its title: Songs for the End of Days. She’d only invented it a few weeks before. A book of short stories about Armageddon and whatever comes next, with a wry twist. She knew what she meant by the term, but what did it mean to him? Her mind whirled, seeking understanding.

   “Well, I’m working on saving the planet,” she stated, at last. Then, hesitantly, “I guess that puts us on different teams?”

   It was a trick question—to her mind, the two concepts weren’t really in opposition. It was more an end to the measuring of time. “The end of the world as we know it,” as Michael Stipe of REM had sung. A consciousness shift.

   But to her surprise, he nodded. What?!

   “Also, you’re Catholic,” he stated, flatly.

   “I am not!”

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   Where did he get that from? Was he referring to her Italian ancestry? Just because she felt a connection with the legendary Marys, both the mother and the spouse of Christ, it didn’t necessarily make her Catholic.

   “‘Catholic’ also means ‘all-encompassing,’” he added, with a fox-like grin.

   Was this his attempt at a consolation prize? She took a quick inventory of everything in this man’s reality, as she could see it. Dunhill cigarettes. Only picture on the wall a cheaply-framed black and white of JFK. Skateboard. Straight razor. Kitchen floor that sloped. What did it all
add up to?

   Nico pulled on a plain white oxford shirt. It looked elegant on his thin frame. As he buttoned the cuffs, he turned to her and sighed, “Look, you write your book and I’ll write mine. The books of our lives. We can write them any way we want. In your book, you can make me . . .whatever you want to. And in my book, well, you’ll be . . . a psychotic girl I met once.”

   “What the . . . ? Are you kidding me?” Alana felt her head grow dizzy. The air became white.

   “I don’t understand. Why did this happen?” she stammered.

   He touched her arm. His answer didn’t help. “I guess the wrong guy bought you the cheesecake.”
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