Looking for the Sun

Author’s Note

Wow! Hello! This is kind of crazy, that you’re reading this. Reading my first novel!

Quite exciting.

I’d first like to thank you. I wrote the original short story, Searching for the Sun, in my sophomore year of high school. We were reading Of Mice and Men in class, and let me tell you: I did not like it. I’ve read a few novels by John Steinbeck, and he is, well, a very descriptive author.

Though I did not particularly like the writing of his book, it is perhaps one of the most impressionable pieces of literature I have ever read. Specifically, Steinbeck focuses upon the friendship of Lennie and George, two complete opposites who share a desire to achieve the American Dream in the height of the Great Depression. This was the first time I’d ever read a book in which friendship was the main theme. There was no romance or dramatic violence (except accidents), no overthrowing of a massive superpower or coming of age tale, just two people against the woes of the land.

And within three days, twenty-one pages of my notebook were filled with the journey of Happy and Book. It wasn’t until later I realized the correlation between my short story and Steinbeck’s novel, but without that book, I doubt mine would ever have existed.

The original Searching for the Sun was the first piece of writing I felt was completely and wholly mine. Though I will heartily credit Steinbeck’s lovely use of relationships as the inspiration for my indulgence in friendship, that is both the beginning and (thankfully) the end of our literary similarities. I wanted to take this unconditional, platonic love and throw it into a boiling pot of gothic fantasy. In crediting my love of this particular genre, I certainly cannot point to my reading prowess as a child, seeing as I loathed fantasy altogether and—I will shamefully admit—took pride in such a boycott.

Eventually I came to my senses, reading novels such as The Hobbit and Frankenstein (a book I am embarrassingly obsessed with). I learned about different platforms of storytelling such as animation, theater, and television. Simply, I consumed content, and all it took was Of Mice and Men to turn my head toward a story I can hardly believe I had the privilege of writing.

Throughout this book, you will notice a few things. Namely, the constant presence of death and its relationship with each individual character. Happy themself essentially is death, Book is dead, and Time is nearing death. Even the entire forest in which the novel is set shows a constant fear of death. This struggle with mortality—this inevitable ending—I placed into the hearts of each of my characters to express a question I’ve always worried over: what happens when we die?

I found the simple truth that death has the ability to twist its way through millions upon millions of different avenues of possibility. How can something exist and simply . . . not anymore? How does that make any sense? And in my novel, I answer that little question.

It doesn’t!

It doesn’t make sense. Death itself is infinite and boundaryless. We as living things can’t possibly know the after, as life shields us from that knowledge. I’d always struggled with this idea of the next life being so easy. So set and predetermined. We manage to tie death to life when they are so wholly separate from one another. There is no comfort in labeling death or searching for the place it will take us. It alienates us from life and makes us fret so much that we forget we’re still breathing.

And what I want is to bridge that gap a little bit—to give death a voice that isn’t sinister or domineering but innocent and gentle. Create this olive branch of communication between life and its end. Specifically, I use the mutual emotions of love and fear for both those alive and those dead.

Really, I do not know where this idea came from: where in my brain Happy existed, where I met Book and tasted the bitterness of her tragedy, what infallible dream or nightmare spurred the emotionless pining of The Man, or what everyday passerby molded Time. I’m still confused as to what gears in my imagination began turning themselves backward.

Perhaps its origins are as simple as the town I grew up in. A small, contentedly repetitive town. Despite this constant regularity, I’ve moved thirteen times in my eighteen years of life (I should mention that my parents are divorced, thus spurring such nomadic lifestyles). I once swore I’d lived in half our suburbia’s neighborhoods and thus never had a desire to settle down. Though my novel is not the same as hopping a plane and flying wherever my savings take me, it is this idea that inspired the lack of a base in the novel. Happy and Book do not need a home or a place to live, as they find that comfort in one another.

In the end, this book is about them. These two characters walking through a world they don’t belong in, finding a sigh of solace in the company of one who is just as much an outcast as they are. It is hard to talk about the characters of my book without convincing myself they are real. I am simply the vessel in which these beings chose to speak their story.

So, really, it is my privilege to introduce you to Happy, Book, and whatever else you may find and hold on to.

Thank you for reading.

1

The Beginning

A dead girl lay in the forest.

Her little body was nestled deep within a leafy maze of shadow and oak, past towering pines and gurgling brooks. Around a dead-end ravine, mountainous hill, and careening valley. Animal eyes flitted, blinking, frantically searching until the trees finally threw themselves open. Close, now.

At the revealed clearing’s center dripped an inky pond, its pebbled shore straining toward a nervous willow tree whose leaves cracked in the chilled air. Forest creatures leaned forward, inhaling the near-imperceptible stench dribbling from its weight-leaden branches.

Yes, there she was, cast in shadow by the groggy blue sky.

Her limp, swinging frame trailed from a curving branch. A sweet girl. Buried in the crook of her neck and hidden beneath the fluffed coils of dark hair was a noose. Too bad, as it swelled the deep brown of her skin, creaking with the light strain of her body. A pretty girl, had it not been for that noose.

Beneath her lay a delicately veined scarlet flower, the sunset ring of its petals brazenly vibrant against the otherwise frosted ground.

As if agitated by some invisible hurricane, the dark pond waters tripped into a ripple, rolling up the trembling stone shore.

A tittering finch faltered and choked on its song, frail lungs heaving as watery ruffles lifted to waves. In an immediate decision of instinct, the bird turned, fluttering away as the forest flickered its leafy gaze toward the girl. The red flower shriveled into dust.

Disgusted by its compliant disruption of tangled legs, the breeze snatched itself from the girl as trees ceased their gossip and frogs skittered into the brush. There she hung, her puffed, cherry-red jacket trying desperately to veil the clogged bruises along her neck.

Silence reigned as the forest waited.

A collective, trembling breath disturbed the undergrowth as there rose from the pond a silhouette, trickling droplets steaming from Its rising form.

Its skin was black as the deepest, darkest ocean, where dreams lay buried and creatures swim with flesh of transparent nightmares. Standing perhaps eight feet tall, slits pulsed along Its webbed forearms. A fin-like horn curved from the top of Its head as wide, unblinking eyes glowed golden.

Turning in a slow circle, It stared into the cringing forest. Clouds swarmed over the sun as the being searched, raising an arm until a scythe-like appendage stitched above Its wrist unsheathed itself from the pond, tendrilled fingers slithering beneath it.

Upon seeing the girl, the being stalled and tilted Its lantern eyes, feeling a strange, wispy kind of wonder. The pond’s ripples stagnated into a plate of solid glass as It strode carefully to shore, halting an arm’s reach from her.

As the watery sun arched above, a tight clump of confusion knotted within the being’s chest, as the girl did not look up or climb the tree or fly away. She did not fall beneath the lure of distant chirps or croaks, but remained a spinning ornament of gagged flesh, unperturbed by pointed scythes and glowing eyes.

And without such movement, It became a little nervous, uncommonly bemused. The being rubbed Its hands together as a whisper, raw and angry, poked at Its curious mind. It had been warned of such dangerous feelings and the consequences that followed them. Like a pounding drum of false obligation.

Warily, night descended.

After a quick glance toward Its blackening pond, the being dodged harsh whispers and reached for the girl, brushing the edged tip of their scythe against her cheek. A silent, wavering moment prevailed as It watched, the forest trees muffling their fearful cries.

A bursting scream ripped apart filmy sheens of wonder, nearly collapsing the being as invisible claws raked across Its eyes. Flung back by the physical shove of such internal noise, It scrabbled at Its head, gaze torn from the creaking girl as autumn leaves shrieked at Its careless footsteps. The outside world remained silent as It swung Its lanky frame and staggered beneath dark waters.

Not a splash echoed as the being slunk away, tormented by teeth-gleaming voices. And as the finned head descended, the forest sounds returned in a heaving sigh. What the being heard—those sweet, distant noises—were only a strum in a wonderfully immortal symphony.

There hung the girl, silent and still.

***

The next day, the pond and the trees and the animals continued their eternal, monotonous routines. The night had no stars, as the clouds had placed their stubborn hands across the sky, and instead the hours rolled by in tense silence, the breeze running off to a land without dead girls or decaying, sad smells.

As the shielded sunrise stretched its rayed arms, the being again rose from still waters, shoulders hunched. Dawn gagged as It walked across the glass-like water to stand before the unmoving girl.

Its glowing stare transfixed to the ancient willow behind her. Flaking wood shivered with a lasting breath, and the being raised Its scythe, touching the molding, sodden trunk. Branches folded in a vacuumed crack of sound and the poor, ragged tree collapsed.

A stillness draped across the forest with no origin and no ending. The kind that is always there, slung behind a sentence or woven deep within the fabric of skin. A forever kind of feeling.

It then crouched down, slicing through what little bit of dampened rope tethered the girl to the eroding willow, pulsing eyes unflinching. Incessant whispers flitted like white shadows across Its mind.

She refused to move. Yes, refused, as her rope was cut, freeing her little body from whatever might keep her still. The being hesitated, staring and wondering and thinking about things It had no right to. A hum of curiosity. Finally, seeing no ruffle from her jacket or quirk of her mouth, It made a choice. A decision quiet in its fervent trill of uncertainty. A pale flash of hissing voices.

It gazed at the loose ends of the girl’s jeans, teetering at the line of finality before closing Its orbed, pulsing eyes. When It opened them, the girl blinked back, her pupils milky, puffy cotton clouds.

It jerked back, surprised. This was unexpected. Those crawling, inside voices had said she would sink like the willow, run away with bloated toes, or perhaps simply fall asleep like the other forest creatures did. She would be gone, one way or the other. But the girl had returned. She did not breathe, but her swollen, bulging eyes saw again.

The being stood rather abruptly; stared at the girl with twinkling, living eyes; and strode back into the pond.

It did not return for several more sunrises.

2

A Name

What are you doing? There is nothing to leave for.

The being shook the edged voices away, rising from the pond on a crisp fall morning. Across stagnant water and leaning against the willow’s bare retch of a stump sat the girl, leaves swirling around her like drunken fairies. After a brief, heavy moment of contemplation, It approached her, the sky a curved dome of clouds.

The noose hung around her neck like poorly handled jewelry, hair twisted into a spring of coils and fluffed above her head. Her blinking eyes appeared separate from an otherwise motionless body as the being neared and sat a polite distance away. Courteous, now that she made choices.

Its unblinking gaze shivered at the constant flash of skin that pressed against the girl’s bleeding pupils, her eyelids nearly sticking to swollen cheeks.

You are sad. So easily shaken.

Looking away, It willed the weighted voice to cease as forest creatures rustled beneath green shadows, wary of such a golden-soaked stare. Grasses cracked in a flurry of terrified footsteps, and the being spun back, sensing Its blame. Yet as It again met the girl’s flashing eyes, It found a winking light within her gaze, and unspoken words from a new voice bled into thought.

Do you not like my blinking? she asked, gaze scrunching.

Do not answer.

Not particularly, replied the being, but your hair is similar to dark chocolate.

What is that?

I do not know, but there is a Man who once adored it.

The girl cocked her head slightly. That’s nice.

I suppose it is.

A light, trickling sensation curved down Its back, mind now silent of this pressing new voice. A contented kind of silence, where words are expected to follow. It was a secret, unspoken sound, and both were eager to continue this talking-but-not-talking as the girl’s eyes settled upon a more rhythmic pace. The being leaned forward, intrigued by the established formality of kindness.

What do you think I look like? It asked, folding webbed hands beneath Its chin.

It seemed the girl had just discovered she could see. Well, you have no hair— she said.

That is true.

—or ears.

It