Sitakali

Awakening: Prologue

2008-03-11T00:21:00.004+13:00

Warning: Somewhat disturbing content

Written 26/10/00, age 17

Darkness is between me and the four walls somewhere beyond this great expanse of space. The walls are made of steel—I recognize this place from the echoes my breathing creates and the metallic clank of my footsteps. It is a basement in a warehouse not far from where I live.
I hear the breath of another. It is faster paced--more like a panting heaved out from tired lungs, almost dog-like. I hear the clicking of toenails behind me. There is an unhealthy carnivorous animal in this pitch-black room with me.

“Daddy?” I cry, trembling, as I try to calm my desperate breath. I do not remember how I got here.

His voice comes on the loudspeaker. I know he is watching me, behind a one-way mirror on one of the far walls close to the ceiling. Not that he can see me too well.

“I’m right here, sweetie,” he answers.

“What’s happening?” Despite my efforts, I feel my heart pounding restlessly beneath my chest.

“You are in Coleman’s warehouse. In the basement. There is a wolf in there with you.”

I chuckle nervously. “You’re the one who told me a wolf wouldn’t harm a human being.”

My father chuckles in agreement. “Yes, well, things change if the wolf has been starved and beaten for two weeks.”

I swallow hard, and silence my breathing the way I do when my father is looking for me after dinner.

“He is an Alpha wolf,” my father adds. “You learned about Alpha wolves, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” I whisper.

I hear a faint growl from behind me. It is getting closer.

I turn my back to the sound, and place my hands behind my neck. The wolf barks, and I gasp, feeling my chest growing heavier. I begin to wheeze. This asthma never helped me in my survival training.

I know I am no match for a wolf. Short and slight, a scrawny girl with cropped wavy black hair brushing my shoulders, I am only ten years old. Yet the silver knife I have holstered in my belt loop holds me at an advantage. I am very skilled with a knife—to my father’s utter dismay—he’d rather I use something practical, like a gun.

Suddenly, I hear the swish of limbs as something painfully heavy slams into my back, claws tearing at my flesh and ripping the back of my shirt to shreds. I instinctively topple over into a somersault, my hands slashing at the air and hitting the wolf. I hear a faint cry as the wolf retreats for a second, and I crawl fast until I hit a wall. I brace myself against it.

My father speaks again. “You are just to the left of a handgun. Use it to your advantage.”

I feel the floor to my right and find the revolver. My trembling fingers move over it, as I look for the butt and the trigger. I then feel the chamber holes. They are empty.

I panic. “This gun’s not loaded,” I cry.

“There’s one bullet. In the chamber.”

I sigh with relief.

“Now you remember how wolves kill.”

I nod. “The throat.”

I feel a swoosh of air next to my shoulder. The wolf is clawing me. I feel in front of me and find a patch of fur, then hit it. The rib cage. I feel my way up to his snapping jaw, and attempt to muzzle his mouth with my hands, and fail. His teeth clamp down on my wrist, and I feel his eyeteeth digging into a vein. I shove the hand further into his mouth, forcing him to let go.

His jaws snap at my throat, and I slam the butt of my gun into his face.

“That’s not what the gun is for,” my father booms.

“No,” I say.

“Yes. This is part of your training.”

I grab the wolf around the waist, and he tumbles down on top of me.

“It’s either kill, or be killed,” my father says simply.

“No. I can’t kill an innocent animal.” I have now managed to get myself on top of the wolf and am holding him by the throat.

My father snickers. “Innocent? This animal is trying to kill you! Now use your gun and take care of it.”

I point the gun to the wolf’s head. Then my mind switches. I point the gun up in the air, and fire. It isn’t a fair weapon.

I take out my knife and hold it in the air. The wolf charges toward me.

“Good job. You’ve done it.” I have fooled my father for the time being.

The wolf is three feet away from me. On more snap, and my jugular will be opened onto the floor. He jumps. I slash toward the wolf, cutting through his throat.

A hot, sticky fluid pours all over me, smothering my face. I drop the knife, and fall to the floor, sobbing.

“You’ve done it!” My father cheers.

“I killed him,” I sob.

“You had to. He was trying to kill you,” my father assures me.

I stand up and look at the dark ceiling.

“No,” I say. “You were trying to kill me, Daddy.”

Why Aliens Don't Date

2007-11-11T02:16:00.000+13:00

“You cheated on me?!” I screeched.
He looked at me sulkily. “Well, um…”
“You cheated on me,” I repeated.
He sighed. “Yeah.”
“You cheated on me!” I said again.
“Yes, I think that’s been established,” he commented.
“Well, you can understand why I’d be a little upset!” I said.
He cleared his throat. “Actually, don’t’ think I can. I don’t think I’m exactly monogamous.”
I stared at him, incredulous. “I don’t care if you’re a Martian! You made a promise to me, and you broke it! Any person would have a problem with that.”
“I’m not sure a Martian qualifies as a person,” he said.
“Who the hell are you to judge that?!” I yelled, and stormed out of the apartment, slamming the door violently.

“That was by far the weirdest break-up I have ever had,” I told my friend James the next day.
“Why?” he asked.
I chuckled through my tears. “We argued about the status of Martians.”
“The status?” James said, a bit confused.
“You know, whether they’re people or not.”
“So he cheated on you with a Martian?” James asked, smirking.
“What? Why on Earth would you say that?”
“Well, I dunno,” James pondered, “maybe if he didn’t see Martians as people, he didn’t think he was technically cheating on you.”
I laughed. “I swear, James, sometimes you can be so bizarre.”

Voice of the Ages

2007-09-18T02:46:00.007+12:00

Written in 2005, age 22

Introduction

Time…what a strange concept. We all see time differently, that is a given. It’s so artificial, and so susceptible to human bias. It changes, based on perception. But no matter how remarkable an individual you are, no matter how wise the years have made you, as long as you have a human brain you are caged by its confines, and by the methods it uses to understand the world. I am no different because, believe it or not, I am human.

I am now about 15,352 years old.

I have always seen time relatively differently from most humans. When I was a child, I wasn’t awed that some people can reach the age of 80, or that traditions can last thousands of years. None of that seemed very long to me. I am mentally affected by the years just the way anyone else is—the longer I live, the faster time seems to fly, and ten years don’t make too much of a difference…except in how humanity changes, which it’s been doing faster and faster each year. I don’t feel that I’m near the end of my life right now, so time doesn’t slow down for me yet the way that it does for people moving closer to death.

It amuses me how people these days love the word “progress.” Most archaeologists would say that with the onset of agriculture, or commerce, or the Industrial Revolution, humanity has “progressed.” We seem to see change as “progress.” I heard the inquisitors of medieval Spain call their new ideas and innovations “progress.”

Then there are those of us who fear change so terribly that we see it as threatening our very foundations of morality and security. Back in the days of Jesus of Nazareth, conservative Christians would have been the first people to condemn Jesus’s new, highly unconventional and non-traditional teachings, for fear of change. (Note: I am not sure of Jesus’s existence, I was in India at the time.)

Neither of these views of change are correct. Change is not always progress, nor is it always dangerous. It’s just change, and we are the fastest-changing creatures the planet has ever seen. I assure you, I have had to adapt to that more so than anyone else.

I suppose you want to hear my story. Unfortunately, my entire story wouldn’t fit in one book, or a thousand books. But I will try to condense it for you as much as I can, though even a creature from the Paleolithic Era cannot compress data the way a computer can.

Before I begin, I must once again ask you to cast your assumptions aside. You can’t know the human experience unless you’ve experienced it. Clear your mind of everything you think you know. It is far larger than you can see in one lifetime.

Dust 2 Dust

2007-08-15T23:43:00.005+12:00

Written in 2001, age 18.

Chapter One: Building a Mystery

The crowd is dense and loud, and the lights blare and white out the stars I walk the closed-off streets at the Cougarville County Faire. There isn’t a sight within a hundred yards that isn’t colorful and commercial and corny. It is just the way it has been year after year for six years at this celebration. Loud tacky music chimes on the wind. The carousel is a few feet away, screaming children riding the plastic animals as if they were wild horses. A Ferris wheel is off in the distance—a looming giant with caged-in seats—the mere sight of it makes me dizzy, since I am afraid of heights. People are everywhere, and yet I feel totally alone.

I decide to separate myself from the vacant faces of the crowd and begin my journey out toward the darker, emptier part of the carnival. The stars sparkle overhead in the clear night sky as I get further away from the light pollution. A ways ahead of me on the black asphalt lies a dark tent, with a glimpse of sparkling candles peeking through the flap opening. Mystery has always attracted me, so I go in.

I am surrounded by bright candles that drown out the darkness of the tent along the edges. Most of the candles are red and black. The floor is covered in red and black crushed velvet. Small, ancient-looking bells and scarves frame the ceiling and walls of the tent.

I assume this is the tent for a fortuneteller. I hope so, because I would like to know what lies ahead of me this year—I begin the eighth grade at a new middle school tomorrow. Further into the tent sits a woman, old by the wrinkled skin, yet her skin also shines with a youthful radiance. She sits with closed eyes on a royal purple, crushed-velvet pillow with tassels, and in front of her is a glowing crystal ball, which soaks up some of the candlelight. She opens her eyes and smiles, the wrinkles around her eyes creasing, and her face is gentle with wisdom.

“Hello, my child,” she says, in a deep, cigarette-scratched voice. “I suppose you are here to have your fortune told.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” I say hesitantly. I have no idea how much this is going to cost, and I only have ten dollars for the rest of the night. But I’ve never had my fortune read before, and I am curious to see if she knows something about me that I don’t.

“Are you psychic?” I ask, studying her flowing clothing; long, frizzy black hair; and olive complexion. I wonder if she is a Gypsy.

She gives out a hoarse chuckle. “Some have said that I am. I am from a line of fortune tellers.” She studies me. “Do you believe a person can be psychic?”

“Yeah, I suppose,” I say, though I’m skeptical about the existence of anything possibly supernatural.

“You guess? You suppose? Is there anything else you’d like to add to that wide vocabulary of yours?” she teases.

I smile. “I’m gonna be going to a new school for the eighth grade. Maybe you could tell me if I’ll have any friends?”

She smiles and doesn’t once look at her crystal ball. “Some very unique friends. Friends you will hold on to for live.”

I am happy to hear some positive news. Even if it isn’t real.

She narrows her eyes at me, searching. “I have a feeling that’s not all you were seeking?”
I wonder how much money each question costs me.

She chuckles. “And don’t worry about the money, dear. It’ll cost you five dollars whether it’s one minute or one hour.”

“Well, I was wondering if there was anything you could tell me about myself, something I don’t already know?”

She nods. “Yes.” She gently takes my hands and brings them to the crystal ball. Then she touches her own hands to the crystal ball. “Your aura gives off great strength. It is more unique than any other that I’ve seen, including my own.” She closes her eyes, and takes a deep breath. “You are a protectress, the guardian of the people of this Earth. You have a great love for all that has a soul.”

“What do you mean protect?”

“You protect the innocent from the cruel. You must be gentle to all that lives, but turn a hard hand upon those who are cruel.”

“You mean like good versus evil?” I ask.

“No, Vanessa. The world is not as black and white as you see it in your young age. The living are very complicated. But there is a darker force at work here. It is your job to destroy it.”

I contemplate her words. It sounds like a fairy tale to me.

She studies the crystal ball some more. “Oh.” Her face turns sad. “Your past is filled with such sorrow. Though your life is happy, your other lives have not been. You will face the sorrow from your past again.” She pauses. “And this time you must confront it.”

I look at my watch. It’s ten o’clock. “Thank you…” I say.

“Venira. It was my pleasure, Vanessa. Remember, you are the protectress of this generation. You destroy evil and guide souls on their short journeys on Earth.”

“Thanks,” I say, highly confused, and I walk out of the tent in a daze, wishing my life would ever be that exciting.

I don’t remember giving her my name.

Allow Me to Introduce Myself

2007-08-15T01:42:00.000+12:00

Hello, fellow human beings.

My name is Sandy, Internet penname Sitakali. I am a passionate humanitarian, a deeply spiritual being, and a strong political debater. But first and foremost, I am a writer.

I started writing when I could hold a pen. That would be what...age 4? That's when I began recording my wild fantasies, and they've become consistently wilder ever since.

I thought up the plot to my first novel at age 10. However, that didn't go far. I was 13 when I thought up the first novel that I would actually write. Soon afterward, I had thought up the very embryonic stage of the first novel I would finish.

One year later, I began writing the more fetal stage of the book that I entitled Eternal Love, later to be renamed Dust 2 Dust. I have been working on that book ever since, partially as a commitment to my younger self, and partially because I keep coming up with new ideas to further expand the book.

Dust 2 Dust is the first in a series of four, all of which are in a more general series called The Hunter. The Hunter series will consist of at least three other novels.

I am unfortunately very paranoid about my work, terrified that people will steal it. I do not care about profit (although that's always a plus), I'm just very concerned about keeping intellectual property rights. Being an anarcho-socialist, the idea of property has always been a bit foreign to me, yet at the same time, I can't imagine life without it. As long as I am alive, I would like for my creations to be accredited to me. I don't believe that is too much to ask.

As a result of this paranoia, I reveal very little about my work until I have finished a significant amount of it. This is because of technicalities in copyright law. As of now, I have entire plots of 13 novels in my head, only a few of which I will name.

I write both fantasy and regular fiction. So far, the main characters are all young women. I have yet to trust myself to really get into the male mindset, so for now I refrain from writing from a male perspective.

I invite you to read on, and tell your friends. You may spread the word about my work as freely as you wish, just as long as you say who wrote it.

Have fun!

Sitakali