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Books, Humor, Satire

ONE PERCENT SOLUTION . . . (one page per day) Page 43 of 252


One_Percent_Solution_Cover_for_Kindle  DSC00772_FINAL front page_head_2

A satire of dysfunctional politics and economic disparity.  

Chapter V: Day/Page 43 CONTINUED FROM YESTERDAY. . . .  Sofia attaches the bracelet to her left wrist and feels the spark and hum of the force-field enveloping her body. With a deft flick of her wrist she frees the sapphire stone and in one fluid motion casts the lariat wire out, swings it around and over her head, snapping the whip in mid-air with a sharp cracking sound. (God, I love this thing.)

“Geez, I said be careful,” blurts Pils, ducking his head instinctively.

With another flick the wire recoils back into her bracelet. “It works.”

“What the hell! How—Where did you learn to do that?”

“Swift let me practice with his once. Now let’s test the necklace. Here, you use this one and I’ll use the one over there. Let’s talk telepathically.”

“Swift shouldn’t have done that. These aren’t toys, you know.”

“I never thought of them as toys,” she says flatly. “Now come on, relax. Ok, what am I thinking?” she says, crossing her arms over her chest, mouth closed firmly, staring silently at him.

Pils says aloud, “At the pub. We first met at the pub.”

“Well don’t say it out loud. Think it!”

“Oh, sorry about that.”

“You did it again. Now stop talking. Just think it.”

Pils closes his mouth, crosses his arms and stares silently back at her. “We first met at the pub… happy?” he thinks to her telepathically.

“Wow, that’s pretty cool,” she thinks back. “Ok, try this one. What do you think of my boots?” she asks telepathically.

He looks down at the scuffed dark leather. His eyes roam slowly up to her slender knees, across the thin black tights on her thighs which let just a hint of amber skin shine through, then the hem of her short black skirt, white T-shirt, hooded cloak, and then his gaze stops at her brilliant, emerald-green eyes. “I like your boots, Sofia. I like everything about you.”

Then his face becomes grave. He glances around. Sees no one near. “Sofia, what do you think will happen to Dr. Thrush?” he asks telepathically, as if not saying the question out loud made it safer.

“I think she’ll be fine, Pils. I really do,” she thinks back. “And I’m not just saying that. I really feel it. Like somehow I know she’ll be ok.”

“I hope you’re right, because I sure don’t feel like that.”

Now Sofia’s expression becomes serious. “Pils, can I ask you something secret?” she thinks to him.

“No, don’t. I don’t like secrets. I’m not good with secrets.”

“What do you think about me going to the Blue Planet on my own? What if I left now, without anyone knowing, to go help Dr. Thrush?”

“I just told you not to say anything, and you do it anyway.” His eyes dart around to see if others are listening, even though they’re speaking telepathically. “And what do you mean ‘without anyone knowing?’ It’s not like people won’t notice another body, your body, lying asleep in the stasis room. What am I supposed to say about that? ‘Gee, Professor, I guess Sofia decided to come in here and take a nap for a while. I’m sure she’ll be up in a week or two.’ Come on, that’s stupid. We could never—”

“Pils, look. . . .

TO BE CONTINUED TOMORROW. . . .

Available on Amazon , Barnes & NobleKobo, and Smashwords in Digital and Paperback versions.

 

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2013 by Gregory James

All rights reserved

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About Gregory James

After 20 years working and living overseas, I returned to the US and was disgusted by how partisan and polarized the country had become. Civility and compromise are now quaint things of the past, replaced by intolerance and the rule of extremes. So I gave up a lucrative career for staring at blank pages and searching for words, in the hope that words might help enact change. Stupid. . . . I know! But after 9 months of labor I birthed forth a book, entitled ONE PERCENT SOLUTION. Reminiscent of Vonnegut, with a dash of Saramago and Fforde, this humorous, satirical, often irreverent romp mocks the absurd we accept to be normal, ridicules the ridiculously low bar we set, and challenges all of us to demand more of ourselves by making light of what is sacred that shackles us.

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