(This is one of my more humorous stories. Please critique, for my friends are annoyed with my endless novels.)
Have you ever heard the rumors that you are reborn depending on the style of your previous life? What about the one where we re-do our lives until we get them right? How about the people who never get them right? Are they just stuck in a never-ending circle? Do they have to repeat their lives for the rest of eternity? What about the movie ‘Groundhog Day’? How do we know if someone isn’t reliving the day over and over again, and we’re completely oblivious to it?
Something along the lines of that happens. I’m not joking, I’m not lying, I’m not merely writing this book for your pleasure or even for my own. What I tell you in this book will make you aware of what’s really happening.
However, I warn you: being oblivious is sometimes good. You are in a state of ignorant bliss, and it is a beautiful, gorgeous thing to not know. After you are finished with this book, not only will you be painfully aware, but you will know my story, something that no one will ever remember.
Put down this book down right this second if you wish to remain pleasantly oblivious to the dark things that happen right before your eyes and that you never remember. If you want, I can completely erase it from your memories. In fact, I can erase your entire memory. I can make you a baby again. Or I could give you memories and make you a senior citizen.
The choice is yours: remain blissfully ignorant (ignorant sounds like a very mean, insulting word, but in this case, it’s the one word that’s not insulting.) or you can be plunged into a very confusing world of pain, violence and broken hearts, where no one can love, no one can trust, and the term ‘every man for himself’ is taken very seriously.
If you choose the first choice (which I highly recommend) you can close the book and put it back on the library shelf you took it from or return it to the bookstore where you purchased it and remain ignorant.
If you choose the second choice, you have decided your fate. You will have a slim chance at a future once you know. Who knows? You may cease to exist completely. That’s only if you’re lucky.
Change your mind yet? If so, shut the book. If not.... Well, use your imaginations.
*****
Amazingly, my story began when I was three. There are several things that made me a strange child at this time. First of all, I can remember that far back in my life. Second of all, I had serious déjà vu attacks, where I would zone out for hours on end and get lost in endless memories that I had never witnessed.
Of course, after the moments lost in non-existent time, I forgot the whole déjà vu scene. When I did remember I tried to cling to the memories. The more I fought to keep the memories, however, they faster they slipped away. When I had small accounts of déjà vu, I could remember those easily, but only when they happened.
Anyway, when I was three years old, my parents took me to a family reunion. Our family was huge; very, very big.
I was the first girl born into the Mackey family ever since my great, great grandmother was born, so everyone was nuts about me, crooning over me, making baby noises and trying to make me smile.
I remember very well how idiotic those adults looked, making all those faces at me while I was staring at them as though they were crazy. I was a very serious baby, and rarely laughed unless it was truly funny.
(By the way, if you ever want to blackmail your parents, take them to the nearest day-care center’s nursery and bring a camera!)
You’re probably wondering what was so strange about this: a normal family going to a normal family reunion. Well guess what? You’re WRONG!
As I mentioned earlier, you are unaware of most things right now. The world you live in is one in a gaggle, and your world only lasts for only a fraction of a millisecond compared to the rest of existence.
Now is your last chance to close the book.
You want to keep reading? Okay, but remember: it is your existence.
My parents were looking for someone that had time to watch me for a moment so they could get their own food. A tall, broad-shouldered teenager walked up. He was about 17 or 18 at the time, and his eyes looked at me as though he’d known me forever.
My parents were told that this teenager was my father’s grandmother’s aunt’s cousin’s daughter’s son’s grandson. Having nothing to disprove it and the fact they were completely unaware (another chance to close the book! No? Aw...) they handed me over.
The teenager set me down in a high chair and looked at me as though I was the best thing in the world. I cocked my head at him, examining his amber eyes and slightly wavy dark brown hair.
I knew him. I recognized him the moment I saw him, and for a moment, I had a quick flash of déjà vu. Of course, I forgot it, but I knew I had seen that teenager somewhere before.
Now looking back on the event, if I had known what was going to happen to me several years later, I would have told that boy thousands of things: my mouth would have never stopped moving.
Back then, though, I was oblivious. Not wonderfully oblivious, like you, but oblivious enough to have no idea who he was.
I saw my parents approaching, and the teenager looked deep into my eyes (which were still blue at the time) and stroked the short, curly hair (which was still golden blond then) back out my face.
“You’ll learn Liada,” He told me. The voice was painfully familiar, and I felt like crying for some reason. I missed him, even though he was right in front of me. “You’ll remember.” He murmured. “You’ll remember everything we did together, and then I’ll take you back.”
My parents set their food on the table, thanked the teen, and he left. When my mother tried to feed me, I refused it. I wasn’t hungry.
Of course, you know moms. When you don’t eat they think you’re gonna die or something, so my mother went through every technique she knew: “Here comes the train! Choo Choo!” or “Open the barn door and let the animals inside!” and my personal favorite “Here’s the bat! Let the bat in the cave! Open the cave up!”
(Again, perfect timing for blackmailing your parents!)
I still refused to eat, and when I did, several other people tried. Finally, my father tickled me, and I opened my mouth, laughing. My mother jammed the squashed peas into my mouth and I was forced to eat them.
That was only the first strange thing that happened, and it is probably the least strange.
One more chance to close the book.
No?
Pity.
*****
My second encounter was when I was ten. My father took me to a museum, and it was the most boring museum I had ever been to. I mean, I have nothing against museums that tell you the whole timeline of education from when humans were just amebas to the last major testing that had happened only a month ago, but when you’re father forces you to read every exhibit and you are a ten year old girl much more interested in being at home drawing, you tend to form a slow and yet very strong hatred towards learning.
(By the way, hatred is not a kind word, and just because it is used a lot in this story does not mean you can go around going, ‘I hate you! I hate you!’ Instead, use the words strongly dislike.)
Anyway, we were walking towards the next wing of the museum (help me!!!) when this huge group of people went rushing by us, and all of the sudden, I couldn’t see my father. He was simply gone.
I wandered around in the same area for a moment, remembering the annoying lectures of my mom: “If you ever get lost, stay where you are, and someone will find you.”
Then I saw him. He was standing around in a black jacket and a plain jade green T-shirt, his hands shoved in the pockets of his blue denim jeans. He was looking around wearily, but when he saw me staring at him with my eyebrows arched high, he sauntered over to me.
“You remember me, Liada?” He asked softly. I nodded, my eyes still wide. It was the teenager from the family reunion. “Do you trust me?” Again, I nodded. “Follow me.” The teen walked off quickly, and somehow, I caught up to him.
We walked through half the museum before I finally saw my father, who looked pale as a sheet and was looking around, panicking.
The teen leaned down and put his hands on my shoulders. “Liada,” He murmured. His amber eyes gentled to something I had never seen before. My parents had given me similar looks, such as when I had been ready to get on the bus for my first day of Kindergarten, with my little purple backpack on my back as I smiled up at them.
This look was different, though. It was stronger, much more powerful. It was hard to explain at the age was ten, but I understood later in my life.
The teenager then stood up and left without another word. I watched him for a moment, still startled. He was walking down a mostly empty hallway and a security guard passed in front of him for only seconds.
The teenager was gone.
Now, I remember that there were no doors near where that boy had been standing, and there was nowhere he could have hidden. So I watched the place where he had disappeared, wondering if he had somehow managed to cling to the overweight security guard that had passed him, but logical thought ruled that out.
My father reunited with me and we continued our day without any other incidents.
*****
Have you ever noticed that when you read a book, when the first page says ‘Prologue’ you usually skip it because you figure, oh, well, it’s just a prologue. It has no importance what-so-ever to the story.
First of all, I ask the obvious: why in the world would a writer put a prologue in the story if it had no importance? Second of all, the prologue isn’t actually boring, but no one likes to read them, which is why I made my actual prologue chapter one so you wouldn’t skip it.
Third of all, I hope you’ve noticed I like to list things. I am a very organized person mentally, which is very important when you can do what I do.
Fourth of all, I give you another break in the story to close the book and take it back to the library or bookstore.
Still reading, huh? Is it because you ripped the page or spilled some coffee on this poor, innocent book? Can’t return it now, can you? Might as well read it...
My third encounter with the teenager happened when I was fourteen. I had been walking over to the forest to snap pictures so I could draw them later (I was an avid artist then and still am when I can find the spare time.)
On the way to the forest, there’s this really big road you have to cross that’s four lanes of traffic. However, that’s why George Hoshkowitz invented the crosswalk.
When the light turned red for the cars, I was free to go. I strode across the crosswalk without any knowledge of the freaky incident about to happen.
Like I said: blissful ignorance.
A big pick-up truck came zooming right out of the lane and came like a bullet at me. I didn’t even have time to let out a scream as the truck swerved and hit me.
I was killed instantly.
You’re probably wondering how I’m writing this if I’m dead. Well, I’ll tell you.
After I was killed, I suddenly found myself back on the sidewalk, my foot in midair as I began to step out to the crosswalk.
A hand grabbed my arm and pulled me back, just in time for the truck that had killed me to zoom by. I looked up and saw the teenager from the family reunion and the museum smiling down at me with that same gentleness.
Being an artist, I took pictures of random people doing random things. Some of the pictures I took were not random, however. At the age of eleven I had taken an interest in taking pictures of couples, especially ones giving each other the ‘love look’ as my mother called it.
The teenager had the same look on his face, except it was much more powerful, undying, unwavering. No matter what I did, he would just love me more.
(I would like to take this moment to point out that this is a romance/action/adventure story, and if you don’t believe me, read the paragraph before this! I would also like to take this opportunity to tell you this is one of your last chances to put down this book and never pick it up again.)
Those of you still reading this (hopefully there’s not a lot of you. It’s not that this is a bad book, it’s just that I want you to know that you are alive right now because you are curious, whether you know it or not, to see what will happen to you. You’re curious about death too, but you don’t want to move onto that until you figure out life, and if you know everything in life you can’t handle the pain and the joy and the sorrow and everything else that comes with knowing everything and you will most likely commit suicide.)
(I’m not saying this book will do this to you, it’s just what happens to some people when they have never-ending knowledge. Luckily, I don’t have that, and I have my love to keep me from ceasing to exist.)
The teenager said softly to me, “Don’t worry, Liada. You’re safe.” My eyes widened as he led me across the crosswalk in safety. When we got into the forest, I turned to thank him, but he had disappeared.
Actually, I lied.
There is no George Hoshkowitz. He didn’t invent the crosswalk. I don’t know who invented the crosswalk. (Which brings you to the conclusion that I, in fact, do not have never-ending knowledge and I did not lie about it.)
I wonder who did invent the crosswalk. I’ll need to look into that later...
*****
Okay, so if you’re reading this sentence, I’ll have to give you credit. You’ve lived through my ranting and explaining for one chapter.
However, not all explaining is done at the beginning of the story. Some of it is done at the middle, or the end; Mostly the end though, because if there was no explaining to do, then the beginning would be the end, which contradicts itself and makes life much more confusing.
I will make your life simple (for now.) and just tell you that you have completed the first chapter of this book without anything too exciting happening.
By now, you probably think I’m lying. You think I’m some lunatic in a crazy house or a bored teenage girl who is sitting home with only her drooling American Mastiff for company and needed a story to write.
If you think either three of these things, you are wrong. (Except for the teenage girl part.)
I am telling the truth. I am not lying. Even though lying is fun (especially when you tell someone that her date is at the dolphin tanks when their supposed to be at the county fair and you generously lend her your bike so she can pedal all the way to the aquarium while you make a move on her date) it is wrong, and it is not nice.
I will not lie to you.
Scratch that: When I do lie, I will tell you.
This is your last chance to close the book. That’s it, slowly close the book while keeping your eyes on the words... Keep on closing the book...
Those of you still with us, you might want to sit down if you are standing up, and if you are reading this book on a very long airplane flight you will want to put it up. (This book can get so shocking it can make you throw up, and trust me, that’s not fun on a plane.)
Now, people still reading this book, you have plunged yourself into something deep: something deep as time. Maybe deeper.
You have gone into my story. You are reading the story of Liada Amser Moonhunter.
You are now aware.
Painfully aware.
Even though you say not to read this, you scare reveiwers away! We don't like reviewing looooonnnggg storys. But I will anyway. 
