Young Writers Society

Welcome to the prologue.

“When it rains, it pours,” was my mother’s favorite expression. I couldn’t understand it as a kid. Sure, sometimes, it feels like that. You are down and, whenever you are about to get back on your feet, something else throws you down on your ass. But why would anyone sane wallow in the incidence of cosmical bad luck?

I understand it now. It isn’t so much the fact tha, when it rains, it pours, it is the implied promise: it won’t pour when the sun shines. But life isn’t like the weather. Some days, the sky is blue as a velvet ribbon and then, all of a sudden, a tornado blows your house away (and no other).

The worst day of Stephen Carlin’s life was also the greatest.

Professor Carlin had graduated summa cum laude from Oxford. He was considered one of the brightest minds of his time and certainly an authority in the field of neurology. His specialty was neurophysiology. He had singlehandedly revolutionized the domain.

He had known he was on the short list for the Nobel Prize in Physiology or Medicine, but he hadn’t really believed the Swedish would choose him. His contribution to Human Knowledge was easily as obscure as it was essential. Whenever people came up to him to ask about his research, he smiled demurely and replied, “Just looking for the human soul.”

He chuckled whenever anyone broached the subject of the Nobel Prize – both out of embarrassment and to make light of the possibility. “They would never choose me, I’m too much like the archetypical scientist. They’re probably looking for the Bob Dylan of Science.”

The news didn’t stun him, but he did sit down, alone in his locked office for a few minutes. Nobel Prize, uh? He wasn’t that surprised to find himself the recipient of the Prize. He just hadn’t expected it yet. He was barely fifty.

He wasn’t a foot soldier of Science anymore: he was a popular lecturer in one of the country’s foremost universities, was an acclaimed speaker in two others and had published two best-selling popularizing books. Still, he hadn’t left the trenches yet. It was his duty to shape the minds of a new generation of scientists and it didn’t stop him from seeing patients – be it his own or the odd case his colleagues referred to him. He had many more contributions yet to make.

When he finally unlocked his door, the Dean smiled apologetically and confessed that he had invited a couple of employees and benefactors, “just in case.” Carlin had been expecting something like that. His speech was ready, so he wasn’t too flustered to find himself shoved into the spotlight.

It was more than “a couple of colleagues and benefactors of the department,” however. Flutes of Champagne and canapes were passed around, attendants were in evening attire. As the guest of honor, he felt very underdressed in his corduroy jacket, black jeans and white shirt.

His face was very warm after the first couples of speeches lauding his accomplishments. “I’ve known Stephen Carlin for over thirty years. I met him during a Frat party in college. I seem to remember a couple of Budweiser and a girl named Franny.” The speaker winked. “She really, really liked the Professor here.” Laughter erupted in the room and the Professor ducked his head, blushing. “Now, now, no need to be embarrassed, Stephen. Franny got nowhere. You spent half the night drunkenly rambling about the pine gland.”

“The pineal gland,” Carlin couldn’t help mumbling under his breath.

“When morning came, I knew I probably wouldn’t ever meet a smarter man, and Stephen knew I was going to make shitloads of money.” Pause. Laughter. “So, naturally, we kept in touch.” More laughter. “He’s my son’s godfather, and I was best man at his wedding – sorry, Stephen, can’t sweep all of your failures under the rug.”

The Professor himself chuckled and shrugged. His divorce was long past, and his marriage longer still.

“I’ve had the privilege of calling him my friend for years, and here is what you most need to know about Stephen Carlin: he’s the rarest kind of man. He’s got the smarts, the strength of will and the vision to change the world for the better. It is an honor to introduce Dr. Stephen Carlin, now recipient of the Nobel Prize in Medicine.”

Peter Griffith, CEO and founder of the Griffin Group, stepped down from the platform and slapped the Professor on the shoulder.

“Franny?” Carlin whispered just loud enough that his friend could hear him over the applause.

“Privilege of having a best friend…”

The Professor made a face but knew it was only good-natured hassling. His phone buzzed in his pocket as he was climbing onto the platform. Drip. He was a doctor at heart and he never turned it off for fear of a patient needing him urgently. He checked it out but didn’t pick up the call.

Drip.

It was his daughter, Berenice. Berenice rarely called. She blamed him for his failed marriage and, maybe more than that, for not having fought his ex-wife for custody. She had gone so far as to renounce his name. But, even if she hadn’t so completely taken her mother’s side, they wouldn’t have had much in common. She studied business, or foreign languages, or something equally boring.

She had no doubt heard. He would call her back later. He had a roomful of people to address.

“Dear friends, dear colleagues,” he said into the mic, “please, calm down.”

His speech was perfect. It was moving, it was funny, he thanked everyone even remotely due his gratitude. And all through it…Buzz, buzz. Drip, drip. His phone kept buzzing in his pocket. Drip, drip, drip. He had to go through his first round of handshakes and well-wishers before he could isolate himself in the bathroom and finally pick up the call, “Berry-Berry, you heard? It’s very sweet of you to call, but I’m kind of the middle of…”

Berenice cut him off, “Daddy.”

It wasn’t just the word, though it was childlike and something his daughter hadn’t called him in years. It was her tone that chilled him to the bone. It wasn’t tearful or anything. It was blank with shock.

“Yes, Berry?”

“Oh, Daddy, I fell into a Trance.”

Meet our main protagonist in Chapter 2.