Regeneration X
Authors: Ellison Blackburn
Regeneration X
Regeneration Chronicles Book 1
Ellison Blackburn
Regeneration X
©2015 by Ellison Blackburn.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, introduced into a retrieval system, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including without limitation photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. The scanning, uploading, and/or distribution of this document via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal. Please purchase only authorized editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrightable materials.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN: 978-0-9962300-0-1
Paperback ISBN: 978-0-9962300-1-8
Library of Congress Control Number: 2015906363
First Edition: April 2015
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2
Series: Regeneration Chronicles
Erstwhile Press
Portland, Oregon
Prologue
IN 2028, WE, CHARLOTTE AVERY’S SPONSORS, ASKED her to publish her experiences as a Generation Xer. Collectively, we hope this perspective provides guidance by way of an empathetic viewpoint and helps others who may be struggling with their lives in a modern age.
The time we live in may seem rather impersonal and we want you to know, you are not alone.
And while we all look to others for support, it is ourselves who we rely on the most. In this story, writing is the avenue by which Charlotte organizes her thoughts and addresses an ever-present listener, herself. Below you will find one of many journal entries, which offer valuable insights into Charlotte’s personal turmoil, and it may help you.
December 31, 2024
Dear Journal,
What am I now but a habitually prosaic, rather stiff person who spends too much time in the virtual realms of language without expression? Don’t answer that.
I’m glad the few friends I have politely ignore how ordinary I am.
It wouldn’t be so bad if I had a career, perhaps more creative, which didn’t bleed so heavily into my life or I worked in an office with at least minimal social interaction. I could use the practice. The fact is, my constant daily companion is the machine grinding away in my head and its mirror image, the one behind my monitor (and its babies—the devices).
I truly believe children are innately happy and profoundly creative the moment they are born; at least ten minutes post birth anyway—after the crust is removed from their eyes and a smack on their bottoms awakens them to their new reality. Suddenly they see what they have never seen before. Anything is possible. Every experience is wondrous. Each touch, smell, sound and sight, innocent. In essence, they are the creators of a new world. Even into their adolescent years, these conjurers imagine monsters and fairies alike; believe in mystical creatures and super powers; have faith in everyone and everything; even though none of the ‘beings’ are visible or characteristics, tangible.
It is over the course of more cognitive years when these impressionable minds are taught, rationality and disbelief are synonymous. Eventually, all of the conditioning we bombard each young person with molds his or her once beautiful, imaginative, and admirable mind (and heart) into a living robot who conforms to the norms of our society.
Believing this, I ask myself, “How did I end up here? Did I ever have control over my life?”
Well … up until 17, I was clueless; busy being young and growing up; nothing wrong with this. Actually, at least I have that—those were the good times. People call it innocence because there is so much newness to experience. In hindsight, I’d rather call it obliviousness since we are unaware of the freedom we’ve been granted for this short period. Anyway, all along, of course, I was taught how to be a good person in general; nothing questionable about learning fundamental values either. It makes complete sense. We live in a society and it’s so much better when we all get along. In this way, the mechanizations are condonable.
Then, enter the experimental college years, where all the big rules are set and life-changing decisions are made. You can change your mind a few times trying to find your niche. It’s okay, but in the end, you must curb your creativity and choose the one path that will define your entire future. I think we’re all supposed to be thankful for the boundaries. Therefore, like a good robot, I followed the program and emerged optimistic, ready to be a contributing member to society. “Yay! I can decorate my place the way I want and bonus! I get to work to buy stuff and pay bills.”
By the time I was 35 it was too late—or so I was conditioned to believe—to turn back and do something driven less by necessity than personal passion. It wouldn’t have helped anyway, I still didn’t have ‘one’ goal I wanted, I only knew what I needed. I was already formed.
When my forties rolled around, I was an editor of a well-circulated magazine and had just started working remotely. Conclusively, this is where my personality exited and hermit-dom entered. And I’ve been this uninspired person ever since.
So you see I’ve been turning right at every bend since I was 17, the path of least resistance. It’s my own fault for being oblivious. No? I imagine everything would be different. If I’d only taken a turn with my own force, skidded and slammed into the future from the opposite side.
Still, I wonder, how many outcomes are possible when playing the game by destiny’s rules.
* The following is recommended reading for all candidates considering Renovation.
** It is also advised, significant others should invest the time to understand the effects this procedure could have on their current home lives and lifestyles.
Chapter One
The miserable have no other medicine
But only hope.
—William Shakespeare,
Measure for Measure (3.1)
・
・
・
Charlotte Rhys Fenn’s story began long ago, when she opened her eyes to the world, September 9, 1971. However, we will start with today, November 4, 2024.
・ ・ ・
BEFORE WAKING HER UP WITH A JARRING start, Charley’s heart thumped once heavily in her chest. She gasped for breath and her eyes shot open as if she’d been resuscitated rather than asleep. She blinked several times trying to focus on her surroundings, which weren’t immediately familiar. Slowly the awareness came and she began to contemplate unraveling herself from a cocoon of bedding.
The upstairs was noticeably warmer than the first floor, despite the hardwood floors and large windows. Even so—ignorant of the subconscious shock just a minute ago—she was not looking forward to leaving the cozy divot her body had created in the mattress. Instead, she scooched her butt further into its softness, pulled the covers up to her chin and stared at the ceiling.
The flits and flutters of the hundreds of triangular leaves blowing in the wind overhead carried her thoughts into randomness. She and her husband, Michael, had purchased this house just a few years ago. There were other strong contenders for their last house—a place they hoped to call home. Finally, their decision weighed in toward this two-story, foursquare because of a lone tree and its ideal placement overlooking the house. It was because of this sentinel that one of the first improvements they’d made was to install an expansive skylight above the bed (to enjoy the effects of the ever-changing canopy the tree provided).
They’d seen the tree in its fully bloomed magnificence in May, but the old-growth poplar thriving in the backyard was breathtaking to behold in any season, resembling a wise old man guarding his subjects below with his silvery-white body and long, elegant sheltering limbs.
Autumn was late coming this year, so it felt still early in the season. Throughout Seattle, the leaves of the deciduous trees hadn’t all fallen or changed color yet. Today their poplar exhibited the silver undersides of its leaves mixed with the greens and golds of the topsides, and then there were the flashes of iridescent sparkles from the sun bouncing off the morning dew—it appeared deceptively warm outside.
Charley never tired of this display of living art. Thus, lounging before rising had become an unplanned ritual, and lately the minutes seemed to pass in a whirlwind … twenty minutes often stretched into thirty.
Although she was a nocturnal creature, she enjoyed the mornings more so than the night. In the darkness of night, just before drifting off to sleep, childhood remembrances of scenes from
Poltergeist
or other ominous thoughts invaded her serenity. On occasion, she found herself checking under the bed for a clown puppet come to life or trying very hard to block out thoughts of grasping branches of the tree crashing through the glass overhead. She especially had quite a time of it—trying to thwart the visions—when the tree’s silhouette was backlit by a moon high and full in the sky. Luckily, Old Man Poplar’s branches weren’t knobby and twisted like the fingers of a walnut or oak, but when she closed her eyes, she imagined hearing the creaking of limbs and scraping of fingertips. So, she kept her eyes open until she couldn’t anymore. Sleep came unconsciously.
I am too old to be frightened of such silly things
, she repeatedly told herself, but rational thinking didn’t always dissuade the portentous fantasies, and usually not when she was mentally tired as well. Lately, she knew this was the real cause; she just couldn’t shut down. It wasn’t quite insomnia, since she eventually slept, but it was as though there were too many thoughts and she couldn’t organize them all before finding the peace to rest.
She read that sleep becomes more difficult with age,
but what can I do about it?
She had a feeling it was more complicated anyway. She had a gut feeling the topics she’d been coming across at work were compounding the issue. Again, there wasn’t anything she could about it; instead, she’d just have to figure out how to manage the stress.
After several months of disturbing thoughts, she admitted her irrational fears to Michael. She hoped to glean something by his methods, since he was often able to fall asleep before she had even fluffed her pillow into a comfortable shape.
“It’s getting worse. Most days I barely feel rested. I’m afraid all those biotech articles about androids, life-extension science, and genetic modification have me dwelling on animated whatsits.”
