Chicago, 2014

The tall Canadian rarely let his guard down. His life was moderation and self-control. For a year now, he had been wrestling with the dreams which haunted him at every turn of the road. One by one, he saw pieces of what felt like an insanely complex jigsaw puzzle appear. The first couple of months, the young crying girl visited him regularly, then slowly he named her father, and the computer was given a persona. Nothing in using the image of Marilyn for a story made sense. Technically imprinting a personality was illogical at best. One of his diplomas was as an expert in image protection, he knew there would be barking back from the estate of the former actress.

But in all, the images remained ghosts floating in a web of complex images.

“You will love it,” spoke Boris, “they are a wonderful band.”

“What is it called again?”

“EDM for Electronic Dance Music, they are Germans, the best.” The attorney wasn’t one to care but a group of forty friends planned to crash his home, park and walk to the Navy Pier where the music would happen. He knew there was a way out, this close to fifty years of age, he wasn’t about to discover a passion or fall into the dangerous hallucinogenic drugs.

The concert started in the massive high ceiling venue. Thousands danced and moved and the tall Canadian refused to let himself go. His was a life of control. As the music and the lasers began to spin, the energy began to seep in. He watched the scene and quickly the music brought him to a different place.

He felt like there was more to these dreams. He saw the Purple, a world of rocks, the Lower, a world of crystals. The story made no real sense yet, many parts of it unfolded uncontrollably. He was able to see the Glider fly over the Martian landscape, the Underworlds but there was no real story. The places were magical. Unlike the other times, the feeling was exhilarating, this was fantastic.

The story, if there was one was overwhelming in size. This was a world, hundreds of characters. There were worlds, places. There was a purpose, a goal.

“You okay?” asked a dancer worried he was overdosing.

The physical contact made him drop from this zone back into the real world. “Yes.”

“You were standing there, like a zombie. You like the music?” His answer was polite.

The flashes came and left as quickly and what remained was genuine confusion. None of it truly made sense. He was no author, yet something had to be done.

The next day, a Sunday morning when he normally would bike for hours, he grabbed his little computer tablet and went to a coffee house nearby. He stared for long minutes at the empty page. He tried and failed numerous times to start. Each time, it was pure crap.

Then, as if guided, he slid in earbuds and pushed in the music of Celine Dion, his favorite singer from his homeland. Slowly, he began to slip into a different state of mind, almost like a trance closer to the mysterious story that floated. His single finger began to type. One word at a time, it began.

Quickly, the words began to assemble and form chapters. He wasn’t good, the English barely made sense at first but the man had resolve, determination. For a decade, every chance possible, he found refuge in music and his unfolding story. He was amazed by the words coming out as if animated by a purpose.

But he knew very well the story, to function and be commercial needed more. Characters were silent, mature and truly most of it made any sense. Alain stacked many diplomas including aerospace engineer, mechanical engineering, and patent attorney. The man knew physics, mathematics and knew he alone had the technical range to describe this complex world.

But as the words began to pile up, the size was crushing to any potential reader. In 2020, no one really read much less stories of more than half a million words. At some point, he found the courage to get a cover made from a friend and publish online an early version. The rare readers were clear, the English was too weak.

Truth be told, this wasn’t a story and his grammar, while Good was unreadable.