Familiar Strangers

I'm writing a new novel and it's called Familiar Strangers, which is a term that my friend Marc used one time and I really liked it so I made a note in my phone to someday use it for a title... and this book is the perfect book for that title!

Familiar Strangers has to do with organ donation and that's all I’m gonna say about it at this point in time. You'll have to wait for its release to learn more. (Currently, approximately 20% of the novel is written.) I will, however, give you the prologue.

Prologue

On a rainy Saturday morning in early April, ten-year-old Harry Simmons-Carpenter pedals furiously up The Last Great Hill of Dunkle Ave. 

This is how he’s always thought of it, anyway: The Last Great Hill of Dunkle Ave., with the beginning letter of each word (even The) being capitalized and the abbreviated street name spoken as “Ave.”—never Avenue.

The hill is a monstrosity. In fact, when writing mental stories about his ascent, Harry often prefers to hyperbolize the slope and employ the term “mountain” in place of other, lesser words.

Hillock or highland?

Ridge or rise? 

No! The Last Great Hill of Dunkle Ave. is instead synonymous with greats such as Everest and Rainier, Denali and Kilimanjaro. 

When Harry left his friend Emmet’s house fifteen minutes ago, the rain had been little more than a drizzle. Now, however, the drops fall steadily in translucent sheets, soaking the boy’s denim pants and causing the skin on the tops of his thighs to chafe. He wears a yellow raincoat and has pulled tight the cord to its hood, thus preventing his dark ringlets from absorbing the moisture… but the raincoat does little to protect the bottom half of his body. 

The muscles of young Harry’s legs ache, and since his thoughts so frequently travel toward similes, he allows his mind to wander in that direction now, distracting himself from the uphill battle he continues to endure. “My calves burn as if fire, rather than blood, runs through my veins,” he mutters under his breath, panting the words as he blinks rain from his eyes. To himself, he thinks, I can do better than that, and after a moment of contemplation, manages, “My calves burn like the wicks of candles, newly warmed by a flame slowly devouring…”

Devouring what? Harry wonders, approaching The Last Great Hill of Dunkle Ave.’s crest. The wicks are being devoured, but I already used “wicks” earlier in the sentence… He chews his bottom lip, pedaling harder still, and momentarily abandons the similes in order to allow himself a moment to consider other elements of his surroundings:

• The air has a chill to it—and a dampness—that seems to reach right through Harry’s clothing and skin. It seems to reach straight down to his bones, in fact, turning them pale blue with ice.

• The air also carries a unique aroma, like freshly cut grass and faintly perfumed daffodils and very, very muddy earthworms and something else. Gasoline, maybe. Or motor oil. Gasoline and motor oil mixed with rain, so that when Harry inhales extremely deeply, he is reminded of the gritty gravel that glistens from the shoulder of the road.

• The sound of his bicycle’s tires on the wet pavement is like a librarian issuing an overly long “Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…” 

This last observation causes Harry to giggle, for he can imagine his school librarian doing just that. Mrs. Wills is tall and thin and has an immense amount of blonde hair that she always wears in a huge bun on the top of her head. “No one has ever seen her with her hair down,” his sister Robin, older by thirteen months and one day, reported last year when Harry first started at the intermediate school, “but we all suspect she has a big ol’ bald spot—right on the crown of her head!—that she needs to keep covered.” 

In addition to wearing her hair in a bun, Mrs. Wills has reading glasses that hang from a beaded lanyard around her neck and her wardrobe consists of shapeless dresses that reach all the way to her ankles. She’s known for enforcing an environment of strict silence: “Shhh…” is the first thing she says to every student upon their entry into the library, and “Shhh…” is what she continues to reiterate all through the children’s stay. 

Harry is still giggling about this as he crests the hill, imagining the reactions of his peers if Mrs. Wills were to greet them with a never-ending “Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…” at the library’s circulation desk. 

And so when a car, traveling far too fast on this rainy Saturday morning in early April, slams into the boy only a few seconds later, ten-year-old Harry Simmons-Carpenter is smiling as his body first flies through the air… and then collides with the pavement. 

Feel free to share your thoughts in the comments! I'd love to hear them.