His debut exhibit features the transformation of his high school friend, Sarah, as she went from a shy, soft-spoken girl to a Child of Nostradamus–an individual gifted with extraordinary abilities. Living in a society where the Children of Nostradamus are captured by the government, Conthan’s exhibit draws attention from officials and protesters alike.
As a dark future unfolds, there’s only one hope to stop the destruction of the world…The Children of Nostradamus.
When I was younger I used to work on a comic book with my best friend. We wanted to be great comic book authors when we grew up. He would do the drawing and I wrote the plot lines. Eventually it got put away and decades later I decided to rummage through a folder and stumbled across the concept. I thought it would make for a great novel and with the height of superheroes, I wanted to tell this story while people were knee deep in the concept.
My characters are based on people I’ve known in some loose form. The main character resembles my past in a story concept. I think this allows them to be grounded in reality and helps give a certain amount of life to them. There are some that are unique creations that were needed to fill the slots, but I always try to make sure there is human qualities unique to each character.
She sat at her desk, silent, running her hands along the smooth surface. In such a large room, filled with historic monuments to one of the greatest nations, it was the desk that always captivated her. Her fingers rested on a spot where the varnish had worn thin and she could feel the memories etched beneath her fingertips. Decades earlier, a man had sat at this desk and helped fortify the nation. His hands had rested in that exact spot, beginning the weathering of the mammoth structure. Years later, a less virtuous man would place his mistress on the desk and ravish her in an attempt to exact revenge on a bitter bride.
She let out a sigh as the memories wove themselves into her thoughts. An image flashed across her mind, a mistress being taken by her lover. With a startled gesture she pulled her hand away from the spot and pondered the realness of the images. They were always the same, and if she left her hand there long enough, she would eventually begin to feel her brow sweat as she made stately decisions or her body tensed up in the throes of passion.
She reached for a crisp white glove on her desk and slid it over her delicate, aged hands, pulling them tight on her thin fingers. She rested her hand on the spot again and this time the memories were distant, as though if she focused, she might be able to remember. The gloves, while perfectly sculpted to her hands, were the thin layer of fabric between her right mind and losing herself to a distant past.
“Excuse me,” came a young man’s voice.
The woman turned in her chair and could see an intern standing at the door. “Please do come in,” she said in a wispy voice.
She could tell he was nervous in her presence. Despite her warm invitation, he waited at the door. He looked at her but averted his eyes to one of the various larger-than-life paintings that lined the walls.
She had grown accustomed to the averted gaze of the young people in the office. She waited patiently for him to test his bravery and enter. She rested her hands in her lap, one on the other, in the most delicate manner she could muster. In the years that she had worked there, she had learned to make herself the least threatening individual in the room.
He could see that she wasn’t going to continue until he moved closer. He lowered his head, focusing on his feet, and took several steps in her direction, but left at least ten paces between them.
He tried to speak but his voice was caught in his throat. He adjusted his pristine tie, loosening it slightly, and tried again. “I apologize, Ms. Valentine,” he said quietly, “it’s just that…” He trailed off.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said, his southern accent slipping into his speech.
He let out a deep breath and she could see his entire body relax. She wondered if he had been expecting a scary old woman, or perhaps somebody who resembled a villain in a children’s book. She often felt that she should be insulted, but dismissed it. She was fond of the interns and their prim and proper ways.
She was well aware his eyes followed her closely as she walked toward one of the large paintings on the wall. She pulled the painting away from the wall, arcing it outward like a door to reveal one of the most well-guarded safes on the premises. She found it humorous the painting hid the safe since everybody knew it was there. She punched a few numbers on the keypad and leaned forward against the safe as a blue line scanned her eyes.
“But what if…” The smile on her face stopped him mid-sentence. Eleanor couldn’t hear his thoughts, but she couldn’t ignore the waves of nostalgia washing over him as he compared her to his grandmother. She would give him that same smile, which revealed nearly a century of wisdom but the temper to keep the knowledge to herself.
“Thank you,” she said, pulling the handle of the safe open.
He didn’t argue. She was well aware people in the lounge would whisper about her cryptic words. She knew he would do the same, telling them about his experience with the psychic.
“They’re all postmarked for…” He looked at her soft smile.
“I know,” she said calmly, “but I must repeat this.
“That is only for the individuals meant to read them,” she said.
“They say you can…” He paused. “You know.” She nodded.
His voice trailed off as she placed her hand on his.
She could feel his body stiffen at the benign gesture. She could feel his muscles twitch and then eventually relax. She stared into his eyes, not blinking.
Like the spot on her desk, she ran her fingers across the tops of his knuckles. Unlike the desk, she could feel her thoughts moving forward. The hair on her neck reacted as if she were running and she could almost feel the breeze wash across her skin.
Her mind was filled with images of the young man in front of her. She could see him as an adult, with children of his own and a wife, and even standing at the grave of his beloved. She let her mind become overwhelmed with the flashing vignettes of his future and finally she gripped his hand a bit tighter, giving clarity to her visions. She could see him and his father visiting a sickly, bald woman in a hospital bed.
She closed her eyes and took a steadying breath. She opened them to the sensation of tears running down her cheeks. She looked at the boy in front of her, his eyes quivering, afraid of what he might hear.
He sniffed deeply, nodding his head.
He pulled her in close and wrapped his arms around her small frame. “Thank you,” he sobbed.
She watched as the young man turned and walked out of her office and down the hall. She took off her glove and wiped the tears from her eyes, careful to avoid her makeup. She slid the glove back on and went back to her massive desk.
Sitting down in the chair, she reached for the bottom left drawer and opened it slowly. She pulled a wooden box from the drawer and rested it on the top of her desk. She closed her eyes for a moment and then opened it, revealing the small handgun inside. She could feel the history of the gun as she looked at it.
She quickly picked it up and put it into her purse. She closed the box and returned it to the drawer, and then closed the clasp on her purse. She had been taught how to handle a gun when she first arrived and had even been given special permission to keep one in her office. While she could handle herself, she hated having to touch the piece of metal.
Eleanor took a deep breath and stood up, pressing the blazer of her powder blue dress suit against her body, smoothing out the wrinkles. Pushing a loose strand of white hair behind her ear, she picked up her purse and draped it over her shoulder. Looking down at her white gloves, she clenched her fist and made her way to the door.
As she worked her way through the winding halls, she began to think about the events leading to this moment. She had become increasingly alarmed by the actions of her boss over the last few months. It was nothing the woman did or said, but her mannerisms were ever so changed. The simple way she looked at Eleanor over the edge of her mug while she sipped her morning coffee had felt off.
At first she had brushed it off as the stress of the job. Even Cecilia’s husband was unaware of the changes. Eleanor had subtly brought it up over afternoon tea and he was completely dumbfounded. However, over the past few months she had been experiencing changes herself.
Eleanor Valentine was one of the most trusted associates of her boss. Her insight into the world had made her indispensable. For the last eight years she had been treated like family, and when she chose to speak, her boss listened to her words. She would like to think that she was doing her duty to all of mankind.
Orphaned at a young age, Eleanor felt it funny that only in her twilight years she would finally be able to refer to somebody nearly half her age as family. She could sense the guards in the hallway as she walked toward the infamous doorway. Two men stood there in black suits with earpieces nestled firmly in their ears.
“Quite fine, Mr. Connors,” she said with a smile.
He put his finger to his ear and waited for the next command to be fed to him. She had grown so accustomed to the burly men she kept company with. She knew that her twilight years made them see her as harmless, never as a threat in the building. While the guards were explicitly told not to banter with their charges, she could often find them in their private break room talking. On more than a few occasions she had brought them her infamous chocolate chip cookies.
“You can go in,” the massive man said.
“For you, anything,” she said, holding out the bag.
She found it unsettling how easily her body had acclimated to the sensation of pushing her will onto another human being. Her heartrate had barely elevated. She took another steadying breath and reached out for her purse.
“Have a splendid day,” she said, aware that he handed the bag back to her in a manner that would avoid physical contact.
“You too, Mr. Jacobs,” she said to the other guard.
Mr. Connors reached for the doorknob and opened the door for Eleanor. She gave a slight nod of her head as she passed through and waited for them to shut it behind her. She took several steps until she was in one of the most recognizable rooms in the civilized world.
She understood the pomp and circumstance, and that every object in the office was there for either historical or public relations reasons. She could accept nearly all the décor, but each time she saw the ugly carpet imprinted with a large eagle, she shivered a bit. She had mentioned it time and time again, but alas, to change even that had the potential of creating an international incident.
“Likewise, Madame President,” Eleanor said with a minor curtsey.
They both took a moment of silence to commemorate the boy who died after he decided to use his gifts for something of a more sinister nature.
Eleanor let her hand rest on the folder. She felt the cool paper against the tips of her fingers. A jolt that came with her gifts surged through her body. She never needed to see the contents of the folder; she would never have understood the contents. Her eyes were open on the room, but phantom images emerged across the office. She felt herself jump from one moment to the next. She could see the timeline connecting each of the moments, splintering into “what ifs” and “what could bes.” Small lines of light tied each moment together. She began to choose and pick which ones she would follow.
On several occasions she worked backward and then forward again.
The images washed away and a slight breeze touched her skin ever so lightly. In the matter of seconds in which she looked at the folder, she had witnessed thousands of possibilities.
“That will be quite the upset,” said the president.
“Done,” said the president, taking the folder and setting aside.
Eleanor took the younger woman’s hand in hers. “Thank you,” she said.
Before the president could respond to the contact, Eleanor’s hair began to stand on end. She waited for the images to fill her vision, but she couldn’t use her gift when she focused on her longtime friend.
Eleanor focused on the hand tightly gripped in hers. Instead of walking forward, she felt as if she was falling, moving backward. Where she couldn’t foresee the future with Cecilia, she could recall the past.
It began with her movements this morning, and as Eleanor pushed harder, she could see events that had happened weeks ago. Finally she saw the woman standing at the door to this very office and what she saw shocked her.
Cecilia stood up, gasping at the sensation of having her entire life played out. “You’re only a precog,” she gasped.
Eleanor pushed away from her on the couch. While she had felt fine when she walked into the room, fear started to wash over her body. She grabbed her purse and continued to scoot back from the woman.
“You’re not Cecilia,” Eleanor said calmly.
The President swung her hand, her knuckles hitting Eleanor with enough force that it knocked spit from her mouth.
“Long enough,” Eleanor said, trying to keep her composure and not let the fear take control of her body.
Cecilia froze in mid-sentence. Eleanor could sense the woman’s muscles struggling against her will, but she stayed paralyzed.
Eleanor could sense the wildness in the woman in front of her. The fake president was right, these gifts were new to her. She had been able to see the future her entire life, but only in the last year had she been able to see the past and touch another person’s mind. A year wasn’t enough time for her to master these gifts.
Eleanor grit her teeth as the woman resisted her compulsions. She could feel the headache beginning just behind her eyes. It would only be moments before the nosebleed followed, and if she was unlucky, she would pass out from the strain. Her frail body betrayed the immensity of her mind.
“To avoid this?” Eleanor could feel her mind losing its grip on the woman in front of her. “For humanity,” she whispered.
Her finger squeezed the trigger and a loud bang sounded throughout the room.
The breeze rushed along her body and the images began to overwhelm her. The event in front of her was creating a new path into the future and her gift was attempting to show her the repercussions of what she had done. While she had spent months examining each possibility, hours spent in a trance trying to unravel destiny, she had known any attempt to foil the president would result in her demise. She realized that her actions were not the catalyst that her gifts had shown her. The dark future still obscured her visions. Her actions today would not lift the turmoil on the horizon.
The bullet penetrated her chest, pushing through her lung and sending her small frame to the floor. The shadows of the future washed away and she was aware she was in the present, grasping the plush carpet, staring up at the ceiling of the Oval Office. The woman she had shot stood above her. The bullet hole in her white blouse was apparent, but where she should have been bleeding, there was nothing.
“I’ve won,” said the president.
Eleanor could feel her vision beginning to slip. “Only the handmaiden of destiny,” she whispered.
The president’s brow rose at the ominous statement. “You can’t do anything now,” she said, leaning over her, pretending to cradle her dying friend.
“But I already have,” whispered Eleanor.