TODAY, WE ARE DELIGHTED TO WELCOME BACK, GUEST AUTHOR, JULES OLIVER WILKINSON. JULES IS SHARING FOUR CHAPTERS FROM HER NOVEL, 'TOUCH OF THE WHIMSY' #RWRTeamBlog #ReadWriteRepeat

Touch of the Whimsy

Prologue

Man shaped, but star filled, the figure emerged unseen from the ink-sea, making its way unfalteringly across sand, shingle, and kelp-covered rocks, then onwards into an entanglement of trees.

It did not pause, nor was its progress slowed by the dense undergrowth, as it penetrated the black of the night jungle.

Nor did it leave any trace of its presence on the fresh wet sand.

A stranded starfish, patiently awaiting the turn of the tide, briefly experienced a sense of rapport with the passing figure, before being snatched up as a late fish supper by a hungry gull.

It’s feelings of affinity with the other starry being slipped down in order of priority in its tiny mind, as it wondered at the aerial view; it had never before witnessed the sea from above!

It was turning out to be quite the night for firsts!

Part One- Castaway!

Chapter One

Coughing and choking up salt-bile, and water-battle weary, the figure that collapsed onto fine white sand was distinctly female shaped. Barely far enough out of the water to be safe, and uncaring of the vagaries of the storm-fuelled waves still lapping at her sea-battered body, she sank into oblivion.

By the end of that long, sunburnt day, as the cloud-whipped tropical sky drew a last deep breath, and blew away storm remnants, neither cotton-floss traces, nor scutterings of cirrus wisps, remained to interfere with the stars’ view of the fragile form left abandoned on the beach.

...And some miles out to sea... but from a gazillion miles away... a luminescent shimmer briefly manifested on the bottom of the ocean floor, noted, really, only by a vaguely curious octopus.

Solid barely long enough to make an impression on the silt-world of the bottom dwellers, the domed, and saucer-shaped object, interrupted the relative peace of the casually savage dominion of ‘large, eats small... eats smaller’.

The nature of the interruption stemmed from the universally recognised intonations of individuals having ‘an exchange of words,’ drifting out from the portholes, rather than from the almost-audible drone of its hydro-powered motors.

Anything within earshot, and with ears, may have picked up on tones of annoyance, frustration, and eventual petulance, before the shape shimmied back out of existence.

The vaguely curious octopus had been furtively making its way over to investigate the basin, stopping every few seconds to morph, first into a threatening looking rock, then into a beautifully variegated sea-anemone.

It had just struck a pose as the latest disguise in its repertoire, and the one of which it was most proud, that being, the ubiquitous ‘discarded drinks can’, when it suffered a momentary loss of dignity, as it suddenly found itself being dragged, suckering and bubble-blowing, into the vacuum created by the abrupt non-existence of the shimmering saucer.

Using a still trembling tentacle to lasso the one actual rock which was sturdy enough to have withstood the very local phenomenon, it levered itself unsteadily out of the indentation left behind.

It chose not to feel embarrassed by the huge cloud of blue ink it found itself leaving in its wake, and spurted off, a far less inquisitive, but somewhat more wary, cephalopod than it had been before its experience.

Chapter Two

The ferocity of the scorching sunlight burning through her grit-encrusted lids forced Cece Fontaine to her senses, and feeling neither refreshed nor restored, she slowly surfaced from the exhausted state, more akin to a prelude to death than sleep, which had consumed her last few hours.

Rubbing the back of gravel caked hands across her face did little to dislodge silt and sand from her mouth and her nostrils. However, she did find, as she fully emerged from her salt-drenched stupor, that spluttering out a goodly collection of harsh expletives and profanities went some way to clearing her airways!

And then the briny flood of tears, which coursed down her face, helped to wash away some of the blinding sand from scratched and stinging eyes, as hazy fragments of memory sloshed around her waterlogged brain, and Cece tried to make sense of her situation.

“Narcece! Get away …the rail! You’re … soaked…skin!”

“Cece! CEECEE! You’ll …up...overboard!”

The voices had come to her as if from a distance, fractured by roaring sea-sound.

Laughing!

And that last word was still ringing in her ears!

‘Overboard!’

Salt-licked and breathless, she had gloried in standing so close to the rail, watching the gigantic waves rolling in towards the massive cruise ship, and its vast bulk had seemed to be easily absorbing the swells which were coming in from a distant storm, causing little more than minimal turbulence on deck.

Nothing about the manner of the well-drilled crew had suggested anything untoward was about to happen!

There had been no call for lifejackets!

The band had not started to play the last waltz!

So the freak wave had materialised without warning really, and Cece’s emotions had had no time to evolve from thrill to terror, before a freezing shock crashed over her head, and ice-water hands were grabbing and pulling her under the azure waves for what, in that instant, felt like her final moment.

Her mind’s eye replayed her water-journey, carried atop of the crest of the giant wave, before being unceremoniously dumped, on what was possibly, and remarkably, the only barely habitable piece of land around for thousands of square miles. Cece vaguely remembered an awareness of crashing down onto dry land, and dragging herself a few feet out of the water.

She had no memory of progressing further up the beach towards the treeline, and figured her self-preservation instincts must have kicked in, leading her to drag herself, in a semi-conscious state, up above the tide line, and out of danger of drowning.

But still very much in danger, it seemed, of being eaten alive!

Or at the very least, being bitten alive, by a whole microcosm of creeping, crawling, and flying things, which were now fighting to sample the new delicatessen which had been delivered to their doorstep.

The shape of a man, that wasn’t a man, watched, as he had watched all night, as the woman pushed herself to a semi-sitting position, to be better able to look about herself.

He observed her shade sea-green eyes with grimy hands as she peered round, taking in the length of the beach, and the proximity to the jungle’s edge, as she assessed her situation.

He observed her struggle unsteadily to her feet and start to edge away from the trees, slapping at her upper and lower limbs as she did so, then closely exploring the skin where she had slapped, and then scratching at herself.

He observed, and registered, but drew no conclusions from her behaviour.

Without moving from his position in the treeline, the figure was able to monitor Cece as she made her way back down to the water’s edge, and watched as she again raised her hand above her eyes, facing the sea, staying in that position for several heart beats, before turning her gaze this way and that, and then settled once again, to face out towards the direction of the storm-dirtied ocean.

Then, as she turned her head to start scanning the beach again, he observed her begin to move slowly along the shingle and sand, and noted her steps quicken each time she neared another sea-wrack covered rock, intermittently emitting cries of “Hello! HELLO!” as she ran.

Eventually the frenetic dashing from one kelp mound to the next slowed and faltered, and the increasingly hoarse bleating faded. She was still within his view when she eventually sank to her knees and, barring for her ragged breathing, fell quiet.

He noted that the sounds that she made then changed to low harsh sobs which caused her breast to rise and fall convulsively as each gasping sound forced its way out of her body.

He recorded the changes in her activities, and neither knowing nor caring what her erratic behaviour meant, he stored and transmitted the information, and awaited further instructions.

Chapter Three

Not too far from Cece’s position, an immortal entity, from a species older than the universe, and almost as old as time itself, and who will more latterly be known as ‘Dave’, flitting somewhere between existence, and thought, briefly materialised, and tutted.

Soon-to-be-Dave’s still developing manifestation took place in a vague, non-descript, protoplasmic-form, inside a submerged vehicle that his companion had assured him was a ‘contemporary transportation device’, and which, he had informed him, was ‘infinitely appropriate’ for the corporeal manifestations that they would be taking on their current assignment.

He checked out the decor, then de-materialised again.

A few micro-seconds after the protoplasmic-form had disappeared, an early pro-simian figure fleetingly replaced his presence, then that too was gone.

The small primate then re-materialized, as though having just remembered why it had been there in the first place, tutted again, insofar as an unevolved monkey can tut, replied to a few incoming transmissions, then flickered back out of existence one more time.

Chapter Four

Cece wandered disconsolately along the water’s edge.

Scouring the beach hoping that she was going to find a shipmate washed up along the shoreline, did not feel selfish to Cece, even if it did mean wishing her own fate on someone else!

She did not know whether the ship had gone down, with that last enormous wave, or whether she had just been unfortunate enough, or careless enough, to have gone over the side, but the thought of being alone, anywhere, for any length of time, was terrifying to Cece.

Let alone being on a deserted island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean!

Cece had been almost as shocked as everyone else in her circle when she had suddenly announced, during one prosecco fuelled girls’ night at The Little Chickadee’s, that she intended to take advantage of being ‘between jobs’ …unplanned, and in the run up to Christmas to boot…and feeling flush with redundancy money, had decided, as she was ‘currently single’, to book herself on to a month-long Tropical Myster Cruise!

If anyone wanted to accompany her, she would work her cruise round their convenience, she had announced magnanimously, but if not, she would go alone!

After the initial surprise at her proclamation, the enthusiastic responses from the gaggle of alcohol-merry females had varied from declarations of mass resignations, in order to accompany her and to ‘get themselves a fresh start’ too, to promises of trying to arrange ‘a bit of time off’ to ‘go with’, to those who more realistically settled for wishing her the most fantastic time, because ‘she deserved it!’

When the dust had settled on her invitation however, and the alcohol had evaporated, offers to ‘come with’ seemed to have been no more substantial than the alcohol fumes that had prompted them, but with the fear of losing face with her friends trumping her fear of making such a mammoth trip alone, she had set about arranging a protracted once in a life-time Christmas Cruise for herself.

And, against all her own expectations, she had actually been starting to enjoy the experience!

Torn between feeling the need to spend time alone contemplating what was happening with her life, and trying to work out what she should be doing with it, and the fear of spending too much time alone inside her own head, especially during the festive period, had resulted in Cece managing to inveigle herself into

several groups of cruise-tropico aficionados who didn’t mind her tagging along; when it suited her.

This meant that she did not have to commit herself to any one individual or group, she had concluded happily, so no-one would miss her when she wanted to opt out of any of their activities, and spend time contemplating life and the universe!

But now, Cece had to wonder, how long would it take any of her cruise-mates to notice her absence if, for example, she happened to get herself washed overboard?

And Cece didn’t even know if that was what her fate had been!

If she had been washed overboard, at least the cruiser was still out there!

Hopefully no longer cruising, but going full steam ahead, or full engines ahead at any rate, scouring the seas for her!

Or at least exploring any likely land masses that she might have been washed up on!

But what if she was indeed the sole survivor of a now sunken cruise-ship?

The whole situation seemed unfathomable to Cece and did not bear too much more thinking about!

Pivoting on her heel, Cece made the sudden decision to head back up the beach towards the tree line.

It was unlikely, Cece decided, that she was going to find a knight in shining armour materialising on the beach, so she supposed she had better start to think about what she needed to do to survive!

Realizing that although there was a lot she did not know about her situation, what she did know for sure was that she was very, very thirsty, and that she could not survive for long without fresh water.

And that soon she was also going to need food! And shelter!

She wished too that she could get rid of the damned biting insects which despite not being the most pressing of her current problems and, admittedly, not nearly as bad since she had come away from the water’s edge were, nonetheless, greatly adding to her misery!

As Cece made her way determinedly towards the jungle, a chill breeze crawled along her skin, coming unexpectedly out of what had turned into a sweltering and stifling day, after the previous day’s storm, causing goosebumps to run along her forearms, and she felt a slight tremor course through her body.

The man-shape watched from the trees as Cece made her way off the beach and into the jungle, detecting every nuance of her behaviour, despite his distance.

He blended back into the trees as she drew near, then moved beyond him, even observing the hair raise on her skin, and the slight tremor as she passed.

He did not move, but shifted his gaze slightly to watch her progress, as Cece, feeling like she was in a wildlife documentary, and trying hard to remember any random pieces of survival trivia she may have heard over the years, started making her way along a well-used animal spoor, which allowed her access into the dense brush.

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Touch of the Whimsy: https://amzn.eu/d/6rDYYPd

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Author Jules Oliver Wilkinson

AUTHOR BIO

Born and raised in Yorkshire, England, Jules Oliver Wilkinson is the author of what she refers to, as the light-hearted, fantasy, ‘soft’ sci-fi romance, ‘Touch of the Whimsy’, as well as numerous paranormal short stories, including Repercussions, The Long Game, Sea Shades and ARC4.

Jules has managed to ‘bookend’ several decades of working with people with learning and communication differences, and neuro-divergence between her other lifelong passions, writing, and creative narrative.

Jules reports that her writing career began in middle school, by her filling entire exercise books with her ‘short story’ assignments, resulting in her being advised by one of her teachers to ‘not to get too carried away, Miss Blyton’, and leading up to her deciding to let herself get totally carried away, and writing a book about a woman being cast away on a desert island!

Jules’ affinity with the world of neuro-divergence, communication differences, and unique worldviews is often reflected in her characters and storylines, never more so than by the wonderful characters imagined by Jules in her debut novel ‘Touch of the Whimsy’, most specifically, but not exclusively, as represented by the Whimsy himself!

Jules says that Pete her long-time partner, all time hero, and sometime story creating collaborator has often described her as being unique and a trendsetter.

Pete gently corrects her statement, saying that although he definitely agrees Jules is unique, he didn't say ‘trendsetter’ so much as ‘never one to follow any recognisable fashion’…

Jules claims that that is close enough...

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COMING SOON: On Monday, 2nd February, our team member, writer/poet, Rikke Rose Rasmussen, is sharing an insight into her future book, 'The Book Of 3 Wishes'.