I Can Be Your Hero, Baby

It's 5:16 AM, on a Monday morning. (Do you know where your kids are) The correct answer would hopefully be "sleeping." But Epiphany, you ask, what are you doing awake at such an unGodly hour? Well, I'd tell you I was just promoted at the spa to one of the managers, at the smaller location. Are we happy about that? We're indifferent. The pay raise is lovely though, so we won't complain too much. And that position requires opening the spa at 7:30. Which means I leave Brooklyn at 6:30. Which then means I wake up at 5:30. AM mind you. Damn, but that's early.

Cut to: I have also taken on a job bartending/serving at a club in Brooklyn. We like because we like that cash out at the end of the night. When I can walk away with $150+ in my pocket, I feel like I'm loaded. Annnd tomorrow...today....right now...is Memorial Day. So most people have the day off. Not me. I have training at the spa. Early morning to early afternoon. Excellent hours, if you like to wake up at the butt crack of dawn. I don't like that on a good day. Last call at the club wasn't until 4 AM. Then there was cleaning, and waiting for my tips, and tipping out the bartenders and busboys. Then we had to wait for the hoodrats outside to get their lives together and stop being violent and for NYPD/EMT/FDNY to leave, so I could exit the building.

I walked out of the club tonight with a nice chunk of change (with lots of Security), to get home at 5. So now I'm taking this little bit of time I have between jobs to write something poetic about my life. In less than 5 minutes I'll have to "wake up" and get ready for my day at the spa.

Oh yeah...but I haven't been to sleep yet. My friend S.Eslick told me I was SuperWoman for managing my schedule the way I do. Well, thanks love. I do try fairly hard to succeed, and bring awe to the lives of the many spectators. 8 hours and counting until it is absolutely appropriate for me to collapse in bed.

Happy Memorial Day.

Sneak Peak:

Prologue

May 2010

The New York University Environmental science class, Limits of the Earth: Issues in Human Ecology, had finished their final presentations. According to class conclusions, at the current rate of consumption, the Earth would run out of resources in the next 25 to 100 years. If not for air space, viable land and CO² levels had already exceeded the limits; and in a matter of years, the population decline would show it. As is 9 billion people on one planet was simply too many.

Unfortunately, the girl saw no reasonable solution and the radical ideas of her classmates could hardly be called “solutions” at all.  Anxious to be free from the confines of small room, the girl smirked to herself at her classmates. In what strange alternate universe did they think Americans would ever accept not showering daily as a feasible option of conservation? Water consumption? She snorted inelegantly. Hygiene is a quality impressed upon us from a young age. She was hardly a reckless consumer, but one must admit to multiple showers a day when the need arose. Finally. Finally. The clock hand showed quarter past eleven, she gathered her things and left the last class of her college career. Rather than dwell on the unsatisfied questions she dared not ask in that room, she shook out her reddish-brown hair and put on the pink Ray-Bans she favored. I mean really, what could a bunch of dorky, eco-friendly, twenty-somethings do in such a situation anyway?

Chapter 1

Some Years Later

            The immaculate hallway was silent besides the sharp footsteps that strode down the hall. The silver doors on either side shone brightly in the fluorescent light. At the end of the hall, the footsteps stalled, waiting for the green light in the sliding portal. The locked entrance whisked open and the footsteps continued until the doors slid shut again. The hallway, empty once again, echoed silently.

            Through the sliding door, the footsteps continued into one of the many exam rooms in The Lab.  The feet stopped beside the experiment strapped to the cold, hard table

“What happened?” the voice demanded.

“A minor complication, Director, the experiment failed when no signs of additional strength showed. We applied the beam twice and still nothing. The body can take no more and needs rest now,” the head scientist said.

“Are you sure he is resting? Experiment 10061204501-21 do you hear me?”

No response met the Director’s inquiries.

“Dom. Wake. Up.”

The man on the table opened his eyes with a smile, “well all you had to do is ask, Director.” Even strapped to a table, Dom’s typical roguish smile could make a girl’s heart beat faster. Unfortunately, he was wasting such natural charm on The Director and a room full of scientists.

“Release Experiment 10061204501-21 and escort him back to his quarters.” The command floated back to Dom over a stiff shoulder, as the Director left the room. The scientists jumped to do as they were told, while still keeping as much distance as possible between themselves and Dom—an incredibly difficult feat when releasing someone from a table.

            The guards fell in behind him as Dom stood from the table and gestured toward the door, “boys? Shall we?” The two guards followed Dom back through the silent hallway; the anxious eyes peering through the small window in each silver door fell back as soon as they passed. Satisfied that all was well, for another day.

            Dom’s shoulders sagged in relief with the hiss of the door closing on his cell, mostly alone at last. Sure, they can still see inside, but he couldn’t see them. And that makes all the difference.  Pacing to the small couch set up in front of his TV, Dom pondered just what the hell this experiment was supposed to have done. He didn’t feel any different. He didn’t have a mirror in his room, but as far as he could tell, nothing looked different either. Oh Well he thought. Best to let it go until something comes up. Bored and alone, Dom spent hours staring at the blank TV screen, until he finally fell asleep on the couch.

           

*             *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *

Two doors down that immaculate hallway, Alina (aka Experiment 10061204215-01) paced her room. Door to wall, and back again. Something was wrong. She could feel it deep inside her. Wall to door. Something bad was going to happen. Door to wall. Worse than the usual bad things that happened in The Lab. And the feeling was centered on the man two doors down. Experiment 10061204501-21. Dominic. They didn’t want her to know his name. They didn’t even know his full name, only calling him Dom in the most difficult circumstances. 

But she did know it. Just as she knew something bad was about to happen to him. It was the weirdest thing: she’d been sitting on her couch reading when she must have fallen asleep. She had seen Dom sleeping on his couch; it was as if she was in the room with him. But that was impossible, they weren’t allowed in any rooms but their own and the ones they experimented in. Yet there she was, bathed in shadows, watching him sleep. Then all of sudden it was like pieces of him started falling off. She rushed forward to the couch but he was gone. Frantic, she didn’t want to call out and alert any of the guards, Alina searched Dom’s room, the living room, the bathroom, closet and then finally the bedroom. Which is where she found him, asleep as he had been in the other room, only now he was in bed. Bizarre. She withdrew from his bedroom, not willing to disturb him, even in her dream. When she woke up the lights in Alina’s room had dimmed as they do when the room is empty, and she was lying in the shadow, stretched out on the floor next to her couch.

What does this mean? she wondered. If this dream was true– which admittedly, they often were­–The Director and scientists couldn’t know about it. He was supposed to be stronger. Not able to dissolve in his sleep. She needed to protect him, and tell him. She needed to keep his secret, as she had kept hers, from the scientists. 

© Epiphany Davis

the rest is still UNwritten

Your story is still UNwritten...

Today, my little cousin is graduating from high school. Which is really hard for me to face because in my mind he is still 8. Sometimes 12. But definitely not 18, and a high school grad. His older brother also graduated from college last week-- so I'm kickin' shouts to the Crook brothers. Many congratulations to the both of you.

Unfortunately, I missed the grad party. In my family "graduation party" really means "pour the champagne, roast then toast the grad"I missed my chance not that I have anything sentimental really to say. But when I graduated from high school I remember Bari Starr telling me just how much he looks up to me. (He made me cry) It's quite humbling to be a role model/mentor to someone. I try to keep it real with him. My life is not nearly as glamorous as I'm sure everyone back home thinks it is. I work at the spa and the club to supplement my income from dancing. I have long days and long nights, little sleep, and little money. Not exactly living in the lap of luxury here...but you want to be like me anyway?

I just want to say, Bari Starr, that you make me want to be a better person. I try every day to be good enough to be emulated. I love you, kiddo. And even though I had my doubts that your school would allow you to participate in graduation--lol-- I knew you'd do it. I can't wait for next year. You'll love school. And I'll only be a few hours on the megabus away. And you can visit as much as you want...after you turn 18.

This is just the beginning for you. These first 18 years are just the prologue of your story. Put your pen to the paper, and write. xo

the rest is still UNwritten.

#Don'tIKnowYouFromSomewhere?

Here's the stoooory.

Scene 1. April 2010- West 4th Street between Broadway and Lafayette. Epiphany walking
Enter the Italian 
Man: Can you tell me the secrets for you being so beautiful...


I was really going to try to play out all three scenes in this Act of the Musical I call my life, but I couldn't remember the words he used. And let's be honest, his wording was way better than anything I can come up with. But I can give you the general feel.

Picture: me walking down the street, minding my own business (as I'm wont to do) Enter man randomly speaking to me. My mother taught me not to be rude when complimented (and for some reason, I always think of that in crazy situations where I really don't want to be talking to people anyways) so I reply with a polite thank you. But he's laying on the flattery. What are your secrets of being so beautiful? Please can you take my number? I'll go through the rest of the day happy, knowing I gave my number to a beautiful girl. You should know–if you weren't already aware–flattery will get you everywhere in my opinion. I'd be the worst teacher ever accepting extra credit in the form of notes of admiration

Anyways.... I take his number but clearly have no intention of calling him. At the time I'm still 20, still in school, probably worried about finals... wait...what are finals? Just kidding. But everything else is true. And he is like mid-to-late thirties, "Italian-American, hunk of burnin' love" his exact words were something to that effect. He was so cute with his not pressuring me for my number I accepted his in exchange.

Cut to 2 months later...I've deleted his number in one of my periodic let's-delete-people-I-don't-talk-to-from-facebook-and-phonebook phase. Then (bum bum bum) I'm walking one night (back last June when I was staying in Connecticut) from DANY studios, going to grand central and what do I hear but the exact same line someone else has said to me... *Well sir, that's not original* Finally I turn my head to acknowledge the poor guy who's been talking to me and I notice: *Hey* #Don'tIKnowYouFromSomewhere? In fact, didn't you say the exact same thing to me a couple months ago? His response: I just wanted to know if you remembered Well I did. I take his number, again. And I even get his name this time. I keep both for a bit longer, but I still plan to delete them. And my parting shot? Well, Giovanni, if I see you again perhaps the third time's a charm? 


And wouldn't you know it. Almost a year later as I'm walking to the train at Herald Square late one night after work, I feel someone behind me. And I hear What's your secret for being so beautiful? I mean like....really? What are the odds? This time I get an email address. And since I'm not one to renege, I dutifully emailed him. It went a little something like this.


Soo....j***gio*****@hotmail.com is the third time the charm? I've seen you more times randomly in the past year than I've seen some of my friends. What are the odds? Let me know if you come up with a reasonable statistic =)


His reply  


Mmmmmmmm Lucky me... if the spirit moves you then call me. The Fates must be smiling upon us... we shouldn't anger the Gods! Meet me before the end of spring?


And you know what?? I think I just might.... :-) 


the rest is still UNwritten

If I Had Super Powers They'd Be...

I've been brainstorming super powers for a story I'm writing. Forget trying to write the story, if I don't knwo what super powers they have how could I form a plot? I can't! Duh.

Here's the list I came up with at the spa. (With the help of my fellow coordinators. P.S. I've promoted myself to front desk supervisor lol)

• Shape Shifter 
• Telekinetic/Mind Reader/Psychic
• Invisible/Camoflouge/Shadowing
• Teleporting/Osmosis 

I know I made it sound like it's an extensive list...but clearly it's not. Perhaps I'll post the story. Kind of like authors that give you a preview of the first chapter. Except I'm not that important, so if I can sit down and write it, I'll give updates.

I do love writing short stories. When I was in high school my history and English class was combined for a class called Heritage in 11th grade. It was like the dumb smart kid's English class. We watched movies almost every day. I loved it! Any way, every unit of learning we had there were like 6 or something, we had to do a unit project. There were options for picking but every time I chose to write a story. Until it came to the point that my teachers were like no more stories, Epiphany, we want to know if you have actually learned something; not get caught up in your eloquent story telling. Lolz

So when Mommy started approaching me to write the story lines for her original ballets I jumped on it. Not as a chance to make a name for my writing (because she always forgets to put me in the playbill) but because I just like to make things up. Well, once I get an idea that is. If I don't have an idea there is absolutely no use of me sitting down to write. I'll just get distracted and end up wasting more time. Like today, for instance. I'm waiting for Daisy to finish charging so I can go out. And I wanted to tackle at least some of this story. But aside from the powers I got nothing. So here I am, blogging about my lack of creative genius inside of inspiring some magical plots. Alas, such is my life. 

the rest is still UNwritten