The Project is Complete

The Project is complete. Nine different authors, ten chapters, one story. Thanks to all those who contributed.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times; it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness; it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity; it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness; it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair; we had everything before us, we had nothing before us; we were all going directly to Heaven, we were all going the other way.

Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities

The Project

Chapter 1 By Sysiphus

I hate Dickens. I really hate Dickens.

That was the thought that ran through Xavier’s mind. Again. But at the shop at the Gare du Nord, the English language section was short on titles. And although he wasn’t a superstitious person, it did seem rather fortuitous since he would now be traveling between these two cities.

Better A Tale of Two Cities than some nitwit American backpacker.

He paused a moment after reading the opening paragraph and he had to admit, it was pretty good start to a book.

I still hate Dickens. How can you love anyone who got paid by the word?

He read on as the train left the city behind. The Parisian suburbs weren’t any more attractive than Houston’s, he noticed.

The sun had set. He laid his book down and peered out the window as the light changed. Soon, the window grew too dark to peer through and he reached for the book again. He stretched up to turn on his seat light and noticed a high-heeled foot dangling in the aisle, bouncing and swaying with the train’s motion. Black-stockinged legs disappeared behind the chairs’ curve.

He thought of Melanie. He glanced at his watch and calculated it would be mid-morning in Los Angeles. She’s probably just waking up now.

He felt the now familiar pang of doubt and self-loathing. Would she be waking up alone? And if not, who else was in her bed? He pushed the thoughts aside. He’d be arriving in London in less than two hours now. He needed to stay sharp and focused. If he let doubt creep into his heart now, he was doomed.

From his pocket he pulled out a pill bottle and with practiced movements opened it, tipped out two pills and popped them in his mouth. A wash of relief and calmness steadied his mind and he closed his eyes.

His eyes opened. The train had stopped inside London’s St. Pancras station. He pushed himself up and felt a surge of nervous energy before he consciously squashed it. From the empty seat beside him, empty because he had paid for it, he pulled his black computer bag and stepped into the aisle. He paused to allow the woman whose leg he had admired step into the aisle in front of him. Attractive, he noted, wearing a conservative grey business suit. She studiously ignored him which gave him ample time to appreciate the curve of her hips and legs.

Finally he stepped off the train and into the giant space covering the tracks. The air was crisp with grease and mechanical flavors. He walked along the platform with a press of people.

He felt a surge confidence, he was buoyant and invincible. He knew he would succeed. Nothing was going to stop him.

As he passed the locomotive, up ahead, he spotted a trio of London police officers, each flanked by a dog. Now, he felt a surge of panic, followed by a terrible certainty that he would fail.

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