Title:
DAY MOON (Tomorrow’s Edge Book 1)
Author: Brett Armstrong
Publisher: Clean Reads
Pages: 389
Genre: Christian/Scifi/Dystopian
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Prologue: Inheritance
The drizzle tapped on the coffin with an increasing intensity. A steady rain soon began, its great droplets gently touching the mourners with icy insistence. None of it seemed real to Elliott. He looked at the mounded soil, the great wound in the earth where the coffin was positioned, ready to be lowered at any time. Rain was sliding off its slick grey surface, as though nature wished to wash all of this away.
Arranged in a semi-circle around the casket were all those who cared enough about Elliott’s grandfather to make the trip out to this relatively obscure plot of land. No one gave it much attention throughout the year. Buried deep in the woods atop a steep, Appalachian hill, the cemetery had no road. Even the paths were overgrown. Every one of the attendees had been forced to make the trek in their uncomfortable finery. Like shadows dancing from a flame, they had made the journey, full of complaints.
Elliott glanced at those gathered: aunts and uncles, cousins, and a variety of other relatives whom he couldn’t identify. His parents were somewhere, speaking with the attendees, trying to hold the family together in light of the sudden affair. No one had expected the accident. There wasn’t even an opportunity to look at the body; so charred and mangled had his grandfather’s body become as his vehicle careened off the road.
Everything about the accident felt so impossible. Nothing more so than this moment. With the rain’s persistence, they were already beginning to lower his grandfather into the gaping, muddy maw.
Soon the arguments over who got what would begin. His grandfather had a will, but no one cared what it said, so long as they got their fair share. Elliott had already overheard grumbles that he was getting a rare item, one of the few enduring volumes of Shakespeare’s works. It had been a favorite of his grandfather. Even for its rarity, it wasn’t worth anything. The global initiative his grandfather had been working on, Project Alexandria, required all print materials to be recycled as soon as their contents were added to the system. A single repository of human knowledge, from the beginning of recorded history to the present. Whoever had the book would simply have to part with it sooner or later. It didn’t matter.
A tear tried to fight its way through Elliott’s rigid guard. Clenching his hands into fists, he took a shallow breath, and blinked it back. There was only one other person who could have felt close to what he did. Shortly, all of the others wandered away, seeking cover. In their absence, Elliott could clearly see his cousin stood by the hole, planted like the many stone fixtures around them. John was twenty-seven, almost ten years older than Elliott, and had already lost his father, Elliott’s uncle, some years earlier. John’s attention was fully on the descending form of their grandfather’s casket. The thought of this forced Elliott’s head round, briefly, to look in the direction of his uncle’s tombstone. It was in danger of being overtaken by honeysuckle vines. Even in the strengthening shower, the scent of the buttery hued blooms filled the air.
Elliott was tempted to walk over to the small granite block and push away the encroaching plant. Try as he might, he couldn’t bring his legs to move in that direction. If no one acted soon, the messages on the stone would be obscured:
“ALVERSON MCINTYRE.”
“Pursued Greatness.”
“Born: September 30, 1982.”
“Died: June 18, 2035.”
Uncle Al had died four years ago, to the day, of some exotic respiratory disease that had spread from central or southeast Asia; a mini-pandemic. If he hadn’t been overseas on business, he might never have contracted it. Now, all that would be remembered of him was that in his fifty-two years of life, he pursued greatness, to say nothing of ever laying hold of it.
Rubbing his arms, to bring warmth to them, Elliott turned back around and finished his journey to John’s side. The brawny man was still looking down into the hole to where the casket had finished its descent. John’s blue eyes never wavered from their hold on the burial pit. Slowly, John reached out his large, work-worn hand, gripped a handful of the dirt in the mound beside him, and stared at it a few seconds, before gently lofting it into the grave.
The drizzle tapped on the coffin with an increasing intensity. A steady rain soon began, its great droplets gently touching the mourners with icy insistence. None of it seemed real to Elliott. He looked at the mounded soil, the great wound in the earth where the coffin was positioned, ready to be lowered at any time. Rain was sliding off its slick grey surface, as though nature wished to wash all of this away.
Arranged in a semi-circle around the casket were all those who cared enough about Elliott’s grandfather to make the trip out to this relatively obscure plot of land. No one gave it much attention throughout the year. Buried deep in the woods atop a steep, Appalachian hill, the cemetery had no road. Even the paths were overgrown. Every one of the attendees had been forced to make the trek in their uncomfortable finery. Like shadows dancing from a flame, they had made the journey, full of complaints.
Elliott glanced at those gathered: aunts and uncles, cousins, and a variety of other relatives whom he couldn’t identify. His parents were somewhere, speaking with the attendees, trying to hold the family together in light of the sudden affair. No one had expected the accident. There wasn’t even an opportunity to look at the body; so charred and mangled had his grandfather’s body become as his vehicle careened off the road.
Everything about the accident felt so impossible. Nothing more so than this moment. With the rain’s persistence, they were already beginning to lower his grandfather into the gaping, muddy maw.
Soon the arguments over who got what would begin. His grandfather had a will, but no one cared what it said, so long as they got their fair share. Elliott had already overheard grumbles that he was getting a rare item, one of the few enduring volumes of Shakespeare’s works. It had been a favorite of his grandfather. Even for its rarity, it wasn’t worth anything. The global initiative his grandfather had been working on, Project Alexandria, required all print materials to be recycled as soon as their contents were added to the system. A single repository of human knowledge, from the beginning of recorded history to the present. Whoever had the book would simply have to part with it sooner or later. It didn’t matter.
A tear tried to fight its way through Elliott’s rigid guard. Clenching his hands into fists, he took a shallow breath, and blinked it back. There was only one other person who could have felt close to what he did. Shortly, all of the others wandered away, seeking cover. In their absence, Elliott could clearly see his cousin stood by the hole, planted like the many stone fixtures around them. John was twenty-seven, almost ten years older than Elliott, and had already lost his father, Elliott’s uncle, some years earlier. John’s attention was fully on the descending form of their grandfather’s casket. The thought of this forced Elliott’s head round, briefly, to look in the direction of his uncle’s tombstone. It was in danger of being overtaken by honeysuckle vines. Even in the strengthening shower, the scent of the buttery hued blooms filled the air.
Elliott was tempted to walk over to the small granite block and push away the encroaching plant. Try as he might, he couldn’t bring his legs to move in that direction. If no one acted soon, the messages on the stone would be obscured:
“ALVERSON MCINTYRE.”
“Pursued Greatness.”
“Born: September 30, 1982.”
“Died: June 18, 2035.”
Uncle Al had died four years ago, to the day, of some exotic respiratory disease that had spread from central or southeast Asia; a mini-pandemic. If he hadn’t been overseas on business, he might never have contracted it. Now, all that would be remembered of him was that in his fifty-two years of life, he pursued greatness, to say nothing of ever laying hold of it.
Rubbing his arms, to bring warmth to them, Elliott turned back around and finished his journey to John’s side. The brawny man was still looking down into the hole to where the casket had finished its descent. John’s blue eyes never wavered from their hold on the burial pit. Slowly, John reached out his large, work-worn hand, gripped a handful of the dirt in the mound beside him, and stared at it a few seconds, before gently lofting it into the grave.
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His latest book is Day Moon (Tomorrow’s Edge Book 1).
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