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Channelling

Channelling

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Channelling

Lunghezza:
187 pagine
2 ore
Editore:
Pubblicato:
Apr 13, 2012
ISBN:
9780988016729
Formato:
Libro

Descrizione

A junior college professor goes through a heart transplant from an animal donor;a swine. After generating much controversy before the operation he begins to changed like a pig. He makes the world news of being a medical mistake and a public curiosity.
He becomes a recluse, shying away from society which have rejected him. He fathers a child and everyone is curious of the outcome.

Editore:
Pubblicato:
Apr 13, 2012
ISBN:
9780988016729
Formato:
Libro

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Channelling - Mark C Brown

CHANNELLING

Mark C. Brown

****

Published by:

Mark C. Brown at Smashwords

Copyright (c) 2012 by Mark C. Brown

****

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Smashwords Edition Licence Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy.

****

Foreword

Most of this fictional work comes from imagination. The medicinal part is real and researched, being practiced today as a legitimate process of surgery in cases like these. In the near future, the same operation will be performed under the same circumstances, and the expectation will be extremely close to what I have described.

Only in the latter part, the post-operation, does the possibility remain just feasibility.

Mark C. Brown.

CHAPTER ONE

They were travelling in small throngs toward their customary destination, most pushed unwillingly by their parents, only few pushed by the curiosity of learning in order to better themselves. All traipsed in a languid demeanour, thinking of some of the things they would rather be doing instead of listening to some old academic guru, almost spelling word for word the written moral of an outdated book.

Let’s go and see the ball game, the Spiders are playing today, bellowed one of them, knowing that his wish would remain a wishful at best.

They all wanted to go, but no one wanted to face the severe berating consequence of a suspension. Nothing wrong in being suspended from class, they thought, but the real punishment would come from their parents, grounded for weekends to come, no more hush money for paltry expenses, and maybe saying good-bye to the driving permits everyone was anticipating when they turned at legal in a few months.

Life was full of compromises, some of the most serious students admitted it was something to do- a responsibility, instead of playing outdoors and having fun. Their free time was spent on maximizing pleasure, fully dedicated to hedonistic moments. On their way to school, their favourite pastime was mocking other students and professors. This was how they would get the most laughs in the short time available. Verbal mockeries were accompanied by gross, exaggerated gestures, pantomiming the peculiar physical habits of some of their colleagues or teachers. A surfeit expense.

The daily strolls to school were always the same, filled with predictable amusement, viewed as the best time of the day for the Kennedy School students. Nestled half a mile away from the center of the small town of Richmond, the school green surroundings offered a countryside atmosphere, accommodating more than five hundred privileged students, mostly from upper-middle class families, pursuing their academic endeavours cloaked by an attitude of nonchalance.

So went the easy life of those students, often filled with tricks and pranks on others to fill the boredom of being lazily taught a body of knowledge.

Tom Duely was one of those leaders of these groups that had formed through the course of the first semester. The select few of his group were no better than Helena Stewart, the darling of the professors and all the girls in the school, and, needless to say, all the boys as well. Tall, skinny, with golden floating hair, the beautiful Helena was the envy of everyone on campus. Even the female teachers were slightly jealous of her irresistible beauty and her academic achievements. Her charm was like a perfume, enchanting everyone in her path. Life seemed easy for her, and her future was well taken care of by the fortune of her parents. Her popularity was well handled, taking it all in stride, as she was mostly interested in becoming a medical doctor, something she knew she had to work hard at, whatever the privileged circumstances she was in.

She remained aloof and so very perfect, particularly for Tom, who, from time to time, tried to tell her that he liked her without compromising his independence. Most students knew they were made for each other but it was they, who kept a safe distance, not wanting to compromise their futures. They both felt it was most likely puppy love at the age of puberty. A modicum of maturity. So, camaraderie was only available relationship for this dyad, seemingly leaving the door open to other candidates wishing to spend some time with the two most handsome kids in school.

There was one other kid welcome in this small group, and that was Robert Bradford. Not because of his good looks- like Tom and Helena- but simply because he was close of being a genius. Short and stocky, hiding behind heavy dark-rimmed glasses and an overwhelming flock of frizzy hair, Robert, (who didn’t want someone to call him Bobby.) Was part of the smartest kids on campus.

Looking up to Tom for his intelligence- but mostly for his good looks and spidery tall figure- he was desperately envious. The three of them were like peas in a pod, enjoying one another like kids should enjoy their youth and their gradually eroding innocence.

Samuel Bernstein was a frequent target of their customary mockeries. The history teacher, mostly well respected for his unusual memory of historical facts, was often imitated by the small throng for his unruly flock of curly hair and a heavy, not- so -well- groomed beard. These were the only points they had found in the last four months that were part of his integral personality. Most of the time, the threesome showed respect for the history teacher because of his acumen and his dedication to his subject. Intellectual qualities had value among the brightest group on campus.

Tom told Robert one day; You know Robert, you look exactly like professor Bernstein- but without the beard. In reference to the wig he was wearing and his potty stature.

Don’t tell me I’ll be like that at his age, he replied, slightly embarrassed by his

physical self.

Tom grinned at the thought of his friend at the age of forty- something, looking exactly like him.

Samuel Bernstein was generally well liked among the student group and his colleagues. Most considered him brilliant, except for the snobbish few who liked themselves more than anybody else. Hubert T. Hasley, the principal of the school was an example. He liked people to call him Doctor because of his obvious gaudily framed Ph.D. - in education- he was so undeservedly proud of. Impeccably dressed like a GQ fashion model, he strutted around the school like a monarch of some grand English territory. Because of this, he had got his well-deserved nickname of the Prince instead of the principal.

Professor Bernstein had only one apparent interest besides his subject and his students. That was Debra Earnheart, the English teacher, one colleague he admired from a shy vantage point. Filled with grace and beauty, hidden behind eye glasses and a slightly higher class- not to say snobbish -elegance, made her unreachable to Samuel Bernstein, him being considered only a simple neglected bookworm. His admiration from afar tormented him, but he would not give hope of asking her out one day, the day that everything would seem to be all right. He stubbornly tried to get her out of his head, but every time he set eyes on her, he felt transported to another world where only angels lived. Perhaps for him, Platonic love was better than its consummation of it. Dreams could be better than reality as he knew from experience, and books can bring joy and contentment; theory versus reality, imagination versus satisfaction.

This was a faint picture of the life of Kennedy High, the students divided into small groups by their choices and types of activities, as well as some hidden politics, (not to say imperialism) among the teachers. This sort of anarchy had established itself without the will or the consent of either group. Intellectual qualities had formed a stratum among both students and teachers as, being after all, a premise for higher learning. Human nature had taken its course, like all the schools in the world.

One day at the school cafeteria, where Samuel Bernstein preferred to have his lunch as opposed to the teachers ‘hall, amid the cacophony of students let loose for an hour, he felt faint and collapsed in front of his close friend, Paul Irvine.

Gee Samuel, you don’t look so good. Do you feel all right? Paul asked before he fell on the floor.

Rushed to the infirmary, this was not Samuel’s first incident of losing consciousness in the middle of the day. Exhaustion, they said, while talking to Paul.

You have to take it easy Sam. Paul said, being the only one allowed to use the diminutive of his name.

I know, but that is the only way I know how to work, he replied in a feeble voice.

He had been told many times before that he was an over worked man, giving too much of his physical capacity. He had been earmarked with precarious health. Most students didn’t see what the big deal was in being a teacher- only talking in front of a group, mumbling words from a book. They couldn’t help but wonder why he was exhausted from this so-called work.

Only the teachers knew how stressful and difficult teaching really was. It was hard work for most of them despite the appearances. For the students, Bernstein had a way of delivering his talk in an automatic fashion, robot like. They saw only his beard moving, while his stare remained constantly stoic.

His reputation of being a feeble man preceded him through the years, giving him the nickname of Sick Sam. It never stopped him from giving his best, working long hours preparing his classes, and correcting the students ‘papers. He wanted to deliver the best class he could every day, thinking it might be his last.

One day Professor Bernstein was absent. The rumour was on campus that he had gone to see a specialist in Boston; a real doctor. He was back the next day, showing he hadn't had much sleep in the process. But he continued with relentless gusto, giving his clients- the students- his best of delivering the boring historical facts in a new, imaginative way.

It affected him, not in his work but in his pride. Seeing himself as having something of a weak nature was shaming him toward the woman he wanted in his life. How could he ever impress her with such a feeble body, how could he make love to her all night, show her how manly he could be- if given the chance? He would probably die in the process. Not a bad death, he sarcastically said to his friend one day, at least he would die a happy man.

They say I have too big a heart, he said mocking them. Him, too big a heart, how stupid, he thought, he who had given everything he had for the past ten years, being a giving person. His dedication was fathomless, immeasurable, he said. He thought of the years he spent in college to get his master’s degree, baking bagels in a small shop, sweating long hours to make ends meet. Have too much of a big heart, he repeatedly said to Paul as they were walking along to their respective classes.

Me! too much heart. I’ve always been a giver. How could that be?

Making the distinction between the takers, his friend realized what a sentimental fellow when he couldn’t stop referring to his heart as his own will, as opposed to the actual blood- pumping muscle.

Tell me exactly what they said to you. Did they say cardiomyopathy? Paul asked.

Something like that. I will understand, you know. I teach biology, remember?

Yeah. It’s called idiopathic dilated cardiomyopathy. There, I’ve said it.

I’m aware of this. This is serious stuff, it’s incurable. It’s the enlargement and weakening of the heart from an unknown cause. What do they know? Samuel responded.

You have to take this more seriously, you know, Paul insisted in a scolding voice.

Samuel grinned slightly admitting that he should and he would eventually. But for now, life had to go on the way he saw fit.

Samuel Bernstein went on living giving everything he had every day. He was taking the whole matter in a facetious way, telling himself that it was impossible that he had too much heart, him being a giving person. It meant, as well, that his love for Debra was growing, that there was more room in his heart for her.

With the passage of time, Debra was not responding to his wistful, discreet advances. He almost told her once; "Hey, Deb! I have room for you, here is the medical record. I have a growing heart for you, as he laughed about the matter to himself. And in a way, it was true.

He felt more secluded after the medical visit in Boston, spending more time resting in his house in solitude. As time went on, he felt more lonely and down deep he realized that life was short and there was not much left in it, cascading into a bewildering range of moods.

CHAPTER TWO

Although life seemed to be compartmentalized at Kennedy High, the groups, the gangs, the teachers,

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