Brinda Berry - Whispering Woods Box Set

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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are fictitious or have been used fictitiously, and are not to be construed as real in any way. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.

Published By Sweet Biscuit Publishing LLC

Cover Design by Najla Qamber Designs

The Waiting Booth

All Rights Are Reserved. Copyright 2011 by Brinda Berry

First electronic publication: July 2011 by Etopia Press

Second electronic publication: October 2014 by Sweet Biscuit Publishing LLC

First print publication: October 2014

Digital ISBN: 978-0-9916320-6-0

Print ISBN: 978-0692316979

M y new life began on a Saturday. It was a life that chose me, which shouldn't have been surprising. A real shocker would be gliding through my senior year without one more thing to label my life dysfunctional. Most seventeen-year-olds would have called the events a head-on collision. For me, I was merely sideswiped in the journey to find my missing brother.

Saturday mornings were always my favorite. Dad cooked pancakes for the two of us and that day the vanilla-laden smell wafted up the stairs and tugged at my stomach. I bounded downstairs in my shorts and Geek Chic T-shirt, sliding around the slick corner reminiscent of the way Tom Cruise did in Dads favorite old movie, Risky Business. And he looked up, spatula in hand, with that same welcoming smile full of comfort and familiarity.

I inhaled deeply. Yum. I sat down and picked up my

fork in anticipation. A golden-brown stack waited on the serving platter.

My dad pulled on my ponytail before taking a seat across from me. He stared at the empty chair to my right. I concentrated on my plate.

We both helped ourselves to generous mounds of pancakes, and then I drizzled enough maple syrup to drive me into a sugar coma. The only sound filling the kitchen was the smacking and fork scraping that indicate true culinary delight.

As usual, my eyes were bigger than my stomach. I shook my head woefully at the butter- and syrup-laced masterpiece I was abandoning. I rose and cleared my plate from the table.

Hold up. You in a hurry? Dad asked.

Gotta go get my memory cards out of the cameras outside and see if I got anything recorded, I answered in between licking my sticky lips.

I slipped on my tennis shoes and went for the door. Leaving Biscuit here? Dad looked down. My cairn terrier sat expectantly at Dads feet. Biscuit wagged his stubby tail when he heard his name. I grinned at his pitiful face, black button eyes hopeful for a few stray crumbs. Yeah, Ill be right back. He can stay with you. Biscuit looked from Dad to me before settling his chin on his paws.

I ran out the door and hopped into the old golf cart that sat in the garage. Even though I had gotten my license last year, I still preferred the golf cart for these errands. The aging motor started immediately and then I was off. I puttered down the long gravel driveway toward the highway.

The early morning air was crisp, and the sun hadnt risen high enough to warm the areas beneath the canopy of oak trees. Enjoying my time alone in the woods, I breathed in the fragrant air. The smells of pine and cedar and the sounds of stirring intensified all the green colors of the leaves. But that was how I always saw things. The doctors had diagnosed my older brother as also having synesthesia. They quoted statistics of the number of people who experienced the same condition. And Pete never gave me away.

I wasn't happy about being like Pete. I didn't care if Mozart, Stevie Wonder, Billy Joel, and a lot of other talented people belonged to the synesthesia club. The famous ones had obviously figured out useful talents for the strange way we viewed the world. I didnt feel gifted. Cursed was more like it. My sensory perception overlapped and hit me like a Mack truck every day.

The words on my homework invited my eyes to revel in their watercolor loveliness. The chalkboard became a living, breathing Matisse canvas. Music class exhausted me in the efforts to appear as bored and sleepy as my classmates. Each note enveloped my senses in vibrant greens, reds, and blues. I wanted sounds to be sounds and not a rush of colors invading my brain like a psychedelic avalanche.

The birds chirped and frissons tingled down my spine. Squirrels stirred the brittle leaves. I concentrated on the task ahead and ignored the symphony. It didnt take long to drive around and retrieve the memory cards from the outdoor cameras and replace each with a blank card.

I went back inside the house and returned to the sanctuary of my room. The morning light streamed through the window. I sank onto my bed, closing my eyes and breathing deeply of silence and stillness. I huddled beneath a soft cotton pillow over my head. Dark, cool, nothing.

Thirty minutes later, I got out of bed and stuck the first memory card in the slot of my computer. To my surprise, there were a total of forty-five pictures. Yes! I pumped my fist. I opened the first file and my photo software displayed a clear picture of two cute raccoons eating from the plot across from the mounted camera. Cool. Id been prepared to be a little disappointed, but I had already scored.

Scrolling through the rest of the pictures, I made notes in my logbook of the current moon phase. I noted the time lapse and approximate feeding time recorded as well as listing raccoon, deer, and birds as the animal subjects. My photos displayed a virtual Discovery Channel scene down there.

I examined the second memory card marked b with a black Sharpie pen to indicate the location. This particular camera had recorded the activity at the waiting booth, my favorite childhood haven, still sitting at the end of the driveway. I inserted it into the card slot and drummed my fingers on the desk. The files opened with fewer pictures recorded by the motion-activated camera. I scrolled through the first three pictures and really couldnt see anything. Dang.

I wondered what had activated the sensor to begin taking pictures. I hit the arrow key to continue scrolling through the files. Third picture.

Nothing.

Fourth picture.

Nada.

I sighed, already bored and wondering who might be online to chat. I quickly tapped the arrow key several times in quick succession.

Whoa, I said and sat forward, nearly slipping off the edge of my seat.