ORIGINAL MUSIC INSPIRED BY THE GREATER GOOD SERIES

Fred Hawthorne is a young photographer; careless in his relationships, unambitious in his career, and living each day just to get by. When his cell phone goes missing, he calls to find it and a mysterious woman named Leila picks up. She meets with him to return his phone, but Fred awakens the next day with no memory of what happened and no way to reach Leila.

Driven by his infatuation, Fred searches for Leila and becomes entangled with an elite network called The Greater Good. After learning what horrors occurred during his night with Leila, Fred is forced to abandon his life; but The Greater Good offers him a second chance As he grows to love his new lifestyle, Fred struggles to grasp who he has become. Does his corruption benefit the greater good of mankind or just The Greater Good?

THE GREATER GOOD (89k words), is the first book in The Greater Good trilogy. Its follow-ups are THE RISING TIDE and AGENTS OF CHANGE. This series explores how people are victimized by the ambitions of others and the rationales people adopt to justify their actions. Each of the three books tells the story of The Greater Good through a distinct principal character; the convert, the founder, and the outsider. Through their unique journeys — and through the perspectives of others — the series will examine group-think and how subjectivity corrupts virtue.

PROLOGUE

POLLEN

June 3rd, 2016

With a $60,000 deposit, Charles Frick was able to reserve the Presidential suite at the Seven Oaks in Maui for one week. There, hanging in the closet, was a red, custom-made Christiano Farai dress with a purse and matching red shoes. In her new dress, Barbara would stun. Charles hoped that, excited by the surprise, she might wear the lingerie he had bought her for their honeymoon (which he hadn’t seen since she opened its gift wrapping). The adrenaline from that idea alone painted an almost insane grin on Charles's face as he drove home from his office in Manhattan.

This trip would fix their marriage. In Maui, Barbara would get to know her husband’s new upgrade; Charlie.

Charles snapped out of his daydream and turned onto his street. His beloved 1994 Acura growled up the hill towards the last house on the right. His heart pattered in anxiety. He backed into his driveway and did a double take when he saw Barbara’s car, Rita the Red Mercedes, in its usual spot, covered in green pollen. She was home early from her spin class; today of all days.

He stepped out of his car, walked over to Rita’s driver-side door, and drew a big smiley-face in the pollen that covered her window. “Why, hello there, Rita,” Charles said with a wave. “Aren’t you just a dirty bird today.” 

Rita quipped back, something about his ass looking better than normal. Charles tittered. Such a flirt, he thought, and waved the car off. He crept up the steps to the front door of his house. 

Charles opened the door and expected to hear one of Barbara’s reality shows blaring in the living room, but there was silence. On the console table in the main foyer was a framed photo of Charles and Barbara on their honeymoon just eight months prior. He picked up the frame for a last look.

He pitied the man in the picture. The man had no style, no posture, and almost no hair. He looked like some perverse fan of Barbara’s. In a way, he was. In heels, she was almost a foot taller than him. With her tan skin, her bright make-up, and her majestic blond hair, she was glorious. No wonder she had never worn the honeymoon lingerie. Why would she need to wear uncomfortable lingerie for him? He was lucky to be sharing a bed with her.

That would all change today. Charles pictured himself as Charlie, strutting into the Presidential suite with a cool, nonchalant swagger. He imagined smoking a cigarette on their balcony, his brooding gaze fixed on the ocean. Charles didn’t smoke but, much to his chagrin, smoking appeared to be Barbara’s favorite activity (Charlie, however, could play along and he had even practiced smoking with one of iCell’s young lab techs). That by itself would shock her, but the next bit would be the best.

“There’s something in the closet,” he’d say, flicking the cigarette off the balcony. “Put it on and meet me in the lobby by eight.” Then, without another word, Charlie would walk out of the suite and have a scotch in the lobby (after finding the cigarette he’d flicked off the balcony and disposing of it, of course). How cool would that be?

Charles bent down towards the photo and waved at the old version of himself. “Say goodbye, buddy, Charlie’s coming to town.”

He straightened his back and snuck up the stairs in search of Barbara. Upstairs, muffled music played from the guest room. Barbara had spent the last three months redecorating that room at substantial cost. Picturing her inside, unaware and lost in her little project, the insane grin lit up Charles's face again.

Charles opened the door and entered.

For a split moment, from the virulent motion of her body, he thought she was being murdered; but once he saw the snake tattoo on the man’s buttocks, Charles understood what he was seeing.

Barbara caught sight of him and screamed. He wanted to scream himself, both at the sight of his wife having sex with another man and the ungodly exhibition. Instead of screaming, he grasped for air.

“Charles, I—it—it’s not what it looks like!” Barbara distanced herself from the naked man in the bed. “I—I—what are you doing home?!”

The naked man rolled his eyes and nodded at Barbara. “Babe, can you just shoosh!”

Barbara shrank.

The naked man turned his attention to Charles.

Charles's eyes shot to the floor, but the floor offered no solace. Crumpled up by his shoe was a pair of black panties with a red bow; the honeymoon lingerie.

The naked man came towards Charles and leaned into his ear. Not daring to look up, Charles closed his eyes from the horror of the man’s nudity. The smell of the man's breath finally answered the question of where Charles’s prized bottle of MacAlliser 50 scotch had gone.

Warm air puffed into Charles's eardrum sending chills throughout his body. Charles could feel the man grinning into his ear. 

“Tell me, Chucky,” the man’s leathery voice said with a titter. “What are you gonna do about it?”

Charles sat in his car and cried.

The last thing he remembered was the naked man tearing sheets off of Barbara and returning for more. The audacity! The cruelty! And she wasn’t even stopping him! Before witnessing anything else, he had escaped the room, ran down the stairs, and flew out the door. He cried in his driveway for fifteen minutes. The ridiculous smiley-face he had drawn into the pollen on Barbara’s car window further perpetuated his weeping. To think that only moments ago, his entire view of life was as naive as that smile. He was pathetic.

Charles needed to tell someone, but he was alone. There was only one person who could help him process the pain; Dr. Gordon.

The next day, Charles sat on a beach in Maui as Dr. Gordon explained why he shouldn't resign from iCell. “Your mission ensures a greater good for mankind. Pardon my bluntness, but… the mistakes of one person can’t mean the demise of the world, can it?”

Charles scratched at a seashell and sighed. He hoped a dramatic exit from iCell might help win back Barbara, but Dr. Gordon had a point.

“Trust me,” Dr. Gordon said. “I flew here overnight from Indonesia because I love you. You think I won't find you two the best therapist on earth?” He stood up, dropped his cigar into a champagne flute, and took Charles by the back of the neck. “Life moves on, my friend, you’ve got to move on with it… or die. Simple as that. Now… let’s eat.”

A few hours later, Charles wound up drunk in bed, his pillow soaked in tears. When he awoke the following morning, Dr. Gordon had already departed and paid the remaining balance for Charles’s hotel stay. He also left a note.

Enjoy your trip on me. A gift from The Greater Good. Tap into Charlie. You earned some time to yourself. Things will work themselves out. They always do. Be The Greatest Good to All Mankind. - EJG

What else could Charles do? He couldn’t squander the gift and so, once his crying fits subsided, Charles tapped into Charlie. He dove off of a cliff, hiked with local guides, swam with dolphins, learned to dance, and he was even approached by a woman at the hotel bar (although he remained faithful). He cried a lot, but each day, he cried a little less and by the time the trip ended, Charles was strong enough to return home.

A week after the incident, trembling at the prospect of confronting Barbara, Charles pulled into his driveway. He sighed in relief once he saw that Rita the Red Mercedes was gone. In Rita’s place was the blanket of green pollen that always covered their driveway this time of year. Usually, the pollen left an outline of her car, but there was none.

Inside the house, Charles noticed that the picture of them was missing from the console in the foyer. He shook his head in outrage. To think she’d move their picture after what she did? But other photos were missing, too. Her portrait above the fireplace, the canvas wedding photo outside the bathroom, their wedding album, and the photo of her in a bikini on his office desk… gone. Along with their photos, throughout the entire house, her decorations, her clothing, and all her belongings were missing.

He checked the kitchen last and, after going through all the drawers and cabinets, Charles noticed an envelope on the counter. Inside was a hand-written letter.

Dear Charles,

I’m sorry for what I did to you. I’m in love with Jake and I never stopped loving Him. You didn’t dEserve what I did and I’m so sor[smudged]. Your a good man. Your [smudged]ng great things. I won’t stand in your way. I’m Leaving you for good. Your mission is imPortant and I don’t love you like I love [smudged]ke. I took all my stuff and all photos of me and us. You need to forget us and me. Y[smudged]ill never hear from me or see me again. We’re gonna start a new life together forever very far from here.

I’m Sorry,

Barbara

Charles wept. He tried to take comfort in the smudged ink, which he hoped came from Barbara’s tears hitting the page. She must have loved him somewhat to cry while writing it… right?

He later found in his credit card statement that she had hired a moving company and a cleaning crew the day after he left for Hawaii. Charles found solace in this. He saw it as a sign of love that she would go this far to help him move on. And, although she didn’t love him as much as he did, it felt good to know she cared enough to avoid the heartache and legal trouble of a divorce.

It took a long time, but Charles tried his best to move on from Barbara. He moved out of the house within two months and got an apartment in Manhattan. To forget her, it helped to remember the naked man, apparently named Jake. It helped him to remember The Greater Good, his community there, and all that Dr. Gordon and Juliette had done for him and his company. It helped to channel Charlie. It helped that when he tried calling Barbara, she had disconnected her phone. It helped that her parents hadn’t heard from her either. It helped that, even though he and Barbara’s parents donated enough money to the Greenwich Police Department to encourage a second full investigation, the police still could not find her. She was starting fresh somewhere far away and, although his heart ached to think of it, she was probably much happier now.

Charles returned to the iCell laboratories with a new focus on his company. He couldn’t allow Barbara’s betrayal to be a distraction. He would bring iCell to new heights as an Agent of Change for The Greater Good. The more iCell made, the more he could help Dr. Gordon raise money for The Human Restoration Project.

Things would work out. In fact, things would be great. Perhaps what Barbara had done was not as horrible as it seemed. Somehow, Charles thought, perhaps what she did was all for the greater good.

CHAPTER ONE

FREDERICK

October 22nd, 2013

Fred Hawthorne stood in his kitchen with the landline receiver to his ear. He considered whether he would cave and upgrade to a smartphone. Everyone caved eventually, he thought. He had to be strong. They’re all followers. With their statuses, their check-ins, their little posts everywhere they went, Fred couldn’t be like them. He’d rather buy another flip phone. Besides, who wants to pay extra for data. Scam!

After six rings, Fred heard a click followed by a sigh. “Hello?”

“Uh, hi.” Did Fred have the wrong number?

“Hi?” the female voice sounded aggravated. “Who is this?”

Did he call the wrong number? He looked at the landline's screen to confirm that he had dialed his own number. He had. “No," he said. "Who’s this? You have my phone.”

“Oh!” Her voice brightened as if she had been hoping for his call. “Hi! I’m Leila. Who are you?”

“Uh… I’m Fred.”

“Fred?”

“Yeah?” Fred replied. “Something wrong?”

“No, it’s just kind of a strange name. Like some old person’s name… like Ralph or Walter or… Morris or something.”

Fred laughed. He’d never heard that one. “It’s my grandfather’s name.”

“Exactly! That’s what I mean. Like an old person’s name. Grandpa Frederick!”

“What makes you think I’m not old?”

“Oh, I saw your picture on my — your phone,” Leila said.

“My phone. Right.” Fred realized he had forgotten the context of the call. “Where did you find it? The gym?”

“What if I stole it?”

“You stole my phone?”

“I didn’t say that Frederick!” Instead of saying Fred-drick, like most people, she over pronounced his name by saying Fred-er-rick. “I found it at the gym,” Leila said. “Or… maybe I stole it from you at the gym. Who knows?”

Fred sighed. “Okay… Well, can I have it back? Stole it, found it, I need my phone back.”

“Eh, I might keep it.”

“Come on,” Fred said. “Seriously?”

“Oh, I’m serious, Frederick.” Leila lowered her tone to match Fred’s. She was mocking him. 

“Okay, so you’re stealing my phone?”

“A flip phone?” She overemphasized a sigh. “Not sure it’s worth the jail time. I might give it back, but… wait… if you’re not an old guy, why don’t you have a smartphone?”

“I don’t need a smartphone,” he said.

“But how will you update your status?” Leila asked with fake concern.

Fred bit his bottom lip. “People can call me if they want my status.”

“Wait, wait… Frederick… did you call me on a landline?”

“Yeah?”

“Oh. My. God! You are an old dude!” Leila gasped into Fred’s ear. “How old’s this pic on your phone? Like from 1970?”

“It was a month ago, I’m twenty-five!” Fred wasn’t sure whether to laugh or yell. “And, hey… stop going through my phone. Can you just — can you give it back?”

“No.”

Fred swung his head back and groaned.

“Don’t worry, Frederick,” Leila said. “Now you can go get a smartphone and I can check your status. Right now your status would say, ‘My name is Frederick. I’m a cranky old man with a landline, listening to my records and watching my program on the television set.’” She snickered at her own joke.

“What’s with people and their statuses, anyway?” Fred motioned to his empty kitchen as if addressing a crowd. “I mean who gives a shit? Smartphones are so annoying. It’s everywhere I go, everyone’s on their smartphone. In line at the bank, at the supermarket, walking down the sidewalk, at the gym! The gym? We get it, you work out! Why must you share it with everyone? Live your life!”

There was a silence.

“Whoa, Frederick… are you all right?” Leila said. “Did a smartphone touch you inappropriately when you were a child?”

He laughed.

They laughed. 

“You know,” Fred said. “I went online the other day and this girl’s status said ‘at the hospital, dot-dot-dot, sad face.’ It’s like… can’t you just be?”

“Ha!” Leila clapped. “Oh my God, so true. They never tell you why they’re there either. The status is always so ominous and vague and people are forced to be like ‘Oh my gosh Jen, what happened?’ Uh, okay! We all see through your little cry for attention, Jen!”

“Oh it’s the worst! And they never respond either. Like thanks Jen, leave us all hanging like a couple of assholes. Thanks a lot. See… why would I want a smartphone? Who needs more of that?” Fred smiled, excited by the sudden bond they had formed over their hatred of fictional Jen. Perhaps he had won her over and he would get his phone back. Something more could come from this too… Maybe he and Leila would meet…

He sat down at his kitchen table.

“Who’s Beth?”

Shit.

“What — who? Excuse me?” Fred said. 

“Frederick,” Leila said. “Don’t lie to me. Who’s Beth?”

“She—she’s no one, just a friend.”

“She doesn’t seem like just a friend.”

“Wait,” Fred said. “Are you going through my texts?”

“Uh, yeah?”

“Can you stop? That’s it! I want my phone back. Do I have to call the police?” 

“Oh, don’t worry,” Leila said. “I won’t tell anyone how you really feel about Beth.”

“Excuse me? You don’t know anything about me and Beth, okay?”

“She’s just a little sidepiece to you, isn’t she?”

“Whoa, come on now.”

“I mean, do you really want to be ‘together’ with her as she so lamely put it? I don’t think you do, Frederick. No…  no, you’re a bad boy, aren’t you?” The way she emphasized ‘bad boy,’ made Fred’s stomach burn. It was fake and theatrical, almost ridiculous, but it made him stir. He wondered what Leila looked like. “You want to be a free agent, don’t you?" she said. "I can respect that.”

Her diagnosis was accurate, he could admit it. “Well," he said. "What about you? Are you a free agent?”

“I don’t think I’m your type, Frederick.”

Fred’s heart sank. The physical reaction was surprising, but this was his territory. How many times had Fred painted a fantasy in his head while talking to a girl at the bar? How many times did they, with casual precision, erase that fantasy with the random mention of their boyfriend? This was how it worked. The other shoe always dropped. If it wasn’t a boyfriend, it was the friend zone. If it wasn’t the friend zone, it was that classic line, “you’re like a brother to me!” His budding fantasies of what-Leila-could-be were no different. Still, he would play to win his phone back. “Why aren’t you my type?” he asked. “What is it? I’m too honest? Too law abiding?”

“Seems like you’re into boring girls.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“I’ve seen your pics of Beth.” Leila’s voice sank in concern. “With the cardigans… Its sad, actually. I feel bad for her. I mean, she’s okay—”

“That’s not nice, that’s—she’s a nice person. And she’s very pretty. We just… we got in a fight last night, so things are on the rocks or whatever.”

“I can see that! It’s sad, Frederick. She wants a cute little relationship and you want to be free,” Leila said with whimsy.

“Well kinda, but we’re just—”

Leila gasped, startling Fred. “Oh my! You won’t believe this!” Leila was ecstatic. “Bethy’s calling right now!”

Fred shot up from his kitchen table, his chair screeched behind him. “Don’t pick it up!” 

“I think I should,” Leila said.

“Stop it! Stop!”

“Frederick, it’s the right move. Bethy needs to know she’s just another notch on the ole belt.”

“Wait—”

“No, she needs to know. I gotta do it for all women. I have to do it for, what’s that word? Solidarity!”

“Stop it, Leila! Please!”

“It’s the moral thing to do, Freddy.”

“Oh, so now you have morals? How about you give me my phone back!”

“I gotta tell her—”

“Leila, please! I’m begging you!” He was. “Don’t do this! I––I’m a dick! I––I get it, but–but she doesn’t deserve that!”

There was a pause. A sigh. “Oh Frederick, relax. I’m not gonna pick up her call.”

Fred dropped back into his chair and exhaled. “Oh my God, thank you.” 

Leila laughed.

“What?” Fred said. “What’s so funny?”

“I was right!” She piled on another round of chuckles. “I was right about you two, I can’t believe it. I’m like psychic or something.”

Fred slapped his kitchen table. “Give me my phone back!”

“Oh Frederick, come on,” she said in a babying voice. The voice reignited a fire in Fred’s belly. “Aren’t you having fun talking to me?” 

Despite the unknown, he was having fun. The conversation felt somehow illegal, the fun kind of illegal. His entire torso cooked with desire. The sly rasp in her voice tingled in his ear. He imagined her lips against his cell phone, lush and red.

Fred knew better, though.

She was likely in a room full of other people, mocking him. She’d hang up any minute now, and he would never get his phone back. He had to be smart. He had to appeal to her empathetic side. 

If she had one.

“Look, I—,” he had to speak with precision. Start light. Be sincere. “I am having fun, okay? If you can believe it, I really am. I just… I think I’d feel better with my phone back. I’ve got lots of numbers in there and pictures and… honestly, I don’t want to get a new phone,” he said. “Those salesmen, they’re so annoying. They’ll make me get a smartphone and then those memories… those memories of what the smartphone did to me as a child… they’ll all come flooding back… it’ll be traumatizing.” Fred snickered, hoping she’d appeal to the fact that he was asking nicely and making jokes. There was only silence. He felt it coming. The win. 

“Nope.”

“Wait, what? Come on! Screw it, I’ll give you money!”

“Hmm, how much?” she asked.

“I-I don’t know,” Fred said. “Twenty bucks?”

“Twenty bucks? For a flip phone? You’re wildly over-attached to this phone, Frederick. Bethy would be jealous.”

“Look, look, look.” Fred raised out his hand as if to quell some invisible beast. “I just need my phone back, okay? I don’t know you and I don’t know what you’ll do. That’s the truth. I––I like Beth and, yes, I’m unsure of things and I’m probably leading her on, you’re right, but I don’t want you to tell her that. I need to tell her. You don’t seem like a complete lunatic. You’ve got to have some reason, some rationale, right?”

“Aww,” Leila said, “You’re so sweet.”

“You know I’m joking. Point is, I need it back. I’m a nice guy. I swear! I won’t call the cops or anything, even if you did steal it. I just want it back. I’ll give you money if I have to.”

“I didn’t steal your phone,” Leila said. “I found it at the gym. I’m just having some fun with you. Can't a girl have a little fun?” She appeared genuine for the first time. It was disarming. “I’ll give it back, Frederick. How about we meet in the gym parking lot?”

“Really?” Fred said.

“Well, on second thought, I’m a little tired—”

“Oh, come on!”

“I’m kidding! Relax! Wouldn’t want you to have a stroke. I’ll meet you in a half hour,” Leila said. She sounded almost excited. Or perhaps Fred just hoped she was excited.

“Thank you!” Fred realized the irony that he was now thanking her for giving him his own phone back, but he didn’t care. There was a twirl in his body; a tingling sensation, like sparks falling away from a firework. He was electrified.

“See you soon.” The phone clicked.

When she hung up, it hurt. There was an emptiness. He looked at the receiver and smiled. The anticipation was sensational, although he wouldn’t get his hopes up. 

His eyes shot up to the microwave clock. He couldn’t screw this up. He had a half hour to shower, dress, and get to the gym. Before leaving the house, he’d put on the good cologne that Beth had given him for his birthday.

Whatever it took, Fred would arrive on time.

CHAPTER TWO

THE LONG WINDING ROAD

October 31st, 2013

Fred cruised at an easy fifty miles per hour. To the left and right of the long winding road, large open fields basked in a morning glow. The road required his attention, but not enough to spoil the view. It was a fun drive; relaxing.

The golden fields transformed into a lush forest. Sunlight cut through the green leaves, leaving soft, orange dabs, like painted stars, on the path before him. Every so often a slash of light streaked across his face.

A cathedral of branches towered over the road. In his mind, somewhere else, was a picture of these exact trees, yet they were bare and beyond them was a blackened night sky. 

Fred drove slower to capture the view.

The greenery shifted into brown and yellow tones, as if crossing a plane from Spring into Fall. Dead leaves covered the street. He glanced out to his right at the forest, trying to make sense of what happened to the foliage, yet all the trees were bare.

He turned his head back and saw a woman standing ten yards from his speeding car. Fred screamed and slammed onto his brakes. His car skirted forward, the tires screeching beneath him. He shut his eyes and braced for the impact of the woman hitting his car. The only impact was the inertia of the sudden stop.

Fred opened his eyes.

A deep, wooden crack blew into his left ear. He turned towards the sound and saw the woman withdrawing her face from his window. As if to absorb her grinding screams, there was a blood-soaked rag stuffed into her mouth. Blood flowed in a forever stream from the top of her black hair. Her eyes bulged and locked on to Fred. Blood dripped into them, but she didn’t blink.

Fred shrieked at the absolute horror before him.

She defied his scream and flung her head into his window again. The sound of the impact sent a crawling disgust through Fred’s body. She pulled her head back farther and, with full force, launched it into the window, delivering another vicious crack. The woman gauged Fred’s reaction and, at the sight of his horror, she smiled. Blood seeped from the rag between her teeth. She withdrew and slammed into the window once more. The glass cracked. Encouraged by this progress, she began smashing her skull over and over, faster and faster. The thuds grew louder and more intense, and each crack rang sharply in Fred’s ears.

Fred tried to scream but couldn’t. His mind was overwrought with panic. He climbed over the center console and fell into the passenger’s seat, hitting his face against the door. He felt for the handle, tumbled out of the car, and shot up into a run. Dirt and leaves flew underneath his feet. Trees whipped passed his head. He ran faster than his legs could control, tripped, and slid on his stomach as roots and rocks tore at his belly. The raw pain was immediate.

He gasped for air. On the ground, he listened for the woman’s footsteps behind him, but couldn’t hear over the ringing in his ears. He got onto his knees and looked over towards his car. Although the door remained open, the woman had disappeared. The ringing in his ears faded, replaced by the chirping bell of the car door.

He turned away from his car and in front of him stood a young, tough looking man in a backwards hat. His face was hard. His eyes burned with fury and in his hand was a baseball bat. Before Fred could recognize the man standing over him, the bat was behind the man’s shoulder. Next it was over the man’s shoulder. And then — crack.

Just four blocks from his Watertown apartment, Fred awoke wearing nothing but gym shorts. In the struggle to catch his breath, he didn’t notice the three teenagers who had abandoned their toilet paper and were now running for their lives down Bellevue Road. They were running from him; the deranged man who had appeared out of the darkness, wailing and sprinting towards them like a maniac at 11:56pm on Halloween night.

CHAPTER THREE

DR. SIMMS

November 12th, 2013

“Are you depressed?”

Fred glanced up from the patterns on Dr. Simms’ oriental rug. “I’m sorry?”

She gave him a comforting smile. “Are you depressed?”

He scoffed. “Uh… n—no. I mean, I don’t think I am. Do you… do I seem depressed to you?”

“No, but I found your email telling. From the things you said and the emotions you expressed, it seems a fair question.”

“Well..." Fred thought about the email he had written. Did he say too much? Could a person say too much? "How does this work?”

Dr. Simms raised her eyebrows at the question. “Therapy?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, since it’s your first visit, we’ll address what led you to schedule an appointment,” Dr. Simms said. She spoke with a gentleness that, although somewhat pandering, put Fred at ease. “Therapy works how you wish it to work, it’s organic. You come in and you say whatever’s on your mind. Sometimes I’ll ask questions and sometimes I’ll just listen. Sometimes the most powerful sessions happen when a patient has no agenda at all. The most important thing is there’s complete doctor-patient confidentiality, so don’t be afraid to speak your mind.” 

Although Fred himself struggled to understand women, he had always been more conversational with them, which was why he had searched for a female therapist. Fred was cognizant, and somewhat ashamed, that lust had decided for him; Dr. Lisa Simms had the most attractive photo in the online therapy directory, and so he clicked on her first.

With her perfect posture and her prim manner, Dr. Simms was an elegant beauty. There was a slight edge to her wardrobe that made him pain with longing. Her clothes were conservative, yet sharp and revealing. With her perfume, her shoulder-length brown hair, her red lipstick, and the focused gaze of her blue eyes, Dr. Simms had enchanted Fred the moment he walked into her office.

“So I can say anything at all?” Fred asked.

“Nothing you say will leave this room,” Dr. Simms replied. “What do you think of that?”

Fred nodded. “Therapy sounds nice.”

“It is!” Dr. Simms said. She sat up and rubbed her palms together. “So, getting back… and I know it’s a funny question, but… Are you depressed?”

“Hmm.” Fred tapped his lips. “You know, I remember I read something a while back about depression.” He held out a hand towards Dr. Simms in a gesture of respect. “Obviously, you know better than me. But I read it’s like you’re so upset that you stop eating, you stop sleeping — or you eat and sleep too much. You do it to cope, I guess, but… for me? I’m not doing anything like that.”

“Has your behavior changed in any other ways?”

Fred scratched his head. What was his life before that night? Beth would say that he was sleeping too much and Fred could admit he was lazy with finding gigs and hustling (so much so that the word “hustling” annoyed him — like, okay pal, relax!). And sure, he was also eating too much before too. None of that behavior, as bad as it was, had changed, however.

The notable difference was not in his behavior, it was the dark energy around him. There was a weight, a black cloud that crept along with him throughout each day and then attacked him at night. That’s why he was here.

“I’m having these like… strange episodes… like dreams. When I wake up, I feel like shit. One morning I woke up in my living room, then another time I was in my bathtub. Sometimes there’re cuts on my legs, my feet, my knuckles. It makes no sense.”

He looked up at Dr. Simms, who was stoic in her attention.

“So,” he said. “I figured I was doing a little sleep walking around my apartment, bumping into walls and things, but… then one night — Halloween night, actually — I went to bed early and, like two hours later, I awoke in the middle of the street, blocks from my house, wearing nothing but boxers. Crazy, right?”

“That’s frightening, I can only imagine,” Dr. Simms said.

“Thank God no cops saw me, but I think I scared a few kids,” Fred said.

Dr. Simms leaned forward, her eyes squinted and her lips pursed. “Has this happened to you before?”

“No, not at all. It’s like I was sleep… running? Have you ever heard of that? Sleep-running?”

She peered at the large bookshelf behind her computer desk and seemed to search her memory for a reference on sleep-running to pull for Fred. “I’ve never heard of sleep-running, but it sounds like night terrors to me. Sometimes a person’s having such traumatic dreams that instead of reacting in the dream, they react with a physical urge in-person while still asleep. Perhaps that’s what you’re going through?”

“Well, as much as I enjoy getting exercise while I’m unconscious, it’s damn scary,” Fred said with a giggle. He had been looking forward to using that line for days.

Dr. Simms scribbled something in her notebook, put down her pen and looked up at him. “It’s serious, Fred. I’m glad you came to me.” 

Fred felt awkward that she wouldn’t laugh at his jokey little lines. Perhaps it was serious. In his mind, he had only referred to them as those “funny episodes”, but night terrors? Night terrors sounded much more serious.

Dr. Simms closed her notebook and put her hands in her lap. “We’ll get into the dreams, but first… in your letter you said this all started about three weeks ago? What could have triggered this?”

“Well…” Fred said, embarrassed. Dr. Simms offered a nod of encouragement. “Okay, well, I don’t know, maybe I’m a bit love sick or something?”

Dr. Simms nodded. “I see.”

“Yeah… it was a Tuesday night and when I got home from the gym, my cell phone was missing…”

CHAPTER FOUR

DARK SHAPES

October 22nd, 2013

Under a lamplight in the center of the gym parking lot, Fred leaned up against his blue sedan and waited. The parking lot was otherwise empty except for the large box truck parked near the gym’s entrance that read Clean-Rite on the side. The gym was closed and only a few dim lights remained on inside.

Fred had arrived two minutes early. After seven minutes, he got out of the car, too restless to sit any longer. He considered that perhaps this was why Beth was always so upset with him for being late. Waiting and wondering if Leila would ever show was torture.

A set of headlights floated down the street and turned into the parking lot. Fred could only make out a rough shape of the car behind the searing headlights. The exhaust rumbled like a cigarette boat and the car drove passed him and glided to the farthest side of the lot.

Must not be her…

The car swerved 180 degrees and, with its beams aimed at Fred, the engine roared and the lights grew larger. The car was speeding right towards him. Fred braced himself and the car screeched to a halt only three feet from his car.

“Oh my God!” Fred’s entire rib cage shook with the beating of his heart. The driver's door creaked open and the click of a heel landed on the asphalt. Fred watched as a silhouetted figure rose from the car.

“"Hello?" Fred called out to the dark shape beyond the headlights. 

The headlights blinked off and bright circles danced in his eyes as they adjusted to the darkness. At the confirmation that it might be her, Fred grew tense. There was a pressure in his throat, as if two fingers were pushing at the notch between his clavicles. He stretched his neck to ward off the strange sensation, but his beating heart annunciated it instead. 

"Shit!" she said. She groaned and slammed the door shut.

At the sight of her, Fred's entire body grew warm.

She was average height with perfect curves and long dark hair. The whites of her eyes glowed next to her heavy black eyeliner and her red lips stood in stark contrast to her complexion. Her face was impossibly smooth, as if Fred had just airbrushed her skin in a photo.

What he would give to photograph her.

Fred now understood the implication that she wasn’t his type. By looks alone, not only was she far from boring, it was almost as if she were wearing a costume. She wore a black leather jacket over a white t-shirt, black jeans, a thick belt, and black studded boots that cut off at her ankles. He pictured the bagged costume in his hands, the label reading Hot Dangerous Girl with a picture of Leila winking on the cover.

She walked towards Fred and stopped short to look him up and down. After a moment, she smiled as though seeing a long-lost friend. “Frederick?”

“Leila?” He was awestruck.

She rolled her eyes. “Well, duh!” 

They stood silent, unsure what to make of one another.

What should he say? Nice to meet you? How’s it going? What’s up? These responses seemed foolish. The situation was unprecedented. You got my phone? No! He needed to slow down the transaction, not speed it up. That was the only way. He needed time! He needed to get into a conversation! Get her number! Say something! Anything! 

The silence ran its course. Dammit! “So… do you have my phone?” Fred asked.

Leila shrugged. “Uh, I don't, actually.”

“Funny,” Fred said.

“No, really. I forgot your phone.” 

“You… what? You forgot it?” 

“Yeah, Frederick!” Leila said. She pushed his shoulder.

“What do you mean, where?”

Leila scoffed, folded her arms, and rested on her hip. The gesture and her stance implied she was not about to take any responsibility for this mistake.

“So, wait, wait.” His laugh echoed through the parking lot. “So, you came here to give me my phone, but you forgot the phone?”

“Yes sir, that’s what I did.” She waved her hand and bowed as if before an audience. As she did this, her perfume wafted into Fred’s nose. The scent was a floral amber; like Ibiza and soap mixed with champagne. His legs weakened, and the scent imprinted onto his brain.

“So…” His voice trembled. Get it together, guy! “So, what now?”

Her lips curled, and she peered up at the sky. Her head danced as she juggled her options. “Screw it, just come over,” she said. “Follow me, I can run inside and grab it.”

“Oh, you think I’ll just go to some strange girl’s house?” Fred smiled.

She held her heart. “Ow, Frederick. Well, if you don’t want your phone, I guess I can find a grandma to sell it to.”

They laughed.

“What’s your address?”

“Just follow me,” she said. “It’s like ten minutes from here.”

Fred got into his car, but she was already off before he could turn his key. He panicked and sped towards the parking lot exit. She turned left. By the time he turned left, she was almost fifty yards ahead of him, rolling through a stop sign. Fred considered that maybe she was trying to lose him. That wasn’t possible, was it? Yet just as he managed a steady pace, the Buick turned right onto another street. He caught the turn and empty water bottles tumbled like bowling pins in his backseat.

She turned left and then right onto the next street. Fred hadn’t seen a single brake light flash above the faded Patriots Super Bowl XXXVIII sticker that was stuck to her bumper. The hot girl was dangerous. After what seemed like ten minutes of dizzying turns, the Buick parked in front of an old two-family house. 

Leila was already walking towards the house by the time Fred put his car in park. She turned to him and waved into the house. Fred’s heart burst. Was she inviting him inside? His blood boiled and sent sparks through all the nerves in his body. He opened his window, popped his head out, and pointed to himself. “Come in?” He called across the lawn, a childlike surprise in his voice. 

“Yeah dummy, come-on!” Leila said. She walked up the steps towards the entrance on the left. 

“Uh—okay,” Fred said. He regretted the sound of his own voice. It sounded young and self-conscious. Be a man! Puff out your chest! Stand straight! He exited the car and took a breath as if about to lift a heavy object. “You got this, Fred.”

Got what? He didn’t know.

What he knew was that whatever he hoped would happen, would not happen. It would be nothing but a platonic, businesslike engagement and, in less than two minutes, he’d be walking back to his car with his cell phone in his pocket. She would not try to seduce him. She would not make a move on him (nor would he on her). Every time Fred thought something exciting would happen, it didn’t. He knew what to expect; she’d have a big tough boyfriend inside who she’d point out casually before she turned over his phone. His expectations were mere fantasies, predestined for failure.

Leaves crunched underfoot as he walked across the large front lawn towards the house. Leila disappeared into the black rectangle doorway. He glanced up to capture his surroundings and noticed the beauty of the night sky. Glowing clouds floated next to a bright, full moon that was set against pitch black space. Fred, in his photographer’s mind, smiled at the idea of God working in a cosmic photo-editing software, moving the dial of His contrast slider all the way to the right, kicking up the whites, and crushing the blacks. The night was beautiful and, yet, between the dark house and the street ––where leaves scraped along the street under dim, overhead lamps — the night was ghoulish. It brought him back to a childhood Halloween when he had been just old enough to capture the view. In his memory, the dreary, disturbing celebration of death and horror had, in its aesthetic, an odd, undeniable appeal. With the scene before him now — the house, the dark night, the unknown that was Leila — that same shadowy aesthetic stared back at him. It felt wrong, but it felt fun.

Fred walked up the steps and squinted into the blackened entrance of the house. The distant light from the far end of the hallway traced an outline of Leila. She didn’t move, she didn’t speak, but he felt her eyes on him. The only sound was the chatter of dried leaves on the road behind him.

A chill shot up his spine and a sudden dread urged him to turn and run back to his car. His legs fought in both directions. Part of him saw a giant knife emerge from the darkness, jam itself into his belly and drive up into gut towards his sternum. Another part of him saw a flash of Leila’s red lips, her deep eyes, and her curves between his hands. A hint of her perfume wafted in the air, reached out, and tickled his nostrils.

His feet moved forward.

The pressure in his throat traveled to his temples.

He swallowed his fear and offered a slapstick smile to the darkness. “You know there was once this inventor, Thomas Edison? He invented this thing called a light bulb,” Fred said. “Is that why you stole my phone? You need money for light bulbs? Coz I’ll donate if you—.” 

She took his left shoulder and slammed him into the wall. Before he could process the pain, her cool wet lips pressed against his. The lips withdrew for a breath and then returned. This time, her mouth was open, the heat from her breath inviting him to part his own lips. She kissed him with urgency, in a fight between catching her breath and going in for more. Her arm slid around his neck and drove his face further into hers. It took everything in him not to whimper as they recited poems in French to one another. She gave him her weight and he pulled her hips into his. Holding her was just as he had imagined. She fit inside his arms like the last piece of a 25-year-old puzzle.

The entryway flooded with bright yellow light, and Leila withdrew her mouth from his. Her eyes locked onto him as cold air flooded the space between them. The air highlighted the wetness that she had left on his lips. The way she stared at him was as if she had marked him somehow. She had. 

He moved to pull her back in for another kiss ––in his mind, a kiss in the light would confirm that the first one happened ––but she was already walking down the hallway. He caught himself and glanced to his left to curse the light switch that had pulled him from the dreamland of their kiss.

At the end of the hallway, Leila glanced at him over her shoulder and turned into the kitchen. Fred caught his breath and walked down the hallway, passing a living room and a dining room on his right. Before reaching the kitchen, Fred’s attention drew towards another door on his left that stood open just an inch.

“Hey!” Leila called from the kitchen, stealing his attention. Fred turned to Leila, who was holding up his phone. “Eyes on the prize!” 

Fred turned into the kitchen which, with its turquoise countertops and dark wooden cabinets, reminded him of the 50s. Leila put a green mug and a blue mug on the countertop next to his phone. She looked up at Fred. “Coffee?”

Before he could answer, she was pouring coffee from a full pot into the mugs.

“Sure,” he said. Anything to never leave this moment. He still felt her on his lips.

“Cream, sugar?” She moved towards the fridge as if waiting on a despised table. She was different. Her airiness had faded.

Was he a terrible kisser? It didn’t feel terrible. “Uh, yeah, sure.” 

She opened the fridge and ducked her head inside.

“You got a roommate?” he asked.

Her head popped out from the fridge, her eyes wide. “Why? Did you hear something?”

“N––no, just asking,” Fred replied. He smiled in reassurance. 

She sighed, smirked, and then looked back at the fridge with contempt. “Oh shoot, there’s only milk here, no cream. That okay?”

“Yeah, that’s cool,” he said.

Leila closed the refrigerator and began opening and closing drawers, looking for something. She noticed the dish rack by the sink and grabbed a spoon. She poured milk into his coffee and began stirring. “No roommate, thank God! I’ve had enough roommates for a lifetime,” Leila said. She appeared light again.

Fred nodded in agreement. “Yeah, I hear you. I was relieved to find an affordable one-bedroom. How long you been here?” 

“Oh, about a year or two.” Leila took out a pink packet from her purse, which resembled artificial sweetener. She ripped it open, poured it into the blue mug, and slid it towards him. Fred hated artificial sweetener but, despite the jar of sugar in plain sight on the counter behind her, he would not complain. It was imperative to tread with caution.

He needed to kiss her again; if only to confirm it was real.

“You want me to spike it for ya, Frederick?” Leila said. There was a mischievous grin on her face, the grin he had imagined when they spoke on the phone.

“Oh…” Fred’s stomach burned. Maybe this meeting would be longer than he expected. “Sure, what do you got?”

Leila moved to the fridge, opened the freezer door, and pulled out of a large frosted bottle. “Vodge-cka, comrade!” she said in a Russian accent.

“Placebo, comrade! Or… passivo, or… whatever they say!” Fred said. They laughed. 

Leila filled both mugs with vodka up to the rim. She stirred her coffee, licked the spoon, and reached over the counter to mix Fred’s drink. When she stopped, Fred began blowing on the coffee.

She looked at him and scoffed. “Don’t be a wimp, Frederick. I shut the coffee off before I left to meet you, it’s not even hot.” She leaned over and slurped from her mug. Leila popped back up and shuddered. “Wow! I needed that! Woo!”

“You’re crazy,” Fred said. He bent, placed his mouth on the edge of the mug, and slurped a generous portion of the alcoholic, lukewarm coffee. He came back up and shivered. The vodka burned his throat. The chemical tang of artificial sweetener followed, and Fred tried his best not to cringe.

Leila picked up her mug and took another sip. She shuddered again from the vodka. “Strong! I hope you’re not too cheap a date,” she said. She pushed her tongue into her two front teeth and tittered. She held her eyes onto his, unflinching. 

As if to prove his tolerance, Fred picked up his mug and took a big pull. It was disgusting but worth every ounce if what he was so sure wouldn’t happen tonight was really about to happen.

“When you finish that, I’ve got some mint schnapps,” she said. “No one likes coffee breath, right, Frederick?”

Fred nodded and finished his coffee.

His phone, which sat between them on the counter, was the last thing on his mind.

As far as he was concerned, she could keep it.

I've been a freelance photographer and videographer for 11 years and, realizing that I could best flesh out this world in a novel, I ended up adapting the novel from various short film ideas I had (and even a video game idea). It then formed into a really huge, surprisingly cohesive story – and I've even created an original soundtrack (check out the main theme song above; there are also many other instrumental scores for the series too). THE GREATER GOOD reads like a fun, moody TV series (think The Night Of or You or Breaking Bad). I can see it, frame for frame almost, and some moments were specifically designed for that visual moment; luckily, our own imaginations are even more creative than what we can produce for film. 

The story is very personal — Fred is essentially my younger, idiotic self — and there are other characters whom I relate to personally and some whom I relate to others I’ve known in my life. Some chapters are based on true events. Some are fantasies. Some were inspired by something someone said. Some chapters are nightmares. Some came from dreams. The process is surreal and I’ve found that writing is, in a way, wish fulfillment. Being in filmmaking, the margin between imagination and what you can produce is often too large to tackle. With writing, at least for me, it feels as though that margin is just a thin line and, in the midst of a good writing session, sometimes creativity surpasses my own imagination. It’s a beautiful process.

As for my first installment in this series, THE GREATER GOOD is both relatable and light as well as thought-provoking and explorative. There is a slight dystopian world building aspect similar to that of 1984 (more-so in later books), but I tried to create a world that perhaps you or I might want to be a part of, which therein lies Fred's challenge. 

A lot of this series is inspired by an older film called A Face in the Crowd (1957). I also did research on Jim Jones and The People's Temple. Another source of inspiration was Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn’s Gulag Archipelago, which served to illustrate how people can become susceptible to a cause and change into someone they never thought they could be.

The main narratives for each book are told through a central character, but there are many short asides with other characters (some are within The Greater Good and others are fully outside of it). There are lots of teasers and a few easter eggs in there as well; I really had fun with it.

So what’s the overall goal? First and foremost, it’s to get these stories out of my head and onto the page. I’m sure this is true for all writers, but I’ve been living with these characters and this world for seven years. Only recently have I had to courage to flesh it out, but now that I’ve begun, I’m thrilled to continue. THE RISING TIDE and AGENTS OF CHANGE are both, actually, a third-or-so written at this point and I’m anxious to get back in there. After that, obviously, I want to get these stories out to the world and get to a point where it’s not annoying and self-indulgent for me to discuss these characters and this story with people. The longer-term goal, however, is to get these stories onto the small screen (which was actually my original approach when I first started writing, which I changed when I realized the literary format allows you to go inside these character’s heads - and thats a lot more fun!). 

So there’s a ways to go from here, but I appreciate you reading this! It’s quite the compliment for someone to fill their head with the things that spill out of my head; that does not go unnoticed — it is greatly, wildly appreciated.

I’m looking for representation to get this book published (and I know I just wrote a lot of adverbs in my little note above, but this was a free-write, okay?). If you’re interested in reading more, please email me at tim@simcommedia.com, I would love to connect. And if you’re not an agent and somehow you’re just a reader who wants to read the rest of the book, reach out!

Thank you!