HEATHER
She Ghosted the Wrong Guy. A Tale of Online Dating Gone Horribly Wrong.
I
Scroll drunk.
This is how I feel after endless hours of thumbing through dating bios, a sea of potential romance quickly becoming a cesspool of pick-me-girls.
I can't swipe left fast enough whenever I see profile pics that scream, 'I'm thirsty. Give me your undivided attention.’
Wearing makeup like spackle. Clothes like a prostitute. Filters like a fucking AI queen.
And then there's the time warpers. Those who put up younger versions of themselves as their primary photo, only to show you as you scroll down how much older and rounder they've become.
As addictive as this suck scroll is I'm about to throw in the towel, but before my thumb catches up to my brain my digit for digital leads me to Heather.
Her eyes meet mine, absorbing me in despite being made up of pixels.
Her lips causing mine to physically react, an impulsive swipe of the tongue across them.
A rose in a field of weeds.
Hell, a geyser in a barren land which hasn't seen water in one thousand millennia.
I slow my scroll to snail speed so as not to miss a single word.
Her words.
Describing herself.
Describing her ideal match.
Describing our future together.
With a sense of completion, I tap the heart icon on Heather's profile.
II
I don't know if it was the overpriced digital rose I sent her, my profile pic, or my descriptive bio. Whatever it was that has lured Heather in and caused her to reciprocate the heart is now responsible for me soaring high on cloud 9.
Those damn digital roses came in a minimum of a five pack, the money-sucking dating app getting another $15 out of my bank account.
But hell, if they work, I'm ready to finance a whole garden of 'em.
Now that I have the interest established, I need to compose the all-important first message.
Laying it on too thick and I might scare her away. Not saying enough, and she might lose interest.
Damn these fucking games of courtship.
Dear Heather,
It's nice to see our aligned stars led to our paths crossing, despite the infinite vastness of this thing we call cyberspace.
My day was pretty good. Productive. Fun. And nice weather to top it off.
Hope yours was even better.
~Rich
III
Rich,
I had a great day. Thank you for the kind words.
I have to ask, are you a poet?
You seem to be artful in the way you write, and I like it.
IV
I fell asleep with thoughts of Heather cushioning my mind, having spent my last five minutes of screen time gazing over her profile pics, my favorite of which has her hair pinned high, a few twirling strands flowing down on either side of her face, like ribbons to the gift I see her as.
An image which now serves as my phone's wallpaper.
V
New profiles.
New Likes.
New messages.
These new notifications have zero appeal to me, my heart, my mind, now fixated on Heather.
And the vibe she’s giving back feels just as strong.
This first week of connecting has went by in a flash, the text messages between us now countless. The occasional new photos she sends, priceless treasures.
It’s all I can do to hold back on asking her to enter the next level, but I'm managing to stay patient until the calendar hits the seventh-day mark.
It’s at this point I ask to hear her voice. To jump on a call with me.
VI
Two hours, twenty-two minutes and thirty-one seconds.
Our first phone conversation had turned out to flow, to glide. As smooth as a rose petal. A real one. Not one of those overpriced digital frauds.
It was so nice. Her voice. Our playful banter. Our hint of vulnerability. Our touch of flirtation.
I knew it would take us to a more intimate level, and indeed it has.
Heather is now on my mind 24/7.
VII
Heather and I are now off the dating app, our playground for continuing to build our relationship now on Whatsapp.
The phone calls, voice messages, photos, and texts keep flowing, and now that it's the end of week two I'm ready to up my game.
I really want to ask Heather to start video chatting with me, for this will take the level of virtual intimacy to its highest before we finally meet in person.
But like with the digital roses, I want to do a little something special to keep her intoxication with me strong.
And it helps that her birthday is coming up.
Paying special attention to every detail she has shared so far, I remember Heather saying how much she had enjoyed the 90's R&B group, Color Me Badd, back in the day.
So I hop on Cameo. A website that allows users to hire celebrities to make personalized video greetings for someone special.
BAM! There he is. The lead singer of C.M.B.
VIII
Heather's personal greeting will be delivered any day now, but instead of feeling overjoyed I'm waking up to my stomach sinking.
Rich,
It's been amazing getting to know you, but sometimes I feel you're not real.
I mean, you say just the right things at just the right times. You're very attentive. Attractive. Sweet.
But sometimes I feel it's too good to be true. What if it's just infatuation on both our parts?
Please tell me I'm wrong. But what if this isn't what we think it is?
IX
No.
I can't let her go.
I'm all in. And she said the same thing when I convinced her to go off the dating app and move our correspondence over to Whatsapp so we could call and video chat.
No.
I'm not going to lose her.
X
Dear Heather,
Doubt is normal. It's part of being human. And in many cases, including this one, it's good to step back and look at things objectively.
We both long for a serious relationship.
We share interest in the same things.
We get lost in one another's company, our conversations flowing so naturally they could easily become timeless.
Timeless, which is what our companionship is headed for, as long as we keep that trust in one another strong.
Listen to your heart, Heather. Believe it when it says your search for completion is over.
Our paths crossed for a reason.
We've found one another.
XI
‘Holy shit!’
This is the first two words to come out of Heather's mouth when she puts voice to recorder in response to her personal video greeting from Color Me Badd's leed singer.
She goes on to express how thoughtful it was of me to do such a thing for her.
How it has brought her to her knees.
How no one has ever done anything like this for her before.
Everything up to this point has put an indelible smile on my lips. And this latest declaration from Heather now secures such a blessing upon my heart.
So much so that I'm now starting to sing a melody to myself throughout the day, and to Heather as an enduring whisper to end our conversations.
I'm no singer, but it comes from the heart.
Heather…
You're the light I’ve been praying for.
In your arms, I'm not alone anymore.
Every dream I've been chasing led me to your door,
Heather…
You're all I've been waiting for.
But just when everything seemed so perfect...
XII
The dating app Heather and I met on has time stamps, so one can see when a certain member was last active, or even if they’re currently online browsing the site.
I haven’t been on since the migration to Whatsapp, feeling no desire to look at other women now that I have Heather in my heart.
She has essentially said the same thing, revealing in one of our phone conversations that she had spoken to her mother about me.
How she had told her mother she had no interest in talking with anyone else.
"Tell him that. Tell him how you feel," her mom had urged.
I already like her, I thought to myself when I heard this. What a great future mother-in-law.
But something is itching at me, telling me to hop on the app long enough to see when Heather was last active.
An irritating itch, giving me a wave of anxiety.
Things are going so well. Why ruin it? Ignorance is bliss, is it not?
But if I do try to ignore it, it will continue to eat away at me.
And so the logical conclusion is just to jump on the app long enough to confirm she has been inactive for as long as she claims, then I'll be able to put it to bed once and for all. With Heather and I sharing a bed in the not-so-distant future.
Such a happy thought propels me to have a quick look.
Her profile reveals she has last been active not even two hours ago.
My heart sinks straight down to the pit of my stomach.
XIII
Heather,
Did you wanna go back to chatting on the app?
I hopped on to delete my account, and saw you were active today.
Were you on to do the
same?
😘
~Rich
I hoped to hell that was the case, but knew in my heart it wasn't. For if she had deleted her account it wouldn't have been up there to see.
The anxiety was starting to give me compulsive behavior.
There has to be a logical reason.
There has to be a logical reason.
There has to be a logical reason.
I'd order another Cameo.
I'd spend my whole fucking paycheck on those damn digital roses.
No, I'd send her real ones. A whole fucking truck of 'em.
Waiting for her reply, I'm a complete mess.
XIV
Rich,
Sorry it has to be so sudden, but I can't talk to you anymore.
Have a wonderful life.
-H
XV
My heart went from boiling in the pit of my stomach to being obliterated in a garbage disposal.
The message had come through the dating app, her betraying words followed by the system's cold words...
Heather has said goodbye.
This basically means she blocked me, confirmation coming as I check her profile and find the one simple word, Unavailable.
Whatsapp?
Blocked.
Email?
Blocked.
Cell phone?
Blocked.
Facebook?
She's forgotten this line of communication.
With trembling fingers, I begin to compose.
XVI
Heather,
I don't know what I did wrong. I was an open book from the start. I was all in, and you declared the same.
All those countless hours together didn't mean anything to you?!
How can you flip it off as if it were just a simple light switch?
I thought we really had something.
I know we really have something.
You were on the dating app all this time? Continuing your search while playing me?
What kind of person does this?!
You were just keeping me in your back pocket until someone you perceived as better came along, huh?
Is it not exhausting?
To be engaged in such a soul-sucking act?
It's not too late, Heather.
I understand these dating apps can be overwhelming. Confusing.
But I'm a real person, Heather.
The person who cared for your every word.
The person who gave you his heart.
His soul.
My looks might not be GQ. My bank account might not be overflowing. But whoever you're talking to now is not going to be totally committed to you like I am.
They're just gonna fuck you, then hop right back on that dating app.
What we have is real.
I'm real.
Heather…
You're the light I’ve been praying for.
In your arms, I'm not alone anymore.
Every dream I've been chasing led me to your door,
Heather…
You're all I've been waiting for.
~Rich
XVII
The bitch didn't reply.
She blocked me.
It was really over.
Scrolling her account on my backup phone, on my fb account she didn't know existed, I stare at her photos with new eyes.
Heather Stones.
A cold blooded evil bitch.
A dark twisted heart that obviously has deep mental issues.
Something has to be done.
She can't just get away with this.
It’s illegal for someone to steal something from you.
It’s illegal for someone to hit you.
Why isn't it illegal for someone to damage your heart?
After all, it’s more traumatizing.
Traumatizing. That's what she needs to feel.
That's the lesson she needs to learn.
By stoning Heather Stones?
No, something more fitting.
She had said in her profile she would never cut and run, had she not?
XVIII
One does not have to be a techie to follow the breadcrumbs leading to Heather Stones.
Most people put too much information about themselves online, and my scum sweetheart is no different.
She’s a property manager at an apartment complex. A single woman who enjoys hiking, traveling, and spicy food.
But she had abandoned such would-be bliss, using those long beautiful fingers for the dirty deed of swiping away.
Deleting forever.
Yet we were now on course to come together, Heather coming from one direction, me, the other, my hope our dogs would stop and greet one another fulfilled as noses touch.
Just as Heather's hound takes his sniffing to the little bitch's ass I take the butcher knife from the kangaroo pocket of my hoodie and bring it up above my bitch's hand.
The moment has becone Matrix-style, in slo-mo with fine details.
Her eyes opening wide.
Her pulsating pink scar-to-be.
Her body going as stiff as a statue.
My line being delivered with such malice, such glee.
"Cut and run."
Like a guillotine blade, the butcher knife comes down with such force it cuts right through whatever is in its way.
In this case, Heather's thumb, index finger, and middle finger, all three giving off a wet PLOP as they hit pavement.
Leash falling as well, Lulu beginning to lick one of the bloody digits, Heather's hound scarfing down the severed thumb.
Once again music to my ears, I leave Heather wailing away.
XXI
The Ghostwriter.
The Spyderco Killer.
Maybe they'll give me a cool life liquidator name like those who have come before me.
No, I think to myself as I turn off the latest news broadcast covering my latest lesson with Heather.
I'm a one-woman man. It begins and ends with my Heather.
That grand excitement, which is beginning to demand more and more of me, is once again bubbling below the surface.
Still so many parts of Heather's body to open.
I had thought of abducting her. Just taking her to an abandoned warehouse and feeding my insatiable appetite for revenge in one fell swoop.
Carving her like a turkey until she is nothing more than a gizzard.
Seems you don't have a wishbone, Heather dear.
Looks like these ribs will have to do.
Laughing to myself, knowing it’s far better to draw things out. To slow bleed her, so she has adequate time to think on her sins against me.
Enlightening thoughts as I stroll the grounds of The Stanley Hotel.
Made famous by the 1980 film, The Shining, it’s only two hours from Littleton.
I'm not much of a believer in the supernatural, but wouldn't it make sense if this is what has taken over Heather?
A dark energy that has invaded her mind. and compelled her to cut all ties and cut and run?
Naw. Pure fantasy. The bitch is just rotten to the core. A bad seed, which must be dealt with accordingly.
And there goes the insatiable appetite again.
Soon to be ravenous.
Threatening to take over my entire being.
Well, I have managed to suppress it for the past few days.
Time enough to restrategize.
Time enough to choose another blade.
Every dream I've been chasing led me to your door,
Heather…
You're all I've been waiting for.
XXII
I've learned Heather is never to be left alone.
A friend.
A family member.
Someone is to be at her side, 24/7.
A complication, I admit, but not an impossibility.
What will my disguise be for our next lesson?
A waiter?
An Amazon delivery driver?
A Walmart stocker?
Stalker.
I have to laugh at that one.
Maybe it’s time to upgrade to a gun? Not for Heather, as her fate is already sealed with a blade.
No, I need something quick and easy for whomever will be guarding her at any given time.
She does have a lot of recovering to do.
Bingo!
Orderly.
Pepper spray.
XXIII
It's Heather's rehab day, scheduled on this pleasant late morning, her dress lightly blowing in the breeze, her arm interlocked with her mother's as the two enter the outpatient rehabilitation facility of a local hospital.
With very little security set up the place proves to be no obstacle at all for me, swiping an orderly uniform as easy as stealing from a Dollar Tree and putting together an employee badge as easy as a first grade art project.
This time around my hair is as pale as a ghost, having been drenched in white dye to match the realistic short white beard I'm now sporting.
And then there’s the chemicals on my skin. A spray tan.
Along with my new look I have put a significant amount of time practicing the body movements for this now two-person attack, keeping in mind the famous words of an old football coach.
'Practice doesn't make perfect. Perfect practice makes perfect.'
And just like a game-winning play in a championship football game, I go on the offensive, ramming my utility cart into the one guy who is standing nearby and possibly a threat, immediately following it up by taking aim and pulling the trigger to my pepper spray, Heather's mommy dearest grabbing at her burning eyes while I slip past her and to my seated Heathy Weathy.
Heather's fight-or-flight response takes the latter, but before she can even rise to her feet I come down with all my weight upon her left bare leg, kneeling down as if fitting her for a shoe, one hand securely around her shin, the other...
Taking my razor-sharp pocketknife and slicing open Heather's Achilles heel.
With no time to waste, I leave both mother and daughter in agonizing pain, the few bystanders too shocked to do anything but stare.
Heather falls down onto all fours, repeatedly pounding her fist onto the floor in exasperated hysteria.
My Helen of Troy, my Heather of betrayal, the launch of a thousand ships becomes death by a thousand cuts.
XXIV
I watch from a distance as Heather, seated in a wheelchair, is wheeled out to the gardens of this peaceful convent, the attending nun then kneeling down to pray with her.
If they think cushioning her with a soft pillow of religion will keep me away, they’re dead wrong.
Although far from being void of sin, Heather is indeed a sacrificial lamb, being used to open the eyes of all who rape the souls of the innocent via online dating apps.
And this time, her blood will be spilt forth from the breast, another blade in hand to serve as a tool of absolution in this continual sacrifice.
The only other visible soul on the grounds is another nun, her back to what is about to unfold as she tends to a bed of roses some ten yards away.
Zeroing in on Heather and her attendant, I pay no more attention to the holy gardner, letting her fall back into my peripheral vision as I close in.
I didn't bother arming myself with anything but the blade this time, deciding I will draw virginal blood from God's bride if need be.
With only about three feet to go I ready my weapon, bringing it out and slightly up for the slash.
But as if being overtaken by a higher power, my attacking hand is now in the possession of something far greater.
The hand of God?
The force, smooth yet strong, effortless yet in full control, wraps around my hand, which in turn keeps the knife secure within my grip.
This movement is fluid, and refuses to stop despite reaching the breaking point of my wrist.
The snap is quick and excruciating, with me having no choice but to turn and follow it, where I discover the face of this godly force.
I know it. Know of it.
It isn't Christ.
Through my agony the milliseconds feel like minutes, as I scramble to put a name to the face.
The Ghostwriter.
The Spyderco Killer.
The one who had put an end to them.
The one who was now putting an end to me.
Dressed like a nun.
Within one of those milliseconds, I utter the name just as a hammer fist, a sledgehammer fist, strikes my temple and sends me into darkness.
"Riker."
EPILOGUE
With no one else to turn to, Heather's father had reached out to the man he had remembered seeing on the national news.
A private investigator based out of Los Angeles who seemed to make the headlines with every case he took on.
High profile cases. The kind involving mad men. Serial killers who would not stop until being stopped.
The papa bear, at his wit's end, had flown out to Los Angeles to meet with Riker.
To beg, to plead, to offer anything in exchange for his daughter's well-being.
Well, as well as it could be, now that irreparable damage had been done.
The task had been accepted, the two men flying back to Colorado and the P.I. hatching a plan.
Now that it was over, everyone involved could breathe a big sigh of relief, truly able to release their anxiety and fear.
Everyone that is except for the one who had felt it the most.
Heather.
Now a resident within the stable walls of a facility to house her instability.
A cuckoo's nest. A loony bin. A mental hospital. All names for the same thing. All names omitted by those around Heather.
In a daze from both a fragmented mind and drugs to help her cope, the girl who liked to ghost was now as haunted as one, curled up on her hospital bed hugging a pillow while softly humming the melody Rich would end each and every call with back when they used to have phone conversations.
Heather's melodic hum rose up towards the ceiling and into a vent, now traveling through air ducts, reaching out…
On the other side of the facility, in a ward designated for men, Rich lay over on his side, arms wrapped around him in a straightjacket, his gruff voice reaching out through his daze and ascending to the vent of his cushioned room, the off key notes making their way through air ducts until Heather's melody found Rich's lyrics.
The two met, tune and verse whirling around one another like the figure of infinity.
Ribbon of forever.
Every dream I've been chasing led me to your door,
Heather…
You're all I've been waiting for.
~
Chronicling our progress as we take Heather from the written word to full vivid imagery of a complete graphic novel.
We'd love to have you come along on our journey.
www.readheather.com
When you're there, go ahead and tap ‘Notify me on launch’.
Cover reveal for Riker's origin story will be in the back of this graphic novel, both digital and print versions, as well as the first chapter of the book.
Here's some of the written version…!
For Journey Teller
PART ONE
A Stranger’s Tears
(July, 1998)
I WANTED TO BE LEFT ALONE but surrounded by others. To wander amongst a sea of people yet not be bothered by a single one.
This hustle and bustle of the masses helped distract my mind from drowning in the torment of the individual thought of having just lost all that I have ever hoped for.
Balancing on the razor’s edge between grief, anger and a numbness that can end all will, this self-medicated delusion of trying to avoid the pain kept me from taking my steps out onto one of the many intersecting tracks of Los Angeles Union Station.
This central nervous system of the West Coast has always been a place of wonder for me, countless strangers coming from who knows where and going to places I would often imagine. Sometimes I’d look up at the arrivals and departures, the footfalls shuffling random conversations as the boards would reveal one locale after another. San Francisco, Seattle, Portland. Landmarks and cityscapes pictured in my mind’s eye. Standing in a dozen different places at once while never leaving this train hub. How one minute a platform would be flooded with travellers, the next, dead, as if every living soul had been wiped off the face of the Earth.
And so there I was, returning to this mysterious place as a source of solace after walking the downtown streets of Los Angeles most of the night, trying to make sense of the ludicrous, unable to understand the injustice I had been dealt. From one platform to another, the terminal, the garden. How many hours I roamed, how many rounds I made, I didn’t know, and didn’t care. But then she caught my eye.
Another lost soul, she sat out on platform six, maybe a decade to fifteen years beyond my twenty-one. At first glance she appeared as someone who just might be having a bad day.
Perhaps she had been fired from her job, or had her heart broken by a boyfriend. Just another face to pass, another story to remain untold. And so I continued on to the end of the line before stopping at its edge, looking out to the tracks that would take all those I had just passed to places far and away.
Perched in stillness, I listened as their train came gliding in at my back, its doors giving off the sound of compressed air as they opened to receive passengers, high heels and sneakers scurrying about as if they only had seconds to board.
A few minutes later and last call was announced, followed by doors being sealed and engines being readied. The iron horse was then released from its gate, its awesome power creating a gust of wind that surged over me as it passed. Picking up steam, the more it roared to life the farther it got, the collage of faces departing platform six on their way to the rest of their lives. Goodbye businessman who was afraid of flying, grandmother taking her last interstate trip, lonely woman who was having a sad day.
The tracks were once again bare, as would be the platform behind me. Too quiet for my current state of mind, and so I turned to head back into the belly of the bustle. To my surprise one person had remained, and as I got closer to the figure the image of the lonely woman reappeared. Had she been too upset to board her train? Or was she like me? Simply here to haunt those who were more alive?
Not wanting to invade her private melancholy I just kept walking, catching another glimpse of her sorrow-stricken face as I did so. It seemed rounder this time, as if swollen with hurt, tears now falling from eyes so red in their raw emotion. I had to fight my first instinct, which was to rush over and offer my assistance, whatever that could have been. A shoulder to cry on? A reassurance that he wasn’t worth it? He who? The farther I got the more guilty I felt.
Someone in that much pain was suffering far greater than having an issue with work or a relationship. And with this realization I had to stop, the single soul of a woman in need back on platform six silently calling out to me far louder than the foot traffic in the terminal.
With cautious steps I approached, then just stood there, nervously searching for the right words. Her line of sight never moved, my shoes now there for her to stare down upon. Then again, maybe she couldn’t see them through her saturation of tears, holding her shoulder bag close to her stomach.
“Ma’am? Are you alright? I…”
She looked up, wiped at her eyes to get a better look at me. She tried to speak, but in the attempt to do so began to hyperventilate.
I bent down to comfort her, to let her know it wasn’t that bad, but upon doing so I saw that it was, a zip tie tightly secured around her neck
My eyes frantically followed the lethal line of plastic around to her back, where I lifted her hair to discover the tie was fastened to one of the metal bars of this mounted bench she sat on. I immediately went for my Spyderco, a razor- sharp pocket knife that I would constantly have clipped to my pants pocket, the hollow circle at the base of the blade making it accessible in a fraction of a second with a simple flick of the thumb.
As soon as I cut the line the sound of shattering glass like bottles popping went off on both tracks, my head snapping up just in time to catch the sight of six figures, three on each side, jumping up out of the track well and onto our platform.
With the exception of their height and weight they were identical in appearance, all wearing pure white masquerade masks, all covered in black from their hoodies to their sneakers as they came at us with jagged-edged beer bottles.
Without thinking twice I yanked the stranger I had just cut loose up off the bench.
“You got to get underneath it, now,” then positioned myself to guard her the best I could.
Three came at me at once, lunging forward with their broken bottles right before I sank to the ground, their shard glass stabbing nothing but air as the blade of my Spyderco sliced through an ankle of one of them, the femoral artery of another, and then pierced straight up into the crotch of the third. On my way back up I slid behind the back of the first to take control of him, his ankle wound being the least serious and therefore making him the most likely to continue on. His hand was still wrapped around the neck of the broken bottle so I sliced it loose by way of severing his index finger, holding him as a shield against the other three as he joined his fellow thug in screaming out in pain, both muffled by the masks they hid behind.
“I’ll fuckin‟ kill her!” threatened one of the last three, rushing over to try and pull the woman out from under the bench, but only getting off a step or two before tumbling over when I threw the guy I held into him.
I used this second moment of opportunity to take out another one of them, stepping forward long enough to lance his windpipe then turning my attention back to the most aggressive as he tried to make his way back up to his feet.
With a heel stump I crushed one of his kneecaps, following it up with a thrust of my blade to one of his lungs, the bottom portion of his white masquerade mask turning blood red as it poured from his mouth.
One left, who was now trying to grab hold of the woman beneath the bench so as to use as leverage, but she was curled up like a fetus, kicking and screaming with the same level of passion as a mama bear, and that’s when I noticed that her hands were protecting her overly large stomach.
The woman was pregnant.
No longer needing my Spyderco I let it go, sending it off with the whip of my hand to bullet through the air and embed itself into the attacker’s spine just below his neck line. He instantly fell over like a puppet whose strings had been cut.
In less than a minute my life had changed, and I knew it couldn’t be random. Although he was bleeding out pretty fast, the only thug who could still talk was the one whose femoral artery I had sliced. I ripped off his mask, revealing a black kid that couldn’t have been that much younger than myself, teetering on the edge of losing consciousness.
I pulled off his hoodie, tied the sweatshirt around the wound and demanded to know what was going on.
“This can’t be random. This isn’t random.
“Who sent you?”
His mouth was moving, but no words were forming.
I slapped him. “Who sent you?!”
Willing his hand to the side of his head, which he had to concentrate to do, his trembling fingertips attempted to dig at his ear, but within a few seconds he passed out.
I turned his head to the side.
It was an earpiece.
Just as I popped it out two incoming trains pulled up to the platform, the passengers that came pouring out stunned at the scene before them.
I helped the stranger whose tears had drawn me in back up to her feet, having her take a seat back on that bench she had been zip tied to.
I then inserted the earpiece into my ear, a whisper loud enough to be heard personally directed towards me.
“You continue to inspire, Riker.”
Five words and nothing more. It could have come from any of the hundreds of people now gathered on platform six, or, more likely, someone watching from afar.
And so I would be left wondering, far longer than I could have ever anticipated.
END OF CHAPTER 1
The plan is to release all of Riker's books first in digital form here on our official website, then as graphic novels starting on kickstarter.
Welcome to the journey!
www.readheather.com