Status: Book 0: Prologue
Keante's Heart
Prologue (page 2)
He lay their basking in the sunlight, absorbing its warmth and radiance. He was 14 years old, with pure chocolate skin and hazel eyes. He was tall for a 14 year old, ‘6’3’ to be exact. And every inch of him was a black girl’s dream.
In one word, he was: fine. From the neck to the feet, he was sexy, well-built, and tough. The arms and legs indicated that he was a basketball player, and judging by the firmness of his muscles, he was obviously a very apt one at that. He had a 6-pack and along the upper portion of his chest were the words: BAD ASS; the words tattooed on his breast. Celtic rings were tattooed on the biceps of his upper left arm, closest to the shoulder. He seemed glossy from a distance, because of the oil he had on, giving him a male model appeal that most girls look for where he comes from. He was incredibly handsome; a face that looked like Tre Songs and Usher (although slightly equal in youth and in age with traces of facial hair growing in) put together, coupled with a hot body like that, made him a little celebrity at school. “Lil’ Tre” or “Lil’ KeTré” were his best nicknames. He was shirtless, practically naked even, but wore nothing but cargo shorts. He was barefoot, with white sneakers
at the foot of the chaise.
He was an average teen, from an average home, who lived an average life. Or, more specifically, what people from his ‘hood would call “average”. To them, living life on the wrong side was the norm. What with drugs, hustlin’, “baby mama drama”, abuse, murder, gang and crew warfare, fights, theft, hijack, etc. Livin’ life in the ‘hood is more than what people expect it to be; and what they don’t. This is because life growing up Los Angeles’s west end was not like life in the rich, wealthy, Palace of the Pomp, which was Beverly Hills; nor was it like the fast-paced, time-consuming, bustling cityscape, that was Los Angeles’s Hollywood areas; nor was it like the quiet, laid-back, and peacefully productive cul-de-sacs of proper elegance, which were the Oakland Hills, or the San Fernando Valley.
Far from it. In fact, living in Caracas Heights—California’s “West-side DC”—was nothing at all like you’d expect.
But that would be a feast for another, more seemly, occasion.
Keante.
He lay there, basking the sunlight. His mind was calm, his breathing steady.
His eyes were closed, his body stretched out in relaxation. He was at peace, his mind a wandering in the world of dreams. Funny isn’t it? Having dreams within the confines of a dream. A very, very, amusing, and albeit, ironic paradox. And yet that was what happened. What exactly did Keante dream about within this dream, not even he knew for sure. The subtleties of it have often escaped such methods of thinking such as this; to see within the confines of sight itself; to have a vision within a vision, and yet the two opposing views are linked in more ways than can be imagined, well… Let’s just leave it at that.
Of course, still, it seems rather odd for a person to dream within the confines of a dream. The problem that made itself the err to Keante’s sense of perfection, was how every dream he dreamed was somehow the same as everyone else’s—well, as everyone else believes. And yet in its complexity of its constant divergence from normalcy and the order of the orthodox, it seemed apparent that nothing was truly what it seemed.
Only this dream, his dream, was different. This dream, his dream, he yearned to understand.
Keante.
He turned his head sighing, too engaged in his thoughts.
Keante. Keante, wake up.
His lips parted. He arched his back as he repositioned himself on chaise, to stretch and feel more comfortable.
Keante. Wake up.
He did. He opened his eyes, letting the waking day greet him with a flock of seagulls flying in V-formation to the sea. He blinked, wincing from letting the sunlight seep into his iris too long. The waves continued their rhythmic dance against the shore; the slow beats of the low “thooming” against the rocks like a deep drumming of an African drum.
“Keante”, a voice called.
“Huh? What?” Keante said, still staring at the sky.
“You came”, the voice replied, “just as you promised.”
Keante was still very sleepy, still wrapped in a trance-like state, with eyelids drooping.
“I-I did”, he said, “I’m here for you. I missed you. I… I want to see you.”
Silence. Then.
“You will see me”, it concluded. The voice was growing fainter, despite its soft crooning. “Today, you will see me, today you will.”
Then silence again.
Keante wiped his eyes and yawned softly, he was awake now but still very groggy. He sat upright in the chaise, his body relaxed but slightly tense, as if he was expecting something. He looked around, lips still parted.
“Hello?” he called. Nothing.
“Wh-where are you?” he asked, “please, don’t go. I want to see you.”
His voice a mixture of Usher’s and Chris Brown’s, but younger, and slightly deeper. All was quiet for seconds, for Keante it seemed like hours, except the crashing and the booming of the waves and the seagulls “eyaahing” and “gaawaahing”.
Then.
“It’s alright”, the voice said at last, “I’m here. I’m with you.”
It was at “I’m here”, that Keante fully heard the voice now. It was soft, and sweet like fresh honey. It was neutral and made Keante’s heartbeat increase like a light foot tapping. It was the kind of voice that made him feel everything was going to be okay. And yet… it was weird. Funny, actually. The way it sounded, the way the “I” was pronounced with a slight “oiy” instead of “eye”. Then he realized the obvious… it was British—a British accent—, but it curved around the words, like another language was also being interpreted into English as well.
This was interesting to him, but that wasn’t what got his attention. What really got his attention was the voice itself. It was feminine in sound, and in speech and in voice. Actually, he thought, it reminded him of that British girl he saw on tv in the movie… the movie… Ugh! What was that movie? It had something to do with stars… Stardust! The actress… her name… the actress’s name was… was Claire Danes; that’s what the voice sounded like!
But even more strange, was that the bass that came with it; it was weird, like the two voices were born together—like they were natural.
Then it hit him.
It was a boy’s voice. A boy’s. A dude’s. A nigga’s voice. But…
(End of Page 2)
In one word, he was: fine. From the neck to the feet, he was sexy, well-built, and tough. The arms and legs indicated that he was a basketball player, and judging by the firmness of his muscles, he was obviously a very apt one at that. He had a 6-pack and along the upper portion of his chest were the words: BAD ASS; the words tattooed on his breast. Celtic rings were tattooed on the biceps of his upper left arm, closest to the shoulder. He seemed glossy from a distance, because of the oil he had on, giving him a male model appeal that most girls look for where he comes from. He was incredibly handsome; a face that looked like Tre Songs and Usher (although slightly equal in youth and in age with traces of facial hair growing in) put together, coupled with a hot body like that, made him a little celebrity at school. “Lil’ Tre” or “Lil’ KeTré” were his best nicknames. He was shirtless, practically naked even, but wore nothing but cargo shorts. He was barefoot, with white sneakers
at the foot of the chaise.
He was an average teen, from an average home, who lived an average life. Or, more specifically, what people from his ‘hood would call “average”. To them, living life on the wrong side was the norm. What with drugs, hustlin’, “baby mama drama”, abuse, murder, gang and crew warfare, fights, theft, hijack, etc. Livin’ life in the ‘hood is more than what people expect it to be; and what they don’t. This is because life growing up Los Angeles’s west end was not like life in the rich, wealthy, Palace of the Pomp, which was Beverly Hills; nor was it like the fast-paced, time-consuming, bustling cityscape, that was Los Angeles’s Hollywood areas; nor was it like the quiet, laid-back, and peacefully productive cul-de-sacs of proper elegance, which were the Oakland Hills, or the San Fernando Valley.
Far from it. In fact, living in Caracas Heights—California’s “West-side DC”—was nothing at all like you’d expect.
But that would be a feast for another, more seemly, occasion.
Keante.
He lay there, basking the sunlight. His mind was calm, his breathing steady.
His eyes were closed, his body stretched out in relaxation. He was at peace, his mind a wandering in the world of dreams. Funny isn’t it? Having dreams within the confines of a dream. A very, very, amusing, and albeit, ironic paradox. And yet that was what happened. What exactly did Keante dream about within this dream, not even he knew for sure. The subtleties of it have often escaped such methods of thinking such as this; to see within the confines of sight itself; to have a vision within a vision, and yet the two opposing views are linked in more ways than can be imagined, well… Let’s just leave it at that.
Of course, still, it seems rather odd for a person to dream within the confines of a dream. The problem that made itself the err to Keante’s sense of perfection, was how every dream he dreamed was somehow the same as everyone else’s—well, as everyone else believes. And yet in its complexity of its constant divergence from normalcy and the order of the orthodox, it seemed apparent that nothing was truly what it seemed.
Only this dream, his dream, was different. This dream, his dream, he yearned to understand.
Keante.
He turned his head sighing, too engaged in his thoughts.
Keante. Keante, wake up.
His lips parted. He arched his back as he repositioned himself on chaise, to stretch and feel more comfortable.
Keante. Wake up.
He did. He opened his eyes, letting the waking day greet him with a flock of seagulls flying in V-formation to the sea. He blinked, wincing from letting the sunlight seep into his iris too long. The waves continued their rhythmic dance against the shore; the slow beats of the low “thooming” against the rocks like a deep drumming of an African drum.
“Keante”, a voice called.
“Huh? What?” Keante said, still staring at the sky.
“You came”, the voice replied, “just as you promised.”
Keante was still very sleepy, still wrapped in a trance-like state, with eyelids drooping.
“I-I did”, he said, “I’m here for you. I missed you. I… I want to see you.”
Silence. Then.
“You will see me”, it concluded. The voice was growing fainter, despite its soft crooning. “Today, you will see me, today you will.”
Then silence again.
Keante wiped his eyes and yawned softly, he was awake now but still very groggy. He sat upright in the chaise, his body relaxed but slightly tense, as if he was expecting something. He looked around, lips still parted.
“Hello?” he called. Nothing.
“Wh-where are you?” he asked, “please, don’t go. I want to see you.”
His voice a mixture of Usher’s and Chris Brown’s, but younger, and slightly deeper. All was quiet for seconds, for Keante it seemed like hours, except the crashing and the booming of the waves and the seagulls “eyaahing” and “gaawaahing”.
Then.
“It’s alright”, the voice said at last, “I’m here. I’m with you.”
It was at “I’m here”, that Keante fully heard the voice now. It was soft, and sweet like fresh honey. It was neutral and made Keante’s heartbeat increase like a light foot tapping. It was the kind of voice that made him feel everything was going to be okay. And yet… it was weird. Funny, actually. The way it sounded, the way the “I” was pronounced with a slight “oiy” instead of “eye”. Then he realized the obvious… it was British—a British accent—, but it curved around the words, like another language was also being interpreted into English as well.
This was interesting to him, but that wasn’t what got his attention. What really got his attention was the voice itself. It was feminine in sound, and in speech and in voice. Actually, he thought, it reminded him of that British girl he saw on tv in the movie… the movie… Ugh! What was that movie? It had something to do with stars… Stardust! The actress… her name… the actress’s name was… was Claire Danes; that’s what the voice sounded like!
But even more strange, was that the bass that came with it; it was weird, like the two voices were born together—like they were natural.
Then it hit him.
It was a boy’s voice. A boy’s. A dude’s. A nigga’s voice. But…
(End of Page 2)