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Messenger: A Novel in 16 Episodes
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Messenger: A Novel in 16 Episodes

Author: Elizabeth Keller Whitehurst

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MESSENGER is the story of a mysterious old woman who delivers life-changing messages to seemingly random people all over New York City and Alana, a young journalist determined to uncover Messenger’s story. In the surprise ending, Alana discovers the true meaning of their journey together.

You can find the complete text of each episode, Questions to Ponder and show credits in the episode description.
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“You know that message you’ve been waiting for your whole life, as long as you can remember? You’ve looked for it in the mail, e-mail, text, letter, in every book or magazine you’ve ever read. On billboards. In other’s faces. I bring that message.”  --MessengerCan one message change a life? A city? The world?MESSENGER is the story of a mysterious old woman who delivers life-changing messages to seemingly random people all over New York City and Alana, a young journalist determined to uncover Messenger’s story. In the surprise ending, Alana discovers the true meaning of their journey together. Dear Reader/Listener:The seeds of MESSENGER began in 2013, when, during a time of great need, I begged for a message, for the answer to an overwhelming problem. Now, in 2020, with all the challenges we face together, MESSENGER’s time has come. I hope you’ll enjoy entering Messenger’s world each week, when you’ll find a new episode of MESSENGER to listen to and/or to read the complete transcript here. May you find comfort, hope, perspective, motivation and inspiration, and may you receive the message you need most. Blessings,Liz Keller Whitehurst Credits/ContactsAuthor: Liz Keller Whitehurst: messengerthenovel@gmail.comFor inquiries about MESSENGER or rights queries, contact April Eberhardt: april@aprileberhardt.comBook editor: Annie Tucker: annietucker@gmail.comPodcast design/social media: Brandon O’Neill: oneillcreativeco.comAudio production and voice artist: Rachel Pater: richmondstoryhouse.orgOriginal music and sound direction: Wells Hanley: wellshanley@gmail.comRecording and audio editing: Lance Koehler: minimumwagerecording.comSpecial thanks to Wilson, Joy, Audrey and April Find Us Online Website: messengerthenovel.comFacebook: facebook.com/messengerthenovelInstagram: instagram.com/messengerthenovelTwitter: twitter.com/messenger_novel Questions to PonderWhat do you make of Messenger’s Composition Book entry, which begins this episode?Have you ever received a message from an unexpected source?Why do you think Alana is so certain that Messenger and her story are the big break she’s been looking for?The Flower Lady is another mysterious character in this episode. What role do you think she’ll play? ---------------------------------Episode 1 Complete Text  📖 (Click here to access the PDF)--------------------------------- MESSENGER’S COMPOSITION BOOK: Call me Messenger. Don’t be afraid. Don’t be anxious or worried. Everything’s gonna be okay. You want to know, know, know. Want me to write it all down. Well, I like to write. Ooooh, I love this notebook! Lots of clean, blank pages. They smell so good. You think you’re pinning me down, Honey, but you’re in for a surprise. Everybody is. Oh, well. If it’ll make you happy. Here goes.             You want to understand what’s going on here—what I’ve been trying to do? You know how in books or stories writers will use lots of symbols instead of saying what they really mean? Something stands for something else? Well, this won’t be like that. I’m going to tell you what’s what. Now don’t expect too much. This is just a smidgen of it. Look, you can’t figure it all out, no matter how hard you try. Let’s just say the swerve’s a hint—a wink—a little nudge along the right path.            This is how it’s done: You wait and wait. You won’t know it’s coming. You wake up one morning. It’s sunny or it’s cloudy. You get up early or snooze for a while. Doesn’t matter. It’ll seem like any other day. What I mean is, you will have no idea anything’s about to happen to you. That, just around the corner, on your way to work or to the store, the message will come. You’ll realize everything that’s happened in your life—whether you ate Lucky Charms or Fruit Loops every morning for five years as a child, whether you like blue, whether you’re right or left-handed—every single thing you’ve ever done or thought or experienced will come into play.             You might feel happy or elated or afraid or terrified or cry or laugh or scream. Doesn’t matter. It’s like having a baby. Ready or not . . . here it comes. And it’s yours now—forever. So, if you’re smart, tuned in or whatever you want to call it, you’ll watch for it all the time. You know the end of the story, even if you don’t know the particulars. Or the big “W”—when.            No matter how much you wish for it, or want to get it over with, depending on your temperament, doesn’t matter. Until the time is right, no amount of fretting or sweating will make it come. So, don’t begin that game at all. Your message will arrive when it’s good and ready.             Okay—let’s put it another way. You know that message everybody’s been waiting for their whole life, as long as they can remember? They’ve looked for it in the mail, e-mail, text, letter, in every book or magazine they’ve ever read. On billboards. In others’ faces.             Well, I bring that message. That’s my job. It’s up to me. That’s why I came. It comes through me for you. When you least expect it, when you give up and stop looking, that’s when you’ll get it. It’ll explain everything, answer those questions that wake you up in the night in a cold sweat, turning, longing, watching the hours tick by. So, here you go.  SIX MONTHS EARLIERTHIS IS WHAT STARTED IT ALLALANA’S NOTEBOOK: Transcript of video MARTY posted about his encounter with Messenger.            Lots of people have replied to the photo I posted of the mystery woman who gave me a message. They want to hear my story. Okay, so here goes.            I’m heading to work, see? It’s a perfectly ordinary day. I know because when I think back, try to put it all together (like when you drop a glass and it breaks, you better find all the pieces, or you’ll step on a slice barefoot in the night), I couldn’t find anything—no warning. No tip-off. No clue. Nothing.            Nothing’s on my mind that day—just tired. Dreading work. All my problems plucking my nerves. Money, my parents’ bad health, my wife’s mad at me again. My hair’s definitely falling out. Every day—more hair in the shower drain. Kid’s failing algebra for the second time, dog keeps peeing in the same places in our tiny patch of lawn. All these dead circles of grass staring up at me. The usual.            I get out of the car and hurry down the street and there she is. This woman. We’d call her a bag-lady back in the day. I don’t really pay attention to her—too much else going on all around—people, noise. Listening to that God-awful bing on my phone telling me I’ve racked up a hundred new e-mails to read when I get to work. So, I’m about to pass her without really seeing her. You know, I try my best not to make eye-contact with these people—give them a little privacy in their shame.             So, I jump when I feel her touch me. I’m shocked and then, like they say—electricity. She hands me something. I feel my hand clutch it. It’s just a dirty piece of paper. Okay, I figure—must be one of those things they give you in exchange for money—flyer, newspaper, whatever. But it isn’t.            At first, I shove it in my overcoat pocket till I get to the next wastebasket. I pull my hand out, ready to drop it in, still not paying attention, until my eyes rest on the words. It’s not a copied, printed thing. It’s handwritten. And for some reason, I start thinking how you don’t see that anymore. Everything’s printed, copied—or not on paper at all. So, it wasn’t the words, at first. I didn’t focus on them. It was the curiosity that a message—no—a note—handwritten—does for you. Your heart leaps somehow. You can’t keep from wondering—Is this it? Is this the one?            So, I finally read it. And when I do—how can I tell you—it’s like time stops—like all those moments in life. When the doctor calls, “It isn’t cancer.” Or the car door slams late in the dark night, when your daughter’s late coming home. Or your wife’s text: “I still love you.” Those moments are really very short but take up a lot of room in a lifetime.             This was one of those. Not long. Not profound. TAKE A CHANCE. FOLLOW YOUR DREAMS. I know it doesn’t sound life-changing or earth-shattering. But listen. Really. It is. I was making some big decisions in my life at that time. After I got the message, everything reconfigured for me. It lightened me up. Reminded me of who I am. It was just what I needed.            So, what do I do? Well, quite naturally, I go back. I want to find her and thank her and ask where all this is coming from. Like, where’s she getting it? Who’s sending it? It’s obviously not from her. I go back to the exact same spot near the wastebasket, in front of the chicken place on 11th.            But she’s gone. Completely. Without a trace. I walk around the block, look everywhere. Nothing. I even go into the chicken place to ask if they’ve seen her. “Ah—yeah. Old? Red cap? We’re always chasing her off,” the young kid, his polyester uniform too big, awful acne, says. Then looks at me like I must be crazy.            Well, I don’t give up easy. I keep walking those streets, determined to find her, to figure out what gives. Finally, way down First Avenue, I catch a glimpse of her red cap. I run towards her, stop and snap a really bad photo through the crowd. When I pull my phone back down, she’s gone. I don’t know if she turned down a street or disappeared into thin air. The photo I got is terrible, but it at least captures something about her.             So, there you go. I think I can say without a doubt, this is the strangest thing that has ever happened to me. I’ll keep my message in my wallet and look at it every day, just like I have since I got it. But I can’t even remember exactly what the woman looked like, even with the terrible photo. Except for her eyes, which were this strange golden color. Doesn’t matter, I guess. My message was for real. ALANA’S NOTEBOOK:  THIS IS IT! Just what I’ve been looking for. My big break! WHAT A STORY!             This Marty is getting a lot of replie
MESSENGERA novel in 16 episodesBy Liz Keller WhitehurstRead by Rachel Pater Credits/ContactsAuthor: Liz Keller Whitehurst: messengerthenovel@gmail.comFor inquiries about MESSENGER or rights queries, contact April Eberhardt: april@aprileberhardt.comBook editor: Annie Tucker: annietucker@gmail.comPodcast design/social media: Brandon O’Neill: oneillcreativeco.comAudio production and voice artist: Rachel Pater: richmondstoryhouse.orgOriginal music and sound direction: Wells Hanley: wellshanley@gmail.comRecording and audio editing: Lance Koehler: minimumwagerecording.comSpecial thanks to Wilson, Joy, Audrey and April Find Us Online Website: messengerthenovel.comFacebook: facebook.com/messengerthenovelInstagram: instagram.com/messengerthenovelTwitter: twitter.com/messenger_novel Questions to PonderIn “Messenger Starts Something” it seems that Messenger was also looking for Alana. Why?What “hard spots” do you detect in Alana?What are the mysterious/unexplained aspects of the story thus far? What are you curious about?After learning more about Messenger, what do you think she’s up to? What is her aim? ---------------------------------Episode 2 Complete Text  📖 (Click here to access the PDF)--------------------------------- ALANA AND MESSENGER FINALLY MEET One week later, Alana finally found her.             It was a bright, clear fall day. She was sitting on the third stool from the left at the long table at Ed’s Starbucks on 3rd Street and First Ave. Alana had just planned to go in for a coffee and to see if Ed would tell her any more, before she hit the streets to search. Ed wasn’t busy and since there was no line in front of her, she’d ordered before she’d even looked around the shop.             When she turned, Alana saw her for the first time. She sat with bags scattered around her, that red stocking cap pulled down over her ears. Her body poured over the sides of the short stool. Her heavy coat (or coats) couldn’t hide the heft they held.             After weeks of playing Hide and Seek, following lead after lead, all leading up to this moment, Alana shivered all over, something she’d always done in intense moments. Trying to still her chattering teeth, she inched across the room very slowly, as you’d approach a stray dog or a scared child you’re afraid might bolt. On her way, Alana caught Ed out of the corner of her eye. He made eye-contact with the woman, then nodded in Alana’s direction.            “Hello? Excuse me, hello?” Alana sputtered. All the rehearsal she’d done in her head, anticipating this moment, left her. She waded through her bags to stand beside the woman’s stool. Alana’s heart pounded out of her chest. Surely everybody in the coffee shop must hear it, too.            The woman turned slowly, and their eyes met. Her eyes were amber, like many had reported, but shone so bright, with flecks of gold in them, they dazzled. She held Alana’s gaze for the longest time, like she could see things there Alana didn’t even know about. It both scared her and made her feel safe at the same time. She didn’t want her to stop looking. Finally, after so much waiting and searching, Alana had her full attention.            Then, she smiled at Alana. All her wrinkles fell into place as if that’s where they belonged and opened her face, so she looked like a child.Something in her eyes, her smile, made Alana sense Messenger had been waiting for her, too, had expected her to show up today. Was glad to see her, even. Had she planned to finally allow Alana to find her? Had Ed or the Flower Lady tipped her off? Or was it a deeper knowing? It really felt like they’d already met many times before. Like she knew her. But that was impossible.            “Hello,” Alana said again. “I’ve been looking for you.”            “Uh-huh. That’s what I hear.”            “I’m Alana Peterson. I know you.”            “Oh, you do, do you?”            “I mean, I know about what you’ve been doing for people. Aren’t you the person giving out messages?”             She didn’t answer.            “Could we talk a little? Can I buy you a coffee?”            “Ed gives me coffee for free.”            “Oh, that’s so nice of him. Listen, I’m really interested in you. In the messages, I mean. I made this blog. I’ve interviewed some of the people you gave messages to. It’s all incredible. Could I ask you a few questions? Would that be okay?” Alana talked faster as she went.            “Why?”            “Well, you’ve been doing this for a long time, it seems, but nobody’s reported about you, so I want to write a story about you and the messages. Would you agree to that?”            “About me? Why?”            Alana hadn’t expected all these questions. “I just think what you’re doing is fascinating and significant. You know—life-changing. For the people who get the messages, that is.” Lame, lame, lame! Alana felt like she was failing a test. She chewed her cuticles and waited.            The lady smiled again and Alana noticed she was missing some teeth in the back. “Sure, Baby. We can talk. But not right now. I got to go.” She stood up and gathered her bags.            “Wait!” Alana shrieked. She couldn’t leave now. “Do you really have to?”            “I do.”            “But how will I find you again? I’ve been looking for so long already.”            The woman threw her head back and laughed, as if Alana had told the funniest joke ever.             Alana tried again. “Please wait. Can I come along with you so we can talk?”            “Not today. Thanks, Ed,” she called to him. He waved to her and nodded to Alana.            Alana couldn’t believe this was happening. The woman was headed to the door—getting away. “Please wait,” she called. “I don’t even know your name.”            “You don’t happen to have any chocolates on you? Those ones wrapped in red foil? I dearly love them.”            “No, but I can get some.”            “You can find them at the Rite Aid.” She turned and smiled. Paused a beat, as if deciding whether or not to say more. “You can call me Messenger,” she added, over her shoulder. “Bye-bye.” MESSENGER STARTS SOMETHING I finally found her, Messenger thought. She slowly walked down First Avenue a few blocks, then turned onto Fifth Street. She’d sensed the girl’s presence for some time now, felt her energy draw closer. She had to smile when she watched her walk into Ed’s. A smile of releasing. Her own plan to shake things up was set in motion. She would accomplish it through this girl and nothing would ever be the same again. Her life-task would be fulfilled.             Did she have the strength, after all these years? The power to create her own swerve? Was the girl really the one? Yes. Those beautiful, bright eyes! It was the first thing she’d noticed. Those deep brown eyes that went on forever. Just like her daughter’s eyes, she remembered. Now, that wasn’t what this was about. That didn’t enter in. But the fact she’d even register this synchronicity showed her it was time.             Messenger sat on her favorite bench by the fence along the black asphalt playground. The school building was rundown and the paintings on the asphalt, including a map of the U.S. and a mysterious bulls-eye, faded and peeling. This girl was very young, Messenger had to admit. But that’s what we need. We can’t keep doing things the old way. It’s time now. Everything seems to say so. Messenger could read the signs. Clear as the nose on your face, she thought. No more secrets. What’s the use with these young ones? Their brains are already different from ours. Evolved. More evolved ones coming in all the time. They can’t remember not being connected in this new way. They know things on a level we had to work hard to come by.            Granted, she felt some hard spots in this girl that needed releasing, but nothing she couldn’t handle. No, Messenger thought. I’ve seen worse. Well then, Let ‘er rip! It has to happen, she thought, sorting through her stash of paper, as a new message welled up from inside her. I’ll just help things along a little. She giggled. What’s the worst thing the Watchers can do to me for breaking the rules? She wasn’t sure. It would be bad, she knew. The Watchers were probably already on it—sensing what Messenger had in mind. They would know. She had to move quickly.  TALE OF THE WHALE That evening, Alana stood by the door at Tale of the Whale, where she hostessed a couple of nights a week. She’d worked there ever since she’d moved to the city. Her best friend, Mary’s apartment-mate was leaving NYC for a new job, so she’d connected Alana with Gus, the owner and manager of Tale of the Whale. Gus, desperate, had hired Alana on the spot. And Alana knew her inheritance from her mom wouldn’t last forever. Grueling as it was, her hostessing gig helped keep her afloat. Decorated with old fishing paraphernalia, crab pots, buoys, fishing nets, Tale of the Whale was supposed to look like a seafood shack you’d find in any beach town. It was okay food at an okay price and had been an okay side gig for Alana. Gus also gave her and the waitstaff a free meal, another plus.             Between waiting for new customers, Alana filled the water glasses of the few guests they had and planned her strategy. She had to admit, after all her struggles to find Messenger, when she’d finally met her earlier that day, she’d been a little disappointed. Messenger looked . . . normal. Too normal. She could be anybody.            What did you expect? she asked herself. Light? A Halo? Something supernatural or woo-woo or weird? Come on, Alana. Be real.             Messenger’s clothes were worn and it was impossible to tell how big she was with all the layers of coats. Alana wondered if she had any hair beneath the red cap. One difference she did notice about Messenger, she didn’t have that deer-in-the-headlights look.            “Excuse me, Miss. Do you serve sea bass?” A short, plump couple who looked like twins interrupted her thoughts.             She assured
MESSENGERA novel in 16 episodesBy Liz Keller WhitehurstRead by Rachel Pater Have you ever received a message from an unexpected source? What message would you like to receive—or give? We want to hear your reports and observations and to collect any messages you'd like to share. Send us an email at messengerthenovel@gmail.com, and you can see some that we’ve already received on our social media pages.  We look forward to hearing from you! Larry’s message:Four months after my wife died, I was discussing going to Paris with dear friends. But I felt guilty about traveling without my wife. The next morning when I got out of bed, I stepped on something small and hard. It was a sterling-silver charm from her bracelet. And not just any charm. It was the Eiffel Tower! I believe it was a message from my wife. “Bon Voyage!” -Larry K. Credits/ContactsAuthor: Liz Keller Whitehurst: messengerthenovel@gmail.comFor inquiries about MESSENGER or rights queries, contact April Eberhardt: april@aprileberhardt.comBook editor: Annie Tucker: annietucker@gmail.comPodcast design/social media: Brandon O’Neill: oneillcreativeco.comAudio production and voice artist: Rachel Pater: richmondstoryhouse.orgOriginal music and sound direction: Wells Hanley: wellshanley@gmail.comRecording and audio editing: Lance Koehler: minimumwagerecording.comSpecial thanks to Wilson, Joy, Audrey and April Find Us Online Website: messengerthenovel.comFacebook: facebook.com/messengerthenovelInstagram: instagram.com/messengerthenovelTwitter: twitter.com/messenger_novel Questions to PonderHave you ever experienced “the Beat,” as Messenger describes it, or “the Flow” as Alana does?Alana throws herself wholeheartedly into this project. What risks does Alana face? Have you had a time in your life when you thought taking a risk, even a longshot, was justified? How did it work out?Very different people with very different circumstances post about their messages. Do you notice any common threads?Describe the developing relationship between Alana and Messenger. Have you had a similar one? Were you Alana or were you Messenger? ---------------------------------Episode 3 Complete Text  📖 (Click here to access the PDF)--------------------------------- Posts continued to pour in on Alana’s blog.POST: JEFF I quit. I was sick and tired of giving. Of taking the blame for everything wrong in the world. Of taking the fall for a God I was positive did NOT exist—not as my parishioners saw him, anyway. And yes, I do mean Him. A black-and-white, easy-answer, glib-reply, clear-explanations-for-everything-God. I was tired of taking responsibility for this Monster, whom people had created in their need for answers, justifications, for order. Who punished evil-doers with natural disasters of all kinds, infant death, cancer, plagues, AIDS, incest, any other trial or disappointment. You name it and they call it His Will. Gruesome.            I was also really tired of voicing doubts in the whole system and being met, at best, with blank faces, at worst, with whispers and dirty looks, passive aggression (“Don’t you think you should dress a little more professionally? And that hair!”). Maybe I could have gone on, carried all these projections, all this grief, all these expectations for a while longer before I self-destructed. But the last straw was when this intolerance for doubt extended to the youth of the church and I was asked to step in and do something. The problem was: I was on their side. The way it seemed to me, they acted a lot more grown-up than their parents or the elders of the church.             That was the problem—at least my diagnosis of it. Growing up. Nobody wanted to do it anymore. They wanted God to be Daddy—not like the daddy they’d got but a really good, nice Daddy perfectly attuned to them who predicted their wants and needs before they did and granted all their wishes. He’d say, “Yes!” to everything. He would understand everything and never, ever let anything bad happen to them. It was okay if bad things happened to somebody else, but not them. Daddy would fix everything for them and punish anyone who dared do the least thing against them, while he would never hold them accountable for anything.            This would be just dandy but it’s so far from the truth as I’ve experienced it, with parents when a son comes out of the closet, or an aging parent is wasting away in pain, or a spouse just drops dead one morning over coffee. Or a house burns to the ground, leaving nothing behind. Where was Daddy when they needed Him? Off fishing or playing golf? Where?            So, I finally stopped a minute. Well, to be completely honest, for a month. I took a leave of absence to “discern and prayerfully consider” what to do next because I was absolutely done.            Then, on my first week back, a young couple from the church, who had tried forever to get pregnant—all sorts of tests and invasive procedures and finally—yes! She was pregnant and everything was going well. So we thought. I’m not a doctor and don’t know who dropped the ball, but in the course of delivery, the umbilical cord wrapped itself around the baby’s neck several times. She was a big baby and she strangled before the doctors realized the trouble. She had to be delivered just as if she was alive.             The couple, dark circles so deep around their eyes, they both looked like they’d been punched, which they had, called me into the hospital.             “What do we do now?” the young dad asked me, his eyes wild like a spooked horse. The young mother was struck mute from shock and sorrow.             I embraced the dad—held him close as I would a son. But I had no words.             He pulled away, angry. “You’re a priest but you have no answers here? Nothing? You got nothing?”            I had no words for that lovely young man and his wife, no meaning, only silence in the face of a tragedy, the worst gift I could have given them.            The young mother found her voice. “Get out of here,” she told me.             So, I was walking down the street, heading to the Diocesan Office to quit. Yes, you can quit being a priest. They don’t make it easy on you, but it can be done. I heard this weird humming behind me that sounded other-worldly, or like some witch. A chill ran up my spine and I turned to see a rough-looking old lady in a red stocking cap. My eyes met her amber ones. She didn’t say a word, just handed me a slip of paper then walked off down the street. I didn’t know what to make of her or of any of it until I looked down and read the message. WE NEED YOU TO HOLD YOUR POST. POST: ELAINEWhere to begin? Well, I guess I’ve always been a seeker—since Day One. I don’t know why. I was always trying to figure everything out, to make sense of this crazy planet we find ourselves on. My energy worker tells me I need to relax my third eye between my eyebrows—let it fall back and rest. But how, when we’re in such mess? Maybe being an Aries, too, has something to do with it. I’m always in my head. Anyway, I kept noticing this old lady in different places all over the neighborhood. A coffeeshop. A park bench. The street. The bookstore. I didn’t think much of it, just noticed. She could have been homeless, but she didn’t seem out of it like most of them did.             Anyway, I smiled at her one day when our eyes met across the coffee shop. She winked at me, like she knew me, or we both knew something everybody else didn’t. I glanced around the room to see if anyone else noticed, but no.             I looked back and she stared at me—still smiling. I immediately cut my eyes away, then back down at my magazine. When I looked up again, after an acceptable time, she was walking over. Oh, shoot! I thought. Here we go. She wants money. Should I jump up and leave? Pretend I don’t see her?             Before I’d decided, she’d put a hand on my shoulder. It felt so warm and substantial, steady, like it could hold me firmly on the earth in a way I hadn’t been held before. I raised my head and looked into her face. Her sparkling, deep eyes were clear amber but rimmed in white. “Here, Baby,” she whispered. “This is for you. It’s what you’ve been looking for.” She handed me a scrap of old notebook paper. The lines were blurry, like something had spilled on it. “Take it.”            I stuffed it in my jacket pocket, jumped up and ran out, left my magazine and a half-drunk coffee. I even bumped into this guy checking his phone. I had to get out of there. Then my boss called with a question and I listened to a voicemail from my niece, read a text from a friend I was supposed to meet later. I walked along the sidewalk, really felt the cement beneath my boots for a change, calming my pace, tried to breathe. I felt that paper in my pocket, even though both hands hung by my sides. I wanted to reach in, grab it quickly and drop it on the ground without another glance.             I thought about that lady, the way she hobbled over, as if that short journey cost her energy she didn’t have. The last joint of her index finger twisted out at a right angle from the rest. Her nails were chipped and dirty, with traces of red polish. Why had she given the paper to me, anyway? I was a stranger.             I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t just drop the paper but, for some reason, I couldn’t make myself read it either. I never read comments teachers wrote on my papers, whether good or bad. Something in me couldn’t bear the scrutiny, as if my nerves would snap—like the string that flipped back and blinded my violin teacher in one eye. There’s a breaking point for everything. This was the same. It took nerves I didn’t have. What was the solution? Keep walking. Past stores and restaurants, churches and markets and florists and bars. Shuttered fronts of buildings and scaffolding. I imagined how I would explain not reading the message to another person. Me, a seeker. It didn’t make any sense. POST: ANONYMOUS I leave my apartment to ge
We’re looking for your stories of receiving a message from an unexpected source. Or, can you tell us what message would you like to receive—or give? We want to hear your stories - long or short, profound or pedestrian, and to collect any messages you'd like to share. Send us an email at messengerthenovel@gmail.com, and you can see some that we’ve already received on our social media pages.  We look forward to hearing from you! M's Message:I sat in a class as the first words out of the professor’s mouth were: “There is an artist within each of us. The purpose of this class is for you to find that creative spirit within you.” His words rolled over me and moved me to the core. By that fall, I’d signed up for my first photography workshop and was on my way. The message from the professor changed my entire life.  -M.N. Credits/ContactsAuthor: Liz Keller Whitehurst: messengerthenovel@gmail.comFor inquiries about MESSENGER or rights queries, contact April Eberhardt: april@aprileberhardt.comBook editor: Annie Tucker: annietucker@gmail.comPodcast design/social media: Brandon O’Neill: oneillcreativeco.comAudio production and voice artist: Rachel Pater: richmondstoryhouse.orgOriginal music and sound direction: Wells Hanley: wellshanley@gmail.comRecording and audio editing: Lance Koehler: minimumwagerecording.comSpecial thanks to Wilson, Joy, Audrey and April Find Us Online Website: messengerthenovel.comFacebook: facebook.com/messengerthenovelInstagram: instagram.com/messengerthenovelTwitter: twitter.com/messenger_novel Questions to PonderWere you surprised to learn Messenger has/had a daughter? How does this revelation shift your sense of who Messenger is?What’s going on between Alana and Ed?What’s the swerve Messenger discusses? Could this be part of a larger purpose to the individual messages? ---------------------------------Episode 4 Complete Text  📖 (Click here to access the PDF)--------------------------------- MESSENGER RECEIVES A MESSAGE  Alana was huddled with Messenger at Ed’s Starbucks one cold day the next week. They sat on their stools at the long table. Messenger loved her particular stool at Ed’s. Whenever Alana suggested that a chair or booth would be much more comfortable, she shook her head. “No, Baby. This is the exact right spot. The energy comes up here. Everything’s just right for receiving.”            Alana strained to feel something, anything through her seat. “Energy? From where?”            “From the earth. Right here.” She picked both swollen feet up and put them back down. Holes covered her sad shoes. Alana decided to dip into her dwindling savings and spring for a new pair of sneakers for Messenger.             Messenger carefully folded the rough brown napkins somebody had grabbed and left on their table. “Oh, goodie day! Won’t these come in handy later?”            “To wipe your mouth?”            “No, Child. For the messages. Napkins don’t really work so good, they either tear or smear. But they’ll do in a pinch, since I’m out of paper again.”            “I’ll bring you some more tomorrow,” Alana promised.            “Thank you!” Her face broke into a smile, practically shone.            Alana noticed she’d rubbed some lotion on her cheeks and she looked more rested.            “Not so ashy today, huh?”             Alana just nodded. Messenger did that a lot. Read her mind. No, that was too way out there. She probably just observed where Alana’s eyes rested, then used logic to figure it out. Right?            Messenger pulled out the nub of a flat, red carpenter’s pencil from one of her pockets and closed her eyes. “Give me just a minute,” she murmured. She sat very still and her eyes watered.            Is this a message? Alana’s heart leaped. She sensed that Messenger wanted privacy, so she turned away and let her eyes wander around the coffee shop. People stared at them, then dove back to their phones, tablets, laptops. Alana glanced over to the coffee bar and noticed a tall, blonde girl with checked bell-bottoms, very stylish, who ordered from Ed. Behind her stood this old guy they often saw on the street, his poor neck permanently bent forward at an excruciating angle.             Alana snuck a glance back at Messenger. She smiled with her eyes still closed, rocked back and forth to some gentle, silent rhythm. She scribbled with the pencil. Alana realized she’d never watched her write before. Messenger was left-handed. Her hand looked like a crab as it drug across the napkin. She always had the shadow of ink or graphite along the side of her left pinkie finger and hand. Alana strained to make out the scribble. She thought she heard Messenger humming, but maybe it was the crowd or the espresso machine.             “Can I read it?” Alana asked when Messenger stopped writing, even though she knew what the answer would be.            Messenger kept her eyes closed and laid her hand over the napkin. “Sorry, Honey. This one’s not for you.”            Alana felt like arguing. “But why not. What harm would it do?”             “Nope! You read it—you take some of its power.” She did seem sympathetic when she said it. “Listen—I don’t read them either. I just write them and whatever comes out, that’s it. Bad penmanship and everything. No wonder I can’t write so good. Teachers tried to change me to right-handed when I went to school, then fussed when I couldn’t form my letters just right. So—there’s that. Hope folks can read the messages and make out what they need to.”            “Have you ever considered asking somebody to use a computer and print them for you?”            She opened one eye and looked at Alana, then must have thought better of it and closed it again. “Honey, those computers are all well and good. Yes, when they’re about the business of connecting, they’re very good. That net, you know.”            “Wait—the Internet?”            “Sure. You can call it that. Don’t you see? More and more people are figuring out how everything’s connected. But how come people still feel so alone?”            Alana thought about it. “I guess they miss real human contact. That’s what people aren’t getting.”             Messenger’s eyes flew open and she took Alana’s hand. “Listen to me, anything that means something to you, write it down by hand. Hand’s directly connected to the heart—don’t you know? Yes.”             Alana later fact-checked and found Messenger was right—as usual.             “And I wouldn’t get too dependent on those computers. Just in case.”            Alana pushed because she didn’t like the ominous tone to Messenger’s advice. “What’s going to happen to our computers? A disaster? Or a terrorist attack?”            She smiled that, “You’re so sweet,” smile of hers. “A disaster? No. But better safe than sorry. And don’t you worry. No matter what happens, everything’s going to be okay. From either extreme, it’ll swing back. Always corrects to the middle way.”            “Seems like people are moving to the extremes these days.”            Messenger laughed. “Yeah. It’s about time to cue the aliens.”            Alana’s eyes popped. “Aliens?!”            “If they arrived on the scene, we’d all cooperate like you wouldn’t believe, right?”            “Probably.”            “Uh huh. It’s about time. And it’s about time for me, too. Gotta go deliver this.” She collected her bags and Alana helped her stick her arms into her outer coat.            “Can I tag along?” she asked.            “No, Honey. Not this time.”            That’s what she always said. Alana fought her rising frustration.            Messenger put a hand on Alana’s arm and kissed her cheek. She waved at Ed. “Take care.”             Alana watched her walk slowly through all the people down First Avenue, biding her time. “Where do you think she’s going, Ed?”            Ed leaned on the bar. “No telling!”            Alana sighed and quickly finished her latte. Today, Ed had made a flower in the foam for her. She’d grinned at him to acknowledge it. She had to admit, Ed was attractive. He would actually be very hot, she thought, if he wasn’t so annoyingly aloof—especially about Messenger. She waved goodbye to him, too, headed out the door quickly, because today, she’d decided not to obey Messenger.             Messenger already had a head start, though not a long one, judging by how slowly she always walked. Alana scanned up and down the block, past all the dead grass and trash in the tree medians, then walked around the neighborhood. She asked the Flower Lady, the lady with the Chihuahuas—who wouldn’t even answer! Not even a simple question! She asked Ostap, the owner of So Hair, whom Messenger had introduced her to. He sat in his usual spot, straddled his orange plastic chair outside the barber shop. Nothing! Nobody had seen Messenger that morning, so they said.            Are they lying? Alana wondered. Covering for her? Did she ask them to? Why? When she’s agreed to cooperate with me? What’s she up to? Alana was determined to find out. Are they all just enjoying messing with me? she wondered. None of it made any sense. Who can I trust here? Who will trust me? And another burning question: How does she disappear like that, when she always walks at a snail’s pace? How does she do it? MESSENGER’S DOUBT Messenger headed down the street, pulled her red stocking hat down further over her ears. Damn cold place! She wouldn’t be surprised if snow came later. Oh well, she thought, let it come.            How will I create this swerve? She wasn’t sure. She didn’t know the whole picture. So far, so good. Nothing had happened to make her believe the Watchers suspected anything. Oh, she knew they would catch on soon and she’d have hell to pay for all the rules she’d already broken. The rules she intended to break.             She just needed more time. Things were progressing with the girl. Two steps forward, one step back. Expected. What she hadn’t expected, what she wasn’t prepared for, was her heart. How the girl made her feel when
We’re looking for your stories of receiving a message from an unexpected source. Or, can you tell us what message would you like to receive—or give? We want to hear your stories - long or short, profound or pedestrian, and to collect any messages you'd like to share. Send us an email at messengerthenovel@gmail.com, and you can see some that we’ve already received on our social media pages.  We look forward to hearing from you! Audrey's Message:I was looking for a place to live and had passed a particular apartment complex many times. I soon realized it was really the perfect location for me. I went to talk with the staff about possible openings, but no one was on duty and I couldn’t get in. I turned to go and a woman in a wheelchair came right up to me. “Can I help you?” When I told her I was interested in living there, she said, “Come right on in with me. I’ll show you around and I know two people who will be glad to show you their apartments!” I took her welcome as a sign, the message I was looking for—someone to say, “Come in. You’re welcome here.” I called and got on the list but was told the wait time was 6-8 months. Ten days later, I got a call there was an apartment for me. It was the exactly right place for me. Credits/ContactsAuthor: Liz Keller Whitehurst: messengerthenovel@gmail.comFor inquiries about MESSENGER or rights queries, contact April Eberhardt: april@aprileberhardt.comBook editor: Annie Tucker: annietucker@gmail.comPodcast design/social media: Brandon O’Neill: oneillcreativeco.comAudio production and voice artist: Rachel Pater: richmondstoryhouse.orgOriginal music and sound direction: Wells Hanley: wellshanley@gmail.comRecording and audio editing: Lance Koehler: minimumwagerecording.comSpecial thanks to Wilson, Joy, Audrey and April Find Us Online Website: messengerthenovel.comFacebook: facebook.com/messengerthenovelInstagram: instagram.com/messengerthenovelTwitter: twitter.com/messenger_novel Questions to PonderMessenger’s altar may be very different from traditional altars you are familiar with. Have you ever made an altar? What did it consist of? Why was it meaningful for you?Through the flashback to Cathy’s Birthday, we learn that the experience Alana had at Messenger’s altar is not her first of this kind, an experience that cannot be rationally explained. Why do you think Alana withheld her experience in the alley from Messenger?What do you make of Messenger’s theories at the end of Episode 5, about how best to deal with violence and evil? ---------------------------------Episode 5 Complete Text  📖 (Click here to access the PDF)--------------------------------- MESSENGER’S COMPOSITION BOOK: SEVEN ALTAR IDEAS INCLUDE THE FOLLOWING:Photos—You don’t need to know who the faces are—The eyes make them so powerful.Anything that sparkles or catches light—glass, mirrors, marbles—chrome or other metal.Anything living—plants, flowers, leaves, rocks, dirt, moss, lichen, bark, feathers, seeds, sand, earth, wood—all bring different qualities. Food, water, drink of any kind. Alcohol has Spirit in it!Holy items, relics, candles and flames. Wax is excellent.Art—drawings or prints or pottery or sculpture. Little figures of people or animals, fabric, old patches of clothing. String.Animal fur, bones. Feathers. Human hair. Pennies. Don’t worry about “heads down.” Finding it is the lucky part. Other coins, bills. They don’t last long on any altar—magic! Make your altar in a place of safety, as far away from electrical lines as possible because electromagnetism interferes. If it can be arranged on a known ley line, better yet. Outside, in nature, is best—fresh air, beneath the stars, sun and moonlight, in line with wind or a breeze. Near running water is best yet, though still water is also good.             These altars are not only beneficial for the souls who come in contact with them, but to all beings, both physical and spiritual. The altars go deep. They send down roots of energy and connect all holy places on earth and in other dimensions. Even if they are tampered with or—at worst—robbed or destroyed—doesn’t matter! Don’t worry about it! The act of making them brings power and positive energy to our planet and to other levels or dimensions. From there, the Watchers have witnessed your efforts and trials and hold you close with invisible arms. They work on your behalf at all times and in every way. MESSENGER’S ALTAR  Alana had found Messenger on Fifth Street, after getting a tip from the Flower Lady. It was an overcast day that felt colder than it really was. Damp and wintery, dull gray. The sun didn’t stand a chance. It was lunchtime, so Alana had left Messenger on their bench by the school yard and ran around the corner for sandwiches. Once they were made, Alana carried a big white paper bag back and sat down beside Messenger.             Messenger clapped her hands. “Did you say, ‘extra mayo’?”            “Of course! Ham and American cheese on white. EXTRA MAYO!” Alana handed Messenger her sandwich, neatly wrapped in white paper, along with a napkin.             “Wonderful! Thank you. What did you get, Honey? Your usual?”            “Uh huh. Turkey and Swiss on whole wheat. Hold the mayo.”            “You don’t know how to live,” Messenger teased.            They sat quietly, enjoying their lunch. Messenger devoured her sandwich and Alana ate half of hers, then stowed the other half in her backpack for dinner. Messenger rolled the foil and sandwich paper into a tight ball and they collected their trash in the big paper bag. Messenger sat quietly for several minutes, then abruptly stood up. “Come with me, Honey. I want to show you something.”            Alana’s heart lifted. She was usually the one who begged Messenger to share—anything. A tip, a clarification, an explanation. They threw their trash in the basket and Messenger led her to the opening of a narrow alley between the buildings where the guy from Three of Cups Sicilian Restaurant usually sat on a crate to take a smoke. Today it was empty and they were alone.            As soon as they walked in, Alana noticed a strange buzz, a sort of echoing sound to the space. She wrapped her scarf more tightly around her neck. The smell of garbage, damp brick and dirt filled her nose. The buildings blocked the sun, so it was dark, cold and very damp. Messenger walked ahead until she came to a protected area behind one of the buildings, beside some trash cans.             “Here it is.” She spread her arm as if showing Alana her greatest treasure.             Alana gasped.            Perched on two side-by-side plastic crates, which formed a sort of table, Alana saw an altar. Messenger had taken cardboard boxes to create different levels and surfaces for the treasures. On each, she’d burned candles and dripped wax—all colors—red, green, yellow, purple and white. The wax dripped onto the boxes and down the sides. In the wax, she’d stuck pennies, marbles, bottle caps. Green Heineken beer bottles, cobalt blue wine bottles, clear bottles all held white candles of their own. Live yellow, blue and purple pansies dotted the surfaces, along with snips of pine. Several fresh carnations, from the Flower Lady, Alana suspected, added to the living parts there.             Alana saw the head of a doll, its eyes wide open. Sunglasses. Photos of people’s faces stared out also, pulled from magazines or maybe “Have you See Her? or Him?” posters from the street. Bits of red and silver tin-foil from the chocolates she gave Messenger dotted it, too. Shards of glass and mirror formed a mosaic in one section.            Alana pointed. “Where did you get those?” she asked.            “Off the road after a wreck. They sweep up, but they always miss some. That’s where I come in!”            Alana continued to notice the buzz echoing through the alley. She could only stare at Messenger’s incredible creation. She saw string, bright red and forest green, squares of red flannel fabric and a floral print. Rocks—some piled in neat little stacks. She wondered if they were held together by wax or just balanced there on their own. Smaller white church candles about as thick as your finger were stuck into the wax and formed the shape for infinity on one level. It took Messenger three matches from a Three of Cups pack to get all the candles lit. Meanwhile, Alana saw pennies, “heads-up,” stuck in the wax and what looked like black human hair. Maybe it was from a weave. There was also a tiny, delicate bird nest and some animal bones.             “Messenger,” she finally exclaimed. “It’s beautiful. I love it! Amazing! How long did it take you to make it?”            Messenger smiled so wide Alana could see all the blank spaces in the back of her mouth where teeth should have been. “A long time, let me tell you. I worked on it a little every day.”            Messenger motioned to Alana to stand right in front of the altar then walked around behind her. She placed a hand on each of Alana’s shoulders and gently moved and adjusted her. After a minute, she whispered. “Can you feel it?”            Alana turned around to face her. “What? Feel what?”            Messenger turned her back around and ran her hand up and down Alana’s spine. She placed both hands on the back of her head, then rested them on Alana’s shoulders. “Can you feel your feet?” she asked.            “Uh huh.”            “Anything else?”            “No. Nothing,” Alana answered quickly. She pulled away from Messenger, turned and took her notebook out of her backpack to make some notes. “Do you use the altar to receive messages?”             Messenger sighed. “Sometimes. You mean you don’t feel anything?”            Alana shook her head no. “How does it help you with the messages?”            “It amplifies them. Also, it’s quieter in here, off the street.”            Footsteps echoed in the alley. Alana jumped. “Somebody’s coming!” she whispered.            “It’s okay,” she told Alana. “Is that you, Professor?” she called.         
We’re looking for your stories of receiving a message from an unexpected source. Or, can you tell us what message would you like to receive—or give? We want to hear your stories - long or short, profound or pedestrian, and to collect any messages you'd like to share. Send us an email at messengerthenovel@gmail.com, and you can see some that we’ve already received on our social media pages.  We look forward to hearing from you! Lucinda's Message:Soon after my father’s memorial service, I was walking in my new neighborhood and passed an older gentleman several times before we stopped to speak. He told me he was out on his lunch break. I marveled at his youthful appearance and he laughed and told me he was 81, the same age as my dad. He went on to tell me how wonderful the company developing my neighborhood was. He comforted, reassured and made me feel our decision to buy a home there was a good one. It would work out fine. Though I looked, I never saw him again. Why had he appeared that day? Why had he spoken of the same subject my dad had reassured me about in our last conversation? I think the older gentleman was a messenger.  Credits/ContactsAuthor: Liz Keller Whitehurst: messengerthenovel@gmail.comFor inquiries about MESSENGER or rights queries, contact April Eberhardt: april@aprileberhardt.comBook editor: Annie Tucker: annietucker@gmail.comPodcast design/social media: Brandon O’Neill: oneillcreativeco.comAudio production and voice artist: Rachel Pater: richmondstoryhouse.orgOriginal music and sound direction: Wells Hanley: wellshanley@gmail.comRecording and audio editing: Lance Koehler: minimumwagerecording.comSpecial thanks to Wilson, Joy, Audrey and April Find Us Online Website: messengerthenovel.comFacebook: facebook.com/messengerthenovelInstagram: instagram.com/messengerthenovelTwitter: twitter.com/messenger_novel Questions to PonderHow will Messenger know when the timing is right? What timing, or whose timing, is she referring to? If you were Alana, how would you react to this development?The Flower Lady raises themes of loss with Alana, as she tells Alana about her own mother, then asks Alana about losing her mother. Do you think Alana has dealt with her grief? What “hard places” do you detect in Alana now that you know her better?Which item in the list, “11 Things Everyone Wants to Hear,” speaks to you? ---------------------------------Episode 6 Complete Text  📖 (Click here to access the PDF)--------------------------------- COFFEE SHOP LESSON Messenger smiled at Alana. They sat on their usual stools at Ed’s. “Did you get all that down?”            Alana held up a finger as she jotted the last of her notes. “Wow. Great. Thanks so much.” She put her notebook back into her backpack and cleared her throat. This was it. She’d planned exactly what she would say, had even written it down, word for word, in her notebook. “Messenger, I wanted to talk to you today about a new idea I’ve had. A big idea. First, I really appreciate you spending all this time to help me with my story. But now I think this whole thing is bigger than that. Would you consider letting me expand it all into a book about you and the messages?”            Messenger was quiet for the longest time. Then she turned towards Alana. “Okay,” she finally answered. “We can try that.”            Alana jumped up and hugged Messenger so hard she almost knocked her off her stool.             “Whoa, Honey!”            “Sorry! Just got excited.” Alana steadied Messenger and sat back down on her own stool. A huge smile spread across her face, full of relief that she hadn’t had to launch into the big sales job she’d planned. “That is so great! Thank you! Because I’m all in. I’m totally committed to this. And I’m going to work my hardest to make it happen. Okay, now, can I put my notes and the posts on an expanded website? Would you agree to that? It would create more buzz and encourage people to keep posting experiences and spread the word about our project. Also, can you ask people to post on my blog when you give them their message?”            Messenger burst into the loudest, deepest laughter Alana had ever heard.            “Why is that so funny,” Alana demanded. “A book takes a lot of work and planning. I’m trying so hard here.”            “I know. Cut it out! Don’t try so hard and you’ll be surprised how much better things will go.”            “You don’t understand. We have to expand our on-line presence, now that we’re getting more engagement.”            Messenger hooted. Everybody in the shop stared at them. “That’s not how this works,” she managed to say.            “It’s not funny,” Alana snapped.             “Oh, yes, it is.” Messenger collected herself and wiped away the tears running down her cheeks with a brown paper napkin. “Oh, Honey—I’m sorry. It’s just that—well—you crack me up!”            “But I wasn’t kidding! These posts from people are deep and poignant. Why can’t we give everybody a little encouragement, you know, like you say—energy. Hope. What’s so wrong with that?”            Messenger, now serious, listened intently to each word Alana spoke. She nodded, then answered, “Baby, I know. Nobody knows more than I do. But you gotta wait.”            “Why?”            “Timing’s not right.”            Alana felt anger rise up her throat. “Well, Messenger,” steel filled each word, “when do you think the time will be right?”            Messenger sighed and wiped a lone tear which traveled down her cheek. “I’ll be sure to let you know.”            “Why not now?”             “Trust me.” She touched Alana’s arm. “You’re going to have to trust me.” ALANA’S NOTEBOOK: Today, Messenger agreed to my request to turn our project into a book. And tonight, I’m having a panic attack. All my fears are drowning me. Do I really have anything here? Has all of this been a desperate fantasy? I’ve got to get a grip. Breathe. Breathe.            What’s it all about, anyway? What would I tell Mary? Okay, there’s this woman—I don’t know how old. I don’t know where she lives. I don’t know anything about her past or her family, if she even has a family. I’ve only met a few people I suppose you’d call her friends.             Okay, so no back story, obviously. She won’t really tell me much of anything about her daily life, beyond the focus of the inquiry. And what is the focus of the inquiry? Well, every day, so she says, she receives a message. She writes it down. It’s never very long—a few sentences, at most. Then she starts to walk. She walks the streets slowly, until through a physical sensation or a feeling she gets, she knows who the message is for. She finds them and gives it to them. That’s it. Wow, writing it down like this really makes it sound like I’ve got one great big nothing on my hands. What a query! Pretty lame.I just thought I’d have made more of a name for myself as a writer by now. After all, I wrote my head off for free, served my time at that click-bait job—I did all of it. But what do I have? Nothing. Nada. Just this lame story about a sketchy old woman who tells me to call her Messenger. Sometimes I pray, “Is this all you got, God? Is this all you got for me?” Whenever I read about a new writer, or even a favorite writer of mine, I’ll figure out their age when they made it—I’ll do the math and compare it to my age now and then a voice inside me screams, “Hurry up, Alana. Hurry up! There’s no time! You’ve fallen behind. You’re running out of time.” Some days the voice yells, “Too late! You blew it. Forget about it and take a good desk job. That’s all you’re good for anyway. What a fool to hope for more.”            But I’ve got to keep going. Mom always said when I’d get discouraged, “In this family, we don’t quit.” Lots of journalists do get their start with just one story—not necessarily a big one—and go from there. First, they publish it as an article. But they can’t stop investigating. They get obsessed with it and just keep going. The story morphs into a book. A big book! A best-selling book. Is that what’s happening here? Is this my destiny? Is my future staring me in the face?            Or am I the crazy one—so desperate for what I want, like those loonies who see the face of Jesus in a pepperoni pizza? The Blessed Mother statue crying oily tears that can heal people? A callus on a tree that looks like the monkey god?            No. What holds all this together, is a change. A real change in people’s lives. Not everybody. Far from it. Some ignorant people don’t even read their messages and throw them away. How stupid can you get? But some are truly changed—their lives turn. Even if it’s subtle. The point is—the messages carry weight. From the moment they’re received, they have the power to change a life. One life at a time. One person at a time. That’s how she works. MESSENGER’S COMPOSITION BOOK: THINK OF A PLAY Think of a play. You sit in the audience with all these other people (souls), watch the action. Sometimes it’s right in front of you on the stage or sometimes the actors come from the sides or even from out in the audience. It’s all still part of the play. So, you have your own life, your reality laid over the reality of the play—the drama before you. But if it’s a good play, or a good night for the actors, or both, you lose touch with your own reality—the big man wedged into the seat to your left, crowding your space, or the middle-aged woman’s pungent perfume on your right. Somehow, they disappear, and you become part of the world of the play.             But all the people who came to see the play with their homes and their joys, their bills to pay, their mother dying in a nursing home who doesn’t know them anymore, their kid strung out on drugs and in despair at 17, their grandchild sick with leukemia—are all still there. Even though you forgot all about them, they’re in the dream of the play.             Okay—look! It’s the same thing. The drama of your life and mine, plays out each and every day. But there’s a bigg
We’re looking for your stories of receiving a message from an unexpected source. Or, can you tell us what message would you like to receive—or give? We want to hear your stories - long or short, profound or pedestrian, and to collect any messages you'd like to share. Send us an email at messengerthenovel@gmail.com, and you can see some that we’ve already received on our social media pages.  We look forward to hearing from you! Credits/ContactsAuthor: Liz Keller Whitehurst: messengerthenovel@gmail.comFor inquiries about MESSENGER or rights queries, contact April Eberhardt: april@aprileberhardt.comBook editor: Annie Tucker: annietucker@gmail.comPodcast design/social media: Brandon O’Neill: oneillcreativeco.comAudio production and voice artist: Rachel Pater: richmondstoryhouse.orgOriginal music and sound direction: Wells Hanley: wellshanley@gmail.comRecording and audio editing: Lance Koehler: minimumwagerecording.comSpecial thanks to Wilson, Joy, Audrey and April Find Us Online Website: messengerthenovel.comFacebook: facebook.com/messengerthenovelInstagram: instagram.com/messengerthenovelTwitter: twitter.com/messenger_novel Questions to PonderAlana is alone in the world. Do you know anyone this alone? How does she/he/they cope?What do you make of the clinamen? Why is it important to Messenger to have a name for it?Alana becomes more and more impatient to launch her blog, but Messenger resists. How will Alana resolve this conflict? What are her options and what dangers do each hold?Which of the 10 Elements in Messenger’s list opened your heart? What would you include if making a similar list? ---------------------------------Episode 7 Complete Text  📖 (Click here to access the PDF)--------------------------------- MESSENGER IS A NO-SHOW Alana shook. She’d chewed and picked her cuticles so much waiting for Messenger that morning she’d made both thumbs and her right forefinger bleed. Uhhh! Gross! she thought. Look what she’s made me do. No, Alana, she countered. You did this all on your own.            Messenger had agreed to meet her in the park, near the pigeon guy, because Messenger said she wanted to walk around the fountain. The pigeon guy had come, fed the pigeons. When all the breadcrumbs were gone, he let them perch all over him. Alana could hardly watch.             Messenger is making me insane, Alana thought. She’d cancelled coffee with Mary, whom she hadn’t seen in weeks, to meet Messenger instead. Besides, she felt terrible. Her nose was running and she wasn’t so sure she didn’t have a fever. Clouds had rolled back in and it smelled like snow. Great! She walked around the park to try and calm down even though she’d already done two loops. Still no sign of Messenger. Alana knew it was her problem, she was blowing Messenger’s “no-show” out of proportion, but she couldn’t help it. Whenever people were even a minute late, Alana catapulted back to day-care, elementary school, middle school days, when she was always the last one picked up. Oh, she’d understood why. Her mom explained it every time she was late. She was sorry, but her shift had run over. They were extra busy at the hospital or the relief nurse had been late.             In day-care days, Alana had known her mom was just next door, in the hospital. As a very little girl, the dreaded sound of toe-tapping made tears jump into her eyes. Miss Carol, who waited by the curb with her, always smiled reassuringly. But she tapped her toe. Alana cringed at that sound. It got inside her and made her own fear grow that, after all her mom’s promises, she really wasn’t coming. No one was.            Alana shook her head, dismissed the memory and began another loop through the park. When she returned to her own starting point again, she finally gave up. Messenger wasn’t coming today. That was clear. Alana’s thoughts flitted to the altar, now trashed in the alley. A stab of fear filled her. Had something happened to Messenger?Probably not. She’d been a no-show before. But now, to Alana, it felt like the stakes had been raised, that danger and violence lurked around them.            Alana shook her head and decided to walk over to another coffee shop she liked, The Dove, on Fourth Street. She hadn’t been there for a long time, not since her Messenger project had started. Another wasted day. She sucked the side of her sore thumb. Something’s going to have to change, she decided, if this book is ever going to get written.  POST: JAKE I’m driving down the East Side Highway on a Tuesday, happy to be moving at a decent clip, for a change. It’s a clear, sunny day and all is right with my world. That is, until suddenly this black aluminum bookshelf, three-feet-by-five, comes hurtling towards me from off the back of a blue Ford 150 pickup truck. This isn’t one of those experiences where time slows down. No. That happened to me before in a snowstorm when I did a 360 on I-95. This goes way, way fast. Hyper-speed! All I can do is swerve! Hard!            The bookshelf misses my windshield by a hair—scrapes the side of my car, bounces off and crashes to the road with the most sickening screech of metal-on-asphalt you’ve ever heard. I plow into a green Subaru and just about take out the whole passenger side of the car, which is empty—Thank God! Anyway, we pull our cars over to the shoulder. The damn pickup guy just drives off like nothing ever happened but I’m too shook up to catch his license plate number. He’s long gone. I call the police and get out of the car, feel like I’ve been run over myself, but am just happy to be alive.            This girl gets out of the other car and, despite everything that’s happened in the last five minutes, I register that she’s very good-looking. She’s fighting back tears—I can tell by the way her chin shakes and she bites her bottom lip            “Oh, wow,” I begin. “I’m really sorry . . .”            She interrupts me. “How did you miss that bookshelf? What was that wack job thinking?”            “It was airborne, I tell you.”            “I thought you were a goner.”            “I know.” I clear my throat, steady my own voice. “I called the cops. Sorry I mashed your car.”            “Oh, no. I’m just so glad.” She touches my arm and we just stare at each other.             “It’s going to be okay,” I tell her. “They’ll be here soon. Well—we’re alive!”            She says, “If you hadn’t swerved . . .” Her words hang on the air, something just between the two of us. That’s when time does slow down. I hear the siren call in the distance but don’t look away from her.             “Both of us could be dead right now,” I finish her sentence.            “But we’re not. You swerved just enough to save us.”            My car’s drivable, so after all this (she doesn’t give me her number. Engaged!) even though it’s the last thing I want to do, I head to my buddy’s on the Lower East Side who’s moving. That’s the reason I was out in the first place, to give him a hand. I pull up to the curb by his apartment and notice this old woman on the street. I get out of the truck, make sure the door’s locked, turn around. She’s standing right there beside me on the sidewalk. Her hand’s stretched out and there’s a piece of paper in it.             Our eyes meet and that’s when I feel like I’ve walked through a time warp. My knees buckle, like I’m going to pass out. She hands me the paper and before I can get my head straight, she’s gone. Where or how, I don’t know. I look down at the paper, just a dirty scrap with something scribbled on it in smeary blue ballpoint ink. I read it. I lean against the truck, know I’ll crack my head on the sidewalk if I try to stand on my own. After everything that happened to me that day, then I get this message, YOU JUST COLLIDED WITH YOUR DESTINY. It blows my mind! It still does, today.             The girl breaks her engagement. We get married three months later.ALANA’S NOTEBOOK: Transcript of interview with Gloria:ALANA: (Gloria handed her message to me. Unseen hands guide you. The worst is over.) How has this one message changed you? No offense, but this message, at face value, seems . . . GLORIA: Vague? Trite, even? I know. It does, doesn’t it? But what appears on the surface to be so random, isn’t! At my point of despair, I received it. How would that woman know what I needed to hear when I needed to hear it? And she was right. The message was right. The worst WAS over. My husband passed away gently about a month later. How could she know that? She didn’t know me.            The message told me everything I needed to know at the time. What are the odds against a poor, probably homeless woman writing this important message down and then finding me outside the healthcare center? I’m nobody special. Thinking back, it told me someone or something out there cared what happened to me, was working to help me. Somehow sent the message to me through her. It was such a huge relief.  NOTES:I interview as many people in person as possible who’ve respond to my blog. After talking with many of them, it’s clear Messenger has been at this for a very long time. Years. Decades. Nobody tried to connect the dots until Marty. Now me. Sometimes the person will pull a message out of a wallet, with fingerprints all over it, to show me. Were they Messenger’s or the recipient’s, who’d worn the message out from reading it over and over? Some people got messages and threw them away accidentally. Or lost them. One lady lost hers and it still breaks her heart, but she’d memorized the message and copied it onto a card so she always has it. Others treasure them, consider their lives divided into before and after their message. Lives have been changed. One message did it.            Usually the message itself is simple and never that spectacular. “Continue on your path.” “You are loved beyond measure.” That’s a recurring theme. “Unseen hands support you at every turn.” Another favorite. “You are never alone.” Then some of the messages are actually very spe
We’re looking for your stories of receiving a message from an unexpected source. Or, can you tell us what message would you like to receive—or give? We want to hear your stories - long or short, profound or pedestrian, and to collect any messages you'd like to share. Send us an email at messengerthenovel@gmail.com, and you can see some that we’ve already received on our social media pages.  We look forward to hearing from you! Credits/ContactsAuthor: Liz Keller Whitehurst: messengerthenovel@gmail.comFor inquiries about MESSENGER or rights queries, contact April Eberhardt: april@aprileberhardt.comBook editor: Annie Tucker: annietucker@gmail.comPodcast design/social media: Brandon O’Neill: oneillcreativeco.comPhotography: Joy Whitehurst: Instagram: @turquoisekoiAudio production and voice artist: Rachel Pater: richmondstoryhouse.orgOriginal music and sound direction: Wells Hanley: wellshanley@gmail.comRecording and audio editing: Lance Koehler: minimumwagerecording.comSpecial thanks to Wilson, Joy, Audrey and April Find Us Online Website: messengerthenovel.comFacebook: facebook.com/messengerthenovelInstagram: instagram.com/messengerthenovelTwitter: twitter.com/messenger_novel Questions to PonderIn “You Go On,” we learn more about Alana’s mom as she reveals more details to Messenger. Based on what you know so far, how would you describe Alana’s relationship with her mother?Have you ever had a communication, however subtle (a wink), from a Loved One who has died? If so, is the circumstance on Messenger’s List?Were you surprised to learn Alana’s dad was still living? What, if any, influence does his absence play in Alana’s motivations?An old saying goes, “the first rule of magic is containment.” Sharing her project out loud, for the first time and viewing it through Mary’s eyes, deflates Alana. Have you ever had this experience when sharing with a friend? ---------------------------------Episode 8 Complete Text  📖 (Click here to access the PDF)--------------------------------- YOU GO ON Alana and Messenger walked together down Fifth Street one morning the next week. “Shane’s back,” Alana announced.            “Poor soul,” Messenger clucked.            Shane sat on the sidewalk on a small square of cardboard up on the corner of Third Avenue and Fifth Street. He had no coat and the clothes he wore were full of holes. His face was red and chapped. Dirty, greasy blonde dreads, pulled back in a scarf, formed a halo around his head. The circumference of his vicinity smelled really bad and it wasn’t just the hamster in the small cage on the sidewalk beside him, either. The hamster ran on his little metal wheel very fast. He could really make that thing go. Shane watched and absently picked at the sores on his arm.             “Hello, Shane,” Alana called.            “You know, yeah—it’s so cool,” he answered, his voice high and breathy. “My hamster’s name is Breakfast, so, hey, can you give me some money for breakfast?” His beady, unfocused eyes turned to the side of Alana, not on her face. Then he caught Messenger’s eye and quickly looked away. He jumped up, puffed out his chest like a rooster, butted up against a guy in a flannel shirt and work boots who happened to walk by. Shane yelled, “I bet you fifty dollars I can arm wrestle you. Find a table! Find a table! Come on. I bet you fifty dollars you aren’t that animal!” Breakfast kept rolling on his wheel.             Messenger shook her head, pulled Alana along past him. A yellow cab drove down the street with its Flash Dance Gentlemen’s Club sign lit up on the roof. Just down the block, on the steps of the Unitarian Church, they saw a young couple sleeping intertwined, like the big pretzels the street vendors hawked. You couldn’t tell whose arms or legs were whose. Messenger paused on the sidewalk in front of them.             “I want to brush the hair from their eyes,” she spoke softly. “Spit on my hand and wipe the dirt from their faces. Tuck a blanket up around their ears to keep them warm tonight. Wind back the clock and fix whatever terrible thing happened that landed them here, asleep outside on cold concrete steps in the city in the middle of winter.”            Alana let her professional guard down. “I wish you had a message for them. To change things.”            “Me, too,” she answered. “But,” A sob caught in her throat. She took a deep breath and sighed. “It doesn’t work that way.” She turned back to the knot of kids. “Angels guard you,” she whispered.             Later, they popped into Ed’s for coffee. Ed didn’t even say “hi,” just looked up at her and barked, “Order?”            “Two coffees,” Alana snapped.            He didn’t say a word. He only charged her for one. Hers. She grabbed them, turned without a thanks and sat down.            “Thank you.” Messenger reached over and rubbed Alana’s forehead. “That better?”            “Uh huh.”            Messenger chuckled. “You keep thinking so hard you’re going to get wrinkles bad as mine.”            “I know! Ed’s hard today.”            “Yes, he is. Don’t worry about it.” She paused, “Listen, your mom has passed, right?”            Alana was suddenly alert. “How did you know that?”            “Uh,” Messenger stared into her coffee. “The Flower Lady might have mentioned it.”            “Yeah,” Alana said. “Four years ago. Lung cancer. Well—breast, really. Spread to her lungs. Terrible.”            “Tell me about it.”            “She had breast cancer and beat it once. It was cigarettes, too. She could never give them up. Even though she was a nurse. She didn’t last long after the breast cancer came back and it spread to her lungs.”            “Were you close?”                  Alana felt the air change, as if Messenger was holding her breath until Alana answered. Was this conversation about more than her just being nice?             “It was always just Mom and me, so sure, we were close. No family to speak of. Just my aunt in California and her daughter and kids. It was really just Mom and me. But she had to be gone a lot. All the time. She was a nurse. Once I was old enough to stay by myself, she’d take on extra shifts at the hospital. She had to work.”            “She did it for you?”            “I guess. For us. When she died she left me a nice savings account.”            “But that’s not going so good, right?” she asked softly.            Alana stared into Messenger’s eyes. How did she know? “No. there’s not much left.” Alana shrugged, “That’s what I’ve been living on, actually. That and a hostessing job I have at a restaurant a few nights a week. That’s one reason I’m so eager to move our project forward.”             Messenger nodded. “Do you miss her awful much?”             “I miss her. Of course, I miss her. She was my mother.”            “She’s still working on your behalf from the other side. But you never get over missing your mother.”            Alana shrugged. “What can you do?”            “You go on,” Messenger whispered.  MESSENGER’S COMPOSITION BOOK: EIGHT SIGNS TO WATCH FOR IF SOMEONE YOU LOVE HAS PASSED (DON’T BE AFRAID—JUST WATCH) Coins turning up.Electricity. This is their favorite because it doesn’t take much energy for them to interfere. Lights flicker or bulbs blow.Mirrors. Watch them at all times. You might catch somebody in there besides yourself.Telephones, answering machines and computers.Radios. Songs always have significance and could be messages.Butterflies, birds and insects. Dragonflies and ladybugs.Animals acting funny. They whimper or refuse to go into a room or house. Cats stare.Cool drafts or cold rooms.Any or all of these could be a communication. They are close by and can help you if you let them. They will try and reach you SOMEHOW, but if you’re hooked up to your boxes, you won’t get the message.  POST: NINA I’m trying to keep the faith without having any faith. Pray to a Swami, the Dalai Lama, The Buddha, Jesus, Mary, Mohammed, the Universe. I’ll tell you where I see the Divine. Recently, I noticed a monarch butterfly float way up there above me in the sky. I could hardly see it, just a flash of orange. So fragile! Headed to Mexico on an impossible trip, but they do it.            I remembered that butterfly when I got the message from my 84-year-old mother that after a childhood with an alcoholic father, an unhappy marriage endured for her children’s sake, thyroid cancer, stage-four uterine cancer at 70, massive amounts of chemo which caused loss of hearing and any feeling in her toes and most of her short-term memory, atrial fibrillation and several stents, now she had breast cancer and needed a lumpectomy.             That afternoon I walked to her apartment building to take her to the doctor. I really was dreading seeing my mother because I had no idea what to say. This dirty old woman snuck up behind me and stuffed a piece of paper into my hand. “For you,” she said. I took a second to look at the paper. She’d written, THERE IS NO DEATH. YOU ARE STRONGER THAN YOU THINK. The second I read it, I was that butterfly. I knew I could face this whole thing with my mother. It was doable. Her message was for both my mom and me. Amazing. MESSENGER’S COMPOSITION BOOK:             Goal of life=personal happiness            Sounds right?             We think happiness means money, fame, love of a man, love of a woman, love of a parent, love of a friend, love of a child, love of a pet. Security, prosperity, property, peace. We’re all looking for answers. For a little help for ourselves. But we are every mother who puts her child to bed hungry, who doesn’t have fresh water for her child to drink, who leaves her child along the road to die because she’s a girl, who holds her daughter down for genital circumcision, who paints her lips and sends her into an old man’s bed. Every mother who offers her sons to the mines, to the river, to the workhouse, who straps the bomb on his chest with one last kiss. We are all of them and they are us. We all long to hear our mother call our n
GOOD NEWS! Thanks to you, we’ve received enough real-life messages to record a bonus episode soon. But we still want to hear from you, if you’ve been meaning to send us a message but haven’t gotten around to it yet. PLEASE DO SO THIS WEEK. Send your message to: messengerthenovel@gmail.com. We can’t wait to receive it! Credits/ContactsAuthor: Liz Keller Whitehurst: messengerthenovel@gmail.comFor inquiries about MESSENGER or rights queries, contact April Eberhardt: april@aprileberhardt.comBook editor: Annie Tucker: annietucker@gmail.comPodcast design/social media: Brandon O’Neill: oneillcreativeco.comPhotography: Joy Whitehurst: Instagram: @turquoisekoiAudio production and voice artist: Rachel Pater: richmondstoryhouse.orgOriginal music and sound direction: Wells Hanley: wellshanley@gmail.comRecording and audio editing: Lance Koehler: minimumwagerecording.comSpecial thanks to Wilson, Joy, Audrey and April Find Us Online Website: messengerthenovel.comFacebook: facebook.com/messengerthenovelInstagram: instagram.com/messengerthenovelTwitter: twitter.com/messenger_novel Questions to PonderConsidering all the pressure, especially financial, that Alana is experiencing, do you think she will abide by her new resolve to proceed at Messenger’s pace? Why or why not?What do you think is going on with Alana’s developing abilities/experiences? What light does her flashback about her dad reveal about Alana’s upbringing? Has Alana internalized her mother’s attitudes towards her father’s interests in what cannot be rationally explained?What does Alana’s willingness to finally confide in Messenger reveal?What dangers do you think Messenger is referring to at the end of the episode? ---------------------------------Episode 9 Complete Text  📖 (Click here to access the PDF)--------------------------------- ALANA’S NOTEBOOK: I saw the CLINAMN license plate! Right when I was thinking about Mom. Was it a sign to keep going?             What choice do I really have? I don’t want to wonder the rest of my life if Messenger’s story was my big break, the one I’d longed for and dreamed about, but then I blew it. I’d never forgive myself. I have to go on. Am I insane to think that Messenger’s story should be a book? What about a movie? Or a TV show? Each person’s message could be an episode, with an on-going narrative arc that follows the Alana character, who’s struggling to uncover the bigger story arc. What about a big, expanded website? World-wide readers? Are there other Messengers in other countries? Why not? Why wouldn’t there be? All working together to shore us up? Could they be like a spiritual force field, like gravity, holding things in place on Planet Earth? Is that too uber science fiction?            Of course, I also want to work for something bigger than myself and help change the world for the better. To help move our planet forward positively, to break free from the same obnoxious, annoying rut we seem to find ourselves in. As I spend time with Messenger, I’m just so touched by this beautiful woman who’s given her life to the messages. Her all. I can truly say I’ve never met anyone like her, so filled with love, with good intentions. To be in her presence, to hear her voice, to have her touch you—extraordinary. She’s working so hard to do her part, to make the Clinamen happen. Something big is at work here. I still don’t really understand but hopefully Messenger will reveal more.            But the waiting, the frustrations, the disappointments, exhaustion, money worries, mount. Just finding her is the first challenge of the day. She won’t let me watch as she receives a message (just once, I happened to be there and witness it). While her secrecy really bums me out, it does make sense. She talks about vibrations. Would my vibration interfere with the delivery of the message or interfere with the exchange between her and the recipient? Is that how it works? Am I beginning to understand? To think like Messenger?            She won’t take me along to deliver a message, either. It’s like that’s something immensely private between her and the recipient. Vibrations again, I guess. I beg her, but she shakes her head. “No, Baby. That’s not for you to see.” Always when we’re together, she reaches over and gently massages my forehead between my eyes, where wrinkles are etching themselves while I struggle to figure all this out. “Relax, Honey,” she says. It feels good. I know I’m always in a hurry, my shoulders up to my ears, my neck tight. I try to have good posture, but it’s hard with all the writing. “Give yourself a break,” she tells me. She’s right. I’m making myself crazy. Something’s got to give.             Messenger isn’t going to change. That’s clear. I’m the one who has to change, who has to accept her, this situation and the way she does things. Stop fighting her. If I’m too aggressive or demanding, I might alienate her or scare her off, like Mary said. I’ll swallow my frustration and allow everything to evolve on her terms. Meanwhile, I’ll keep building my website, collecting posts and interviews, slow and steady. It will all work out. This is my story to write. I’ll make a name for myself and promote all the good Messenger is doing in the world. Win-win. Create positive momentum. The money? I’ll figure it out somehow. Maybe Gus can give me more shifts. Or a raise.                   So, yeah. I’ll take Mary’s advice. Easy does it. I’ll accept Messenger as she is. I’ll be more patient. I won’t rush her or push her. We’ll proceed on her timeline. Maybe we’ll even create our own Clinamen, Messenger and me, with this book.  CAT IN THE COFFEE SHOP Alana and Messenger sat in Ed’s coffee shop. Through the plate-glass front window, Alana spied a guy she’d seen many times before, but always near the other coffee shop around the corner from the park. This guy walked the streets of the city with his fat black-and-white tuxedo cat perched on his head. Really—the cat just sat on the guy’s head. The guy was super tall, thin and dark-haired. His hair blended in with the cat’s fur. The cat’s tail would often wrap around his head right where his eyebrows were, forming a unibrow. He’d stand on a corner and people would give him money just to see it.             “Look, Messenger,” Alana pointed. “Have you ever seen anything like that?”            At the same time, a woman opened the door to Ed’s. The cat jumped down off his perch. This apparently shocked the guy so much he didn’t react soon enough to grab the leash attached to the cat’s red collar. The cat bolted through the door between the legs of a woman trying to come in.            “Whoa!” Ed cried.            The cat ran down the aisle, jumped right up onto Messenger’s lap and purred.             All of these events happened within about 30 seconds.             “Oh, my,” Messenger said. “You are one good-looking cat!” She patted it between its ears.            The cat’s owner stood beside them, fumed. He grabbed the leash from the floor and yanked the cat off Messenger’s lap.            “MRAAAR,” the cat cried.            “For God’s sakes, Lady. What did you do to my cat? People pay to see him stay on my head!” His face reddened and he looked fierce.            “Hey, Buddy.” Alana had never heard Ed’s quiet voice take a tone like that. “Outside. Leave her alone.”            The tall guy looked around the coffee shop for allies. Finding none, he put the cat under his arm. Alana figured he didn’t want to chance a repeat performance. He stomped out.            Alana laughed nervously. “Way to go, Ed!”            Ed grinned at Messenger and Alana, then busied himself clearing dishes off tables. Today he’d made a fancy letter “A” in her coffee.            Everybody in the shop went back to what they were doing.             “Ed’s all right,” was all Messenger said.             “Yeah. But how’d you do that?” Alana asked her.            Messenger looked up from picking cat-hairs off her lap. “Do what, Honey?”            “You know.”            “I had nothing to do with it.”            “No?”            “Apparently that kitty doesn’t like him as much as he thinks it does.”            Alana just stared at her.            “Never know what a cat might do,” Messenger added. MESSENGER’S COMPOSITION BOOK: ANIMALS ARE IN ON THE CLINAMEN The animals are coming closer because there’s nowhere else for them to go now. We’ve cut down all the trees, taken all their homes to build things for ourselves. Taken it all. Soon they’ll voice what we’ve done to them, to our planet. They will rise up and the birds of the air and the fish of the sea, the animals near and far, ferocious and tame, will sing with one voice. And what will we humans tell them? If we’re wise and courageous we’ll face the terrible truth—and join hands and paws with our four-legged brothers and sisters. And go forward—together. The moment the first monkey opens her mouth and speaks will be the tipping point. Soon all will follow and that boundary between human and animal will fall forever. We’ll see ourselves through their eyes. And be amazed, but most of all—ashamed.  ALANA’S NOTEBOOK  I’m struggling each day to stick with my new resolution about the Messenger project. But wild things just keep happening.Messenger reading my mindSeeing the car with the CLINAMN license plate at just the moment I was thinking about Momthe cat                     A new development: I wake up almost every morning and remember my dreams in great detail. They make no sense and go all over the place, but they stay with me all day. And that’s not the craziest part. The dreams feel like deja-vus, because people come into the coffee shop or stand beside me on the street who I know I’ve seen before. In my dreams! I’m sure of it. Did I actually see them or dream about them and then see them again? Some stand out, like the woman dressed like a baby doll in a pink bustier and tight, accordion skirt, with circles of pink rouge on her cheeks, Anime-style. Some are just as o
Credits/ContactsAuthor: Liz Keller Whitehurst: messengerthenovel@gmail.comFor inquiries about MESSENGER or rights queries, contact April Eberhardt: april@aprileberhardt.comBook editor: Annie Tucker: annietucker@gmail.comPodcast design/social media: Brandon O’Neill: oneillcreativeco.comPhotography: Joy Whitehurst: Instagram: @turquoisekoiAudio production and voice artist: Rachel Pater: richmondstoryhouse.orgOriginal music and sound direction: Wells Hanley: wellshanley@gmail.comRecording and audio editing: Lance Koehler: minimumwagerecording.comSpecial thanks to Wilson, Joy, Audrey and April Find Us Online Website: messengerthenovel.comFacebook: facebook.com/messengerthenovelInstagram: instagram.com/messengerthenovelTwitter: twitter.com/messenger_novel Questions to PonderAs already discussed, and further revealed in Alana’s choices in this episode, Alana is a loner. Do you see any changes in Alana since you first met her?Who or what are the Watchers? What deeper goal is Messenger working towards?Which of Messenger’s list of 14 Things resonates most with you? Why? What others would you add to this list? ---------------------------------Episode 10 Complete Text  📖 (Click here to access the PDF)--------------------------------- CHRISTMAS PRESENT It was a cold December day, cloudy and blustery. Alana leaned on the bar and sipped her coffee, enjoyed Ed’s company. He’d comped her and made a holly leaf with berries in the foam. “Your Christmas present,” he told her. Messenger hadn’t been in yet, so she’d decided to hang around a while.            “So, he said. “Heading out soon?”            “Yeah. I’ll go tomorrow to my . . . aunt’s.” She needed a second to remember which Christmas she’d told Ed about earlier.             “California, right?”            Alana nodded. “Yep.”            “Guess you’ll be there a while.” He looked up at her.            “Nope. Just a few days.” Alana, why didn’t you tell him you were going to Virginia! You could have come back in sooner. She sighed and bit her cuticle. All this lying was plucking her nerves.            “Not too long.”            “No!”            “A break from the project?”            Alana sighed. “Yeah.”            “About that. Just, be careful. Do what she tells you.”            Alana studied Ed’s face, but he kept it neutral. “What are you saying?”            “Just listen to Messenger.”            “I’ve already decided to do that.”            “Okay. Well,” Ed said and smiled his sheepish smile, with the crinkly corners. “Hope you have a good visit.”                 Alana smiled back.“How about you, Ed?”            “Oh, I got a few things to do. This older buddy invited me over on Christmas. Quiet. Just him and his wife.”            “Nice.”            “Yeah.”            Later, Messenger finally came in. Alana sat with her while she warmed up and sipped her coffee. “Ed told me you’re going away for the holidays,” Messenger said.            Alana looked down at the table and nodded. A charge of electricity surged up through her stomach.             “He didn’t say where.”            Messenger knew. Was she trying to catch me? I should have known better than trying to lie to her. “California,” she blurted. “My aunt lives there with her daughter in a little town you’ve probably never heard of.”            Messenger stared at her. Paused, then said. “How nice. Well, you have a nice trip.”            “What are you doing for Christmas? Going anywhere? Spending it with family?” she fished.            Messenger kept staring. “I got plans,” she said.             “Good for you! I’m glad to hear it.” When Messenger didn’t elaborate, Alana added, “Don’t worry. I won’t be gone long, just a few days. Then we can get back to work. We’ve got a lot of work to do. I guess your Christmas present is a little rest from me bugging you with all my questions,” she joked, tried to lighten the mood.            Messenger squinted at her. “If you say so.”             Alana’s heart dropped. She looked away. She wanted to tell Messenger the truth. But she couldn’t. MESSENGER AND THE WATCHERS Messenger and Jackie stood shivering in the opening to the alley, speaking softly together. “A journalist? I don’t have to tell you, Messenger, that is not our way. We work in secret. In safety and anonymity. Our work is not for everyone to know about.” Jackie was so agitated, her black, cat-eye glasses fogged up. “For our own safety!”            Messenger put her hands on her hips. “Why? Who says?”            “Look, you know the rules. And you knew the rules when you signed up for this.”            “It’s easy for you to lecture me.” She pulled in closer to Jackie’s face. “You didn’t have a family, did you?”            “No. But you knew the rules. You must walk away from your life to serve. Leave everything you have.” She shook her head. “Doesn’t matter for us anymore. We’re old. What matters is this: I warned you a long time ago this girl is a terrible choice!”            “You don’t know her.”             Jackie sighed and steam poured out of her mouth. “She’s a journalist! It’s her job to uncover secrets and bring what’s hidden out into the open. Public knowledge! How can she . . .”            “Yes. She’s a journalist. She loves words as much as I do. She wants to write a book about the messages . . .”            “And you said yes?! Are you stone cold crazy?” Jackie’s voice echoed through the alley.             “Shush!” Messenger warned her. “Our old ways aren’t working. They’re falling apart. That’s okay. It always happens like that. But we need something new in place to help to bring about the Clinamen. ‘Clinamen’ is what I’m calling it now. Can’t you feel it?”            “Call it whatever you like. Nobody knows when it’s going to come! It could come today. Or—it could take 100 more years! Nobody knows. We just have to keep doing what we’re doing.”            Messenger shook her head. “Come on, Jackie. You know it’s coming soon. You feel it, too.”            “Let’s stick with the present moment, why don’t we? The Watchers know about the girl and what’s been going on with you two,” Jackie hissed through her teeth. “They know what you’re planning . . .”            Messenger looked away, avoided Jackie’s huge eyes. “And they’re not happy. Okay, I get it. I know what I’m doing.”            “I sincerely hope you do! Does the girl suspect anything yet?”             Messenger shook her head. “No. I don’t think so. She’s having openings but she’s not ready yet. We need more time.”            “Okay, bottom line. The Watchers sent me to tell you to stop with this girl and regroup. Find somebody else. They sense danger.”            Messenger chuckled. “Tell me something I don’t already know.”            “You’re in deep. I can tell by the look on your face. What is it? Tell me.”            Messenger stared into Jackie’s eyes, her face calm and relaxed, like they were just discussing the weather. “Nothing.”            “This plan you have is going to blow up in your face. Then where will you be? Why won’t you tell me?”            “No, Jackie. Let’s just keep this on me, okay? I don’t want you to take the heat for what I choose to do. The rules I choose to break. I’m willing to take my chances.”            Jackie’s voice softened. “Protecting you is my job, isn’t it? I’m your Watcher. But I only have so much strength.”            “You’ve got everything you need and I thank you. I appreciate it.” Messenger held out her arms and Jackie embraced her. Then, Messenger gently took Jackie’s glasses off her face. Holding them as if precious, she dug out a soft corner of her cotton shirt from under the folds of her coats and cleaned the lenses. As she rubbed, the tension between them slowly subsided. She checked each lens several times before handing the glasses back to Jackie.             Jackie sighed, put them back on. “You know I’ll do what I can,” she said. “But I have to ask you. Are you ready to be found?” MESSENGER’S COMPOSITION BOOK: 14 THINGS PEOPLE RARELY SAY (BUT SHOULD) Do less.I have enough.I can’t afford it.I’m wrong.I made a mistake.I’m sorry.Let it go.It’s over.Don’t try so hard.I’m satisfied.Go first.I don’t need it.You won.It was my fault. POST: SCOTT I’m from Virginia. My life started out rough. Mom died when I was 11. My dad couldn’t take it. He wanted to keep on partying. So, I started going to this church with a girl from school. This older couple from the church, the Stickleys, actually took me in. Can you believe that? You hear about this kind of thing, but sometimes it really does happen.            So, everything was great. They fed me and bought me clothes and did everything for me. They never made me feel like I wasn’t their real son. They took me to church Wednesdays and Sundays every single week. We prayed over every bite of food we ever put in our mouths, even at Burger King.             A few years passed like this and I started to grow up and my voice started to change and crack and I knew things were going on down there—you know—my junk. I slowly realized I wasn’t so much interested in the girls in our youth group as I was in the boys. Yeah. It took a while for this to sink in. I fought it. One night, I was getting ready for bed. I looked out the window and saw these two guys walking down the street. They didn’t know anybody was looking. I saw the one guy take the other’s hand. The way it made me feel to watch them look at each other, then drop hands when somebody else came down the street told me everything I needed to know. That Oh, Shit! moment is one I’ll never forget.            So even as young as I was, I knew there would be no talking about this. No gently breaking it to Mom and Dad. They would take it real hard—to say the least. Their God, their church, their friends, didn’t have room for the likes of me. So, I kept it a secret for a long time.             I knew it would be bad when I finally got around to telling them, they’d be heartbroken, but nothing prepared me for what did happen. I w
Episode 11: Lay Low

Episode 11: Lay Low

2020-09-1640:12

Support MessengerThank you so much for listening to MESSENGER. Please consider rating it or writing a review on your podcast site or sharing it with a friend.  Credits/ContactsAuthor: Liz Keller Whitehurst: messengerthenovel@gmail.comFor inquiries about MESSENGER or rights queries, contact April Eberhardt: april@aprileberhardt.comBook editor: Annie Tucker: annietucker@gmail.comPodcast design/social media: Brandon O’Neill: oneillcreativeco.comPhotography: Joy Whitehurst: Instagram: @turquoisekoiAudio production and voice artist: Rachel Pater: richmondstoryhouse.orgOriginal music and sound direction: Wells Hanley: wellshanley@gmail.comRecording and audio editing: Lance Koehler: minimumwagerecording.comSpecial thanks to Wilson, Joy, Audrey and April Find Us Online Website: messengerthenovel.comFacebook: facebook.com/messengerthenovelInstagram: instagram.com/messengerthenovelTwitter: twitter.com/messenger_novel Questions to PonderFor Alana, visiting Anthropologie is a kind of portal to another reality. What does the word “portal” mean to you? Do you have a place you go when the going gets rough?What do you make of the encounter between Jackie and Messenger? Watchers, Guardian Watchers are mentioned. What is the hierarchy Messenger seeks to overthrow? What role might Alana play in her plan?The stakes seem higher than ever. What effects will Messenger’s laying low have on Alana?Name the ways the theme “Mothers and Daughters” runs through this episode? ---------------------------------Episode 11 Complete Text  📖 (Click here to access the PDF)--------------------------------- SNOW DAY Snow in the city is magical, Alana thought. Somehow it buffers the noise into echoes and all the nastiness is covered in white. Messenger and the Flower Lady had their spots, thresholds they could stand in, covered doorways they could huddle under, spaces between buildings, under the eaves, where they could stay dry. That afternoon, Alana found them huddled together under the awning of an apartment building on Fifth Street. Alana had found them jammed in there, the Flower Lady’s wheelchair against the wall, some of Messenger’s bags in front of her wheels. They crumbled stale bread and coffeecake onto the sidewalk. A few dozen birds, chocolate with fawn markings, had gathered, ate and hopped around as if tame. They looked almost pretty against all the white-covered sidewalks, their little footprints the only marks dotting the fallen snow. Alana shook herself off, startled them all away. Messenger and the Flower Lady looked up.            “Why don’t you two go to Ed’s and get out of this weather?”            “Oh, no! It’s wonderful!” Messenger held her hand out beyond the awning to catch snowflakes.            The Flower Lady giggled. “Don’t you know it’s good luck to be outside in the snow?” She raised her chin and took a deep breath. “Just smell it.”            Messenger hummed, “Um hum! I love it! Honey, today’s a snow day. No school today!”             The Flower Lady squealed, “Wheeee! Snow day!”            They were having such a good time—like silly school girls themselves. That’s one thing you could say about Messenger, Alana thought. Wherever she went, she had fun. “Whose apartment is this?” she asked them.            “We don’t know,” The Flower Lady said. “Ostap manages the building and he lets us sit here when the weather gets rough.”            As if on cue, Ostap came around the corner, bundled up in a navy stocking cap. He carried two coffee cups and handed one to each. “Ladies,” he said. “Compliments of Ed. Sorry,” he muttered to Alana.             “Oh, I can get my own. No worries!”            “We’re snug as a bug in a rug,” Messenger said. “That’s what my mama used to say when she tucked me into bed at night.”            “Your mother?” Alana saw an opening and jumped right in. “And where was that exactly? Where did you live as a child?”            “Okay!” Messenger licked her chapped lips. “Want to know about my home-raising? I’ll tell you everything you need to know. Well, there was this nice young guy, had a real sweet clear face. He walked down the street and carried this great big cardboard box to make a playhouse for his kids. I stopped him and he jumped a mile! Scared! Of me!” She laughed. “Oh, I didn’t mind. I felt sorry for him. Anyway, I held up my hands so he could see I wasn’t packing. ‘Where you going with that box?’ I asked. The cardboard was so clean and smelled like a fresh sheet of paper.             “He looked stunned, caught in a split-second decision whether to speak or to just push past me. I knew he’d answer. He had that kind of face. ‘Here! Take it. It’s yours!’ he said. Now, I wasn’t expecting to hear that. He handed it over, then ran off.”            Alana interrupted. “So how does this relate to your home raising?”            “Hold your horses, I’m getting to that. So, Shane, you met him and the hamster . . .”            Alana sighed. “Breakfast.”            “Yes, Breakfast. Shane came along and looked that box up and down. ‘Where’d you get that? Are there any more? Can I have one?” Messenger shook her head. “I let his eyes hold me a second too long and I just handed it over. Can’t help it. That’s just the way I was raised. You share what you’ve got. It’s that simple. Oh, Honey, speaking of sharing, want some of this coffee? I got an extra cup here somewhere you could use.”            “Yes! I’ll give you some of mine, too.” The Flower Lady chimed in. She opened the coffee top and offered some to Alana. “It’s real hot and real good.”            “No. That’s okay. You two drink yours. I’ll go over to Ed’s and get one.”            “You sure?”            “Uh huh. Thanks.” Alana turned to head around the corner. “You will still be here when I get back, right?”            “I guess so,” Messenger said.                         “Because I do have some questions for you today.”            She and the Flower Lady burst into raucous laughter. “Why am I not surprised? Questions are your middle name! Okay, okay. We’ll wait here for a while.”            Alana walked back towards First Avenue, but there was a long line at Ed’s. She waited, got coffee and added some pastries for them, then hurried back around the corner and down the street.            “You have got to be kidding me!” she said out loud. The threshold was empty. The sparrows had returned, had made footprints all over, and there were fresh crumbs in the snow for them. But Messenger and the Flower Lady were gone. Why were there no wheelchair tire tracks in the snow, either way on the sidewalks? Alana checked both sides of the street.             She stood in the doorway under the awning, furious with herself. Why didn’t you take their coffee and stay put? The snow was making Messenger sentimental and she was talking about her childhood. Does snow do that to everyone?             Alana thought back to her own snow days, spent with her best friend, Sara Snyder, and Sara’s older brothers. They’d pull their sleds down the street to a small park where all the kids in the neighborhood went. The steepest hill felt like an enormous mountain and stole your breath on the way down. They’d sled from early morning to lunch, when they’d go inside to eat grilled cheese sandwiches and drink hot chocolate Mrs. Snyder had made them. Then, they’d head back out.                                     Alana’s mom would have to work, of course. Alana was that girl who always went to her friend’s house, never the other way around. The only time she ever saw her mom on a snow day was when Alana collided with Tommy Rochester mid-run. Tommy’s old-fashioned, wooden sled ran straight into her forehead and split it wide open. She still remembered how her shockingly bright red blood (it seemed like so much) soaked the white, clean snow. Tommy, usually a big bully, started to cry. Alana didn’t know if it was because he’d hurt her, the sight of blood, or both.            “You’re fine, Alana. You’re just fine,” her mom repeated in the emergency room. She’d come down from her job on Fourth East. She held Alana’s hand while she lay on the table under the light and the doctor sewed her up. “Come on now. No fuss. Hold still. Just a few more stitches. You’re fine.”            But she wasn’t fine. Blood wasn’t fine. The emergency room wasn’t fine. Stitches weren’t fine. That was the first time she could remember getting the shakes.             Alana stomped the snow off her boots and the little birds scattered again. She crossed the street, looking everywhere for Messenger. I’d give anything to get one measly childhood anecdote like that from Messenger, she thought. At least today she’d learned that Messenger had a mother she knew and could remember. Alana had trouble imagining Messenger as a child. The best she could manage was a smaller version of Messenger who walked the streets as she did now, a little adult who let nothing bother her or stand in her way. As usual, Alana’s questions piled up. That Flower Lady was a trickster. It never failed. Whenever Alana found Messenger with her, she’d always distract her or steal her away.             Okay—a mother. Messenger didn’t have to have a mother. Alana didn’t have a dad, to speak of. She took off her gloves and typed the following questions into her phone:             1. Have you always lived in the city?             2. Where did you live as a child?             3. Did you ever go sledding? (Alana knew many city kids who never did. Imagine!)            4. When did the messages start? At what age? Were you scared?            5. Did you tell your mother about them or just hold it inside?             6. How long did it take you to act or to deliver your first message?            7. How old are you?            Messenger could be really, really old. Or not. Once Alana came right out and asked her, but she’d dodged the question. Alana’s guess was minimum of 50. Maximum of 70? 75? But Messenger got around so well—no cane for her. She didn’t move fast
Social Media ArtistryHave you seen the wonderful social media posts our talented designer, Brandon O’Neill, has created, often featuring evocative, original photography of NYC by Joy Whitehurst? Check it out and please consider following us @messengerthenovel on Facebook and Instagram and  @messenger_novel on Twitter.  Calling All Book ClubsWant to discuss MESSENGER with your friends? Consider choosing MESSENGER: A Novel in 16 Episodes as one of your book club selections. Liz Keller Whitehurst would be happy to join your book club gathering as a virtual guest to discuss all things MESSENGER, to ponder some of the questions included in each episode description and to answer any questions you may have. Schedule your meeting by emailing Liz at messengerthenovel@gmail.com. It’s free! Credits/ContactsAuthor: Liz Keller Whitehurst: messengerthenovel@gmail.comFor inquiries about MESSENGER or rights queries, contact April Eberhardt: april@aprileberhardt.comBook editor: Annie Tucker: annietucker@gmail.comPodcast design/social media: Brandon O’Neill: oneillcreativeco.comPhotography: Joy Whitehurst: Instagram: @turquoisekoiAudio production and voice artist: Rachel Pater: richmondstoryhouse.orgOriginal music and sound direction: Wells Hanley: wellshanley@gmail.comRecording and audio editing: Lance Koehler: minimumwagerecording.comSpecial thanks to Wilson, Joy, Audrey and April Find Us Online Website: messengerthenovel.comFacebook: facebook.com/messengerthenovelInstagram: instagram.com/messengerthenovelTwitter: twitter.com/messenger_novel Questions to PonderAlana, worried about Messenger’s disappearance, quotes Jackie to Ed—“Messenger’s going to get burned.” What do you think Jackie meant? What is the extent of the danger?How does the relationship between Alana and Ed change? Why does it change in this way at this time? Were you surprised at Ed’s revelations? Why does he choose to reveal so much to Alana?Messenger’s disappearance pushes Alana’s buttons, which catapults the action forward. Were you surprised at Alana’s actions? Have you ever had a similar experience, where you acted from a place of deep hurt?Alana stands to lose a lot in this episode. What aspect of loss do you think is hardest for her to face? ---------------------------------Episode 12 Complete Text  📖 (Click here to access the PDF)--------------------------------- MESSENGER IS MISSING The next three days in a row, Alana searched but couldn’t find Messenger anywhere. The weather matched her mood—day after day of cloudy low pressure, a constant threat of rain. Winter would not let go.            Alana tried to remain calm. You’re going with the flow, letting Messenger be Messenger, remember? This wasn’t the first time a few days had passed without her finding Messenger. Messenger would probably turn up when Alana least expected it and laugh at her for being worried. But just in case, she checked back in with Ed every day for reassurance.             On Day Four, after making her rounds, looking through the neighborhood, Alana smiled when she got to Ed’s and saw that business was light. He’d have time to talk.             “No Messenger?” Ed asked.            “Nope.”             “She hasn’t been here, either.”            Alana sighed. “Coffee, please.” She unbuttoned her coat and sat on the stool at the end of the drink bar. “What’s the longest you remember she’s ever gone missing?”            “Oh, probably a week, I guess.” Ed handed Alana a coffee then turned to fill the grinder with beans. “Must be hard to keep moving forward with your project the way she comes and goes.”            Alana cut her eyes. “This isn’t just about the project. Should I be worried?”            “I don’t think so. I just know she always comes back. Did you ask The Flower Lady today?”            Alana tried to focus on the wonderful smell of brewing coffee. “Yes! I’ve talked with everybody every single day she’s been gone. The Flower Lady, Ostap, The Professor. Shane. Even the lady with the Chihuahuas.”            “Did she answer you?” Ed asked.            “Are you kidding?”            Ed laughed. “What about Jackie?” he asked.            “Nope. Haven’t seen her.”             “Maybe they’re together.”            “Maybe.” Alana sipped her coffee, paused, then added, “I’m probably overreacting, but I haven’t told you about something weird that happened last week. I saw Jackie in the Concourse.”            Ed looked up from wiping down the counter. “All the way up there?”            “Yeah. She was being unusually nice to me about the project, asked me a lot of questions, but then she turned dark.”            “Jackie’s like that. Hot and cold. She can turn on a dime.”            “No, it’s more than that. Jackie warned me that Messenger was playing with fire. That’s how she put it. Messenger was in danger, ‘was going to get burned.’ What do you think she meant?”            “Beats me. Jackie is . . .. Jackie.” He shrugged.             Alana finished her coffee and slid off the stool. “You think I’m worrying about nothing?”            “Give it more time. I bet she’s back here tomorrow.”            Alana sighed. “I hope so! It’s just, if something happened to Messenger, I don’t know what I’d do!” She buttoned her coat and headed back out the door to keep looking for Messenger.             By Day Seven, a whole week of combing the streets, searching in all their usual spots, asking and asking if anybody had seen Messenger, Alana had chewed her cuticles to shreds.            “Listen, Ed. I’m getting worried, aren’t you?”            “Not yet. She’ll turn up.”             Today Ed’s words did not reassure her. She suspected Ed was the kind of person that even if he was worried, he’d be slow to admit it. Alana took a breath before answering, so she wouldn’t snap. “It’s weird that she and Jackie are both suddenly missing. Something may have happened to them. Don’t you think we should call the police?”            “What exactly would you tell them?” Ed asked.             Alana bristled at Ed’s always calm voice. “That Messenger’s missing, of course. Jackie, too.”            “Messenger? Do you know her real name?”            Alana’s heart dropped. “No. I don’t.”            “Me neither.”            “I see what you mean. But maybe we could give them a detailed description. They could at least keep an eye out.”            Ed stopped washing dishes and focused on their conversation. “Don’t go to the police yet. Tell you what, when I get off later, I’ll go out and help you look, okay?”            Alana relaxed slightly. “That would be great, but I have to be at work early today.”            “Okay. I’ll go out myself.”            “Will you text me if you find her?”            “Sure.”            “Okay. Great. Well, I guess I better give you my number.”             Ed fished his phone out of his back pocket.             They exchanged numbers as if it was the most natural thing in the world, but it felt intimate, somehow, having Ed’s cell phone number in her phone. It also felt good to worry with somebody else, even if Ed wouldn’t admit he was worried. Alana most definitely considered calling in sick so she could stay with Ed, wait for him to get off so they could search for Messenger together. She would have done it, too, if she’d had any cash to spare.  ALANA’S NOTEBOOK I don’t know what to do. It’s Day 9 and Messenger’s still missing. I never heard back from Ed, so I assume he didn’t find her, either. He was sweet to go looking. He tells me not to worry, not to go to the police, to wait, but I sense even Ed is getting worried. Jackie’s strange warning and the fact that she’s missing, too, haunts me. What did Jackie mean? That’s the first thing on my list to ask Messenger when she comes back. Is Jackie’s warning a part of this cloud that follows me around all the time, this sense of dread I don’t understand but can’t shake? I wake up exhausted every morning from nights full of dreams, mostly bad ones. Every nerve in my body feels like something bad’s about to happen. Has it already happened? To Messenger? Please, no!            Of course, the project is on hold until we find her. I was going to ask if she’d agree to let me post, not the whole website, but just a few paragraphs and a photo of us together—to prove she’s real and I’m not just making all this up. That’ll have to wait. But waiting’s getting harder and harder. I know I promised Messenger I’d wait until she gives me the go-ahead, but I can only take so much. When she agreed to work with me on this project, I thought that meant I could count on her—that she’d stick around. And she has, up to now. But since she’s disappeared, I’m out here twisting on a limb. I can’t trust someone who just leaves.            I’m so close! All I need is just a little more information and Messenger’s go-ahead. It would be so easy. If I could post the website, then write a query, I know I could land an agent who’d sell the book. Not to mention get me at least a little advance to live on. Because my financial disaster is definitely not on hold. If only. The only things keeping me off the streets are my credit limit and job at Tale of the Whale. I never thought I’d be that person. How long am I going to have the luxury to wait on Messenger? MESSENGER’S GONE Day 10. Messenger was still gone. Alana had passed from concern to worry to cold panic—not only about Messenger’s safety, but also about the project. On Day Eleven, Alana had gone to the police station on Fifth Street, tried to fill out a missing person report but ended up leaving most of it blank. She didn’t know the answers to most of the questions (name? address? next of kin?). That experience only added to Alana’s realization of how little she knew about the details of Messenger’s life. The Officer was nice, listened to everything she told him about Messenger and Jackie. “How can two women just disappear?” she’d asked him. He’d smiled and told her, “I’m sorry to say, Ma’am, it happens all the time. And, I have
Welcome to a bonus episode of MESSENGER! Over the past few weeks, we asked you to send us real-life stories of a message you received from an unexpected source. And you did!  A huge thank you to all who sent in their real-life messages! They are diverse and intriguing—inspiring and mysterious. The timing of the message was important—sometimes it was life-changing. Thanks again for listening and many thanks to all of your who shared these amazing messages. We will have more for you in another Bonus Episode later on! And if you haven’t received a message yet. Don’t worry. Wake up. Watch for it. Maybe your message is on the way!  Brad’s Message:My sick, frightened partner was struggling with AIDS and his behavior was taking a serious toll on me and our relationship. If I moved out temporarily, could that force some positive change? “You’ve got to take care of yourself,” a friend told me. “If you don’t, you’ll be no good to him in the end. If you’re going to move out, you’d better do it soon, because there will come a time when you can’t leave him.” Like a slap in the face, his words forced a paradigm shift. I realized we didn’t have the luxury of time to work on our relationship. Within a few weeks, I moved out, the hardest decision I’ve ever made. And that was the decision that saved us as a couple.  Audrey’s Message:I was looking for a place to live and had passed a particular apartment complex many times. I soon realized it was really the perfect location for me. I went in to talk with the staff about possible openings, but no one was on duty and I couldn’t get in.I turned to go and a woman in a wheelchair came right up to me. “Can I help you?”  When I told her I was interested in living there, she said, “Come right on in with me. I’ll show you around and I know two people who will be glad to show you their apartments!”  I took her welcome as a sign, the message I was looking for—someone to say, “Come in. You’re welcome here.” I called and got on the list but was told the wait time was 6-8 months. Ten days later, I got a call there was an apartment for me. It was the exactly right place for me.  Marie’s Message:Struggling with an overwhelming problem, I phoned a dear friend for advice. “Trust,” she said. “You’re going to have to trust that everything will work out.” A week later, another friend had brought several of us gifts—small, hand-made ceramic shapes with messages embossed on them. She’d put them in a bag and we each drew one out without looking. I drew a blue star. “Trust,” my message read.  Caroline’s Message:I was driving down a road and saw a church on my right. Towards the curb was one of those signs that would usually say something like “All Are Welcome in the Eyes of the Lord” or “Trust in God but Lock Your Car.” But this one was different. It read “Serve God, Serve Others, and then Serve Yourself.” That phrase struck a chord in my heart in an unexpected way. Although I wouldn’t call myself a religious person, the notion to put others before yourself helped me get out of a place of self-deprecating thoughts.  I realized whether you’re a narcissist or hating on yourself, you are still self-centered. Disrupting this pattern of thinking helped me so much. Thank you, sign!  Larry’s Message:Four months after my wife died, I was discussing going to Paris with dear friends. But I felt guilty about traveling without my wife. The next morning when I got out of bed, I stepped on something small and hard. It was a sterling-silver charm from her bracelet. And not just any charm. It was the Eiffel Tower! I believe it was a message from my wife. “Bon Voyage!” Genia’s Message:I was driving on 81-north many years after my father had died. Everything seemed fine, although the traffic was heavy. Suddenly I heard my father’s voice warn, “Get out of here.” Without thinking, I put my foot on the gas and sped up, as fast as I could go. Almost immediately, a huge 18-wheeler came over right where I’d been. I pulled over and cried, “Thank you, Daddy!” His message had saved me. Lucinda’s Message:  Soon after my father’s memorial service, I was walking in my new neighborhood and passed an older gentleman several times before we stopped to speak. He told me he was out on his lunch break. I marveled at his youthful appearance and he laughed and told me he was 81, the same age as my dad. He went on to tell me how wonderful the company developing my neighborhood was. He comforted, reassured and made me feel our decision to buy a home there was a good one. It would work out fine. Though I looked, I never saw him again. Why had he appeared that day? Why had he spoken of the same subject my dad had reassured me about in our last conversation? I think the older gentleman was a messenger.   Judith’s Message:On my birthday, I decided to get rid of an antique table. I took it to an auction house but was having a problem getting this table up the steep back stairs by myself. So, I went inside for help. A tall young man in front of me was just about the same size and shape as my dad, whom I missed very much since his death. “You’re 6’ 7, aren’t you?” I asked.  He nodded. “Yes, exactly.”  “I always recognize a man who is 6’7 because my dad was 6’7.”   When it was my turn at the desk to ask for help, I was told I needed to bring the table inside by myself. The tall young man immediately reached over and gently touched my arm, exactly like my dad would when he wanted to say, “Don’t worry, it will turn out fine.”  Without saying a word, I followed the tall young man out into the parking lot where he lifted my table and carried it inside, while I gratefully walked up the stairs behind him. I quickly thanked him and helped the worker list the table. When I turned back around, he was gone.   I got back in my car and began to laugh. The event was so meaningful because it felt like Dad had come to help me and give me a good laugh at the same time. Dad and I both have a wry sense of humor. The kind, tall, handsome young man in front of me who reminded me so much of my white dad was black. The encounter told me love is eternal and timeless; that race, sex and size are meaningless manifestations of the outer world. And humor is paramount to getting through this life with good mental health! Oh, and the young man’s name was Clayton—just like Dad’s!  
SUPPORT MESSENGERThank you for listening to MESSENGER. Please consider rating it or writing a review on your podcast site or sharing it with a friend.  Credits/ContactsAuthor: Liz Keller Whitehurst: messengerthenovel@gmail.comFor inquiries about MESSENGER or rights queries, contact April Eberhardt: april@aprileberhardt.comBook editor: Annie Tucker: annietucker@gmail.comPodcast design/social media: Brandon O’Neill: oneillcreativeco.comPhotography: Joy Whitehurst: Instagram: @turquoisekoiAudio production and voice artist: Rachel Pater: richmondstoryhouse.orgOriginal music and sound direction: Wells Hanley: wellshanley@gmail.comRecording and audio editing: Lance Koehler: minimumwagerecording.comSpecial thanks to Wilson, Joy, Audrey and April Find Us Online Website: messengerthenovel.comFacebook: facebook.com/messengerthenovelInstagram: instagram.com/messengerthenovelTwitter: twitter.com/messenger_novel Questions to PonderAlana fights with guilt and regret throughout this episode. Have you ever done something you regretted, wanted to confess, but couldn’t? Where did it lodge in your body? Stomach? Solar plexus? Throat? Shoulders?What do you think will happen moving forward with Messenger? With Messenger and Alana? Alana and Ed?What do you make of the entry in Messenger’s composition book? It could be condensed into the saying, “Giving is Receiving.” Have you experienced this exchange in your own life? ---------------------------------Episode 13 Complete Text  📖 (Click here to access the PDF)--------------------------------- MESSENGER RETURNS On Day 17, Alana strode into Ed’s with two aims. She wanted to make up with him after their fight and she wanted to tell him what she’d done. Alana waited at the end of the bar until Ed finished with the coffee line. She stared at the counter, unsure how to begin. “Look, Ed. I’m really sorry about . . .”            “Me, too,” Ed interrupted. “I shouldn’t have laid all that on you—all my personal stuff. Uh!” He hung his head.            “No. I’m glad you did,” she said. “And we can talk about it more, if you want to. But, for now, I have to tell you something. I hope you’re going to understand.”            He nodded, focused on her.            “Well, I was really upset yesterday,” she began. “As you know!”            They laughed.            “After I left here, believe it or not, I spotted Jackie on the street!”            “What?”            “Yeah. I should have texted you. Sorry, but I was still mad. All Jackie would tell me was: Messenger’s safe and Jackie knows where she is. But hearing that Messenger abandoned me like that made me madder and more frustrated and feeling so helpless and betrayed. So last night, I did it. I launched the website I’ve been building all this time, The Messenger Files. It’s live.”            At first, Ed just stared at her. Finally, he asked, “Why?”            Alana weighed her words. “It doesn’t seem like Messenger’s coming back. Or wants to help me anymore. I thought it was the only way to salvage something from all my work.”            “But I thought she told you to wait.”            Alana felt the blood rush to her face, but she met his eyes. “Yes, she did.”            “What if she does come back?” Ed gently asked each question.            “Well, that doesn’t seem likely. But if by some chance she does, then I guess I’ll have to tell her the truth.”            “Good.” Ed poured and handed her a coffee. He’d automatically comped her ever since her card was rejected. “That’s good.”            “Why do you think she wouldn’t let me post?” Alana asked. “I could never get a straight answer.”            Ed shrugged. “I don’t know. But I guess it must have been, you know, important.”            “That’s what worries me,” Alana confessed.                        On Day 18, Alana went into Ed’s as usual. The line was long, but she was fine with waiting—she didn’t have anywhere to go.            Ed soon caught her eye. “Look who’s here!” He cried and pointed towards the back. Alana turned. There was Messenger, sitting on her stool, just like she’d never left!            Alana held onto the drink bar for dear life. Her body shivered from head to toe. I’m dreaming, she thought. But no. Messenger was here. Now. Tears filled Alana’s throat and she lurched towards her.            “Messenger! Where have you been? We’ve been so worried something happened to you!”            “Oh, I’m just fine! Nothing’s wrong with me. Just needed to lay low for a while. Nothing to worry about.” Messenger stood and gave Alana a long, tight hug.             Alana collapsed onto the stool beside her. All she could do was stare.             Messenger patted her on the shoulder. “Everything’s okay. Come with me, Honey. Let’s go for a walk together. I’ve got some folks I need to see today.”            “Messenger!” Alana fought to keep her voice calm and steady. It was shaking, too. “Don’t you understand? You were gone for over two weeks and we didn’t know where you were. We were frantic and . . .” Alana pushed the words out. “We didn’t know if you were alive.”            “Well, I am sorry about all that. But, believe me, it was out of my control.” She looked Alana up and down. “You seem okay to me. Let’s go on that walk. Looks like you could use it, too.”            “Okay,” Alana weakly agreed. She would agree to anything not to lose Messenger again. “I’d better stop in the rest room before we leave.”            “I’ll hold your backpack for you,” Messenger said.            In the bathroom, Alana leaned on the sink to steady herself. Messenger’s back, she’s all right! Alana realized now she hadn’t completely trusted everything Jackie said. But how could Messenger just disappear like that for so long, then reappear like it’s no big deal? Messenger obviously didn’t get what she’d put them through! Even for Messenger, that was a lot to just blow off. A cold, clamminess snuck up Alana’s spine. She stared at her face in the mirror. Do I look guilty? she wondered. Does Messenger already know I posted the website? Is that why she came back? Alana washed her hands and smoothed her hair. Her head cleared enough for her to think, I’ve got to get to Ed.            She hurried over to the bar. “Ed,” she said, her voice low. “Please don’t say anything to Messenger about what I told you—about posting the website.”            Ed stared.             “I know I have to tell her. Just let me do it in my own way, okay?”             His face relaxed. “Sure. Okay.” He smiled. “It’s good to have her back.”            “I know! I can’t believe it!”             When Alana returned, Messenger cut her eyes playfully. “You and Ed seem to be getting along just fine since I was gone.”            Alana chuckled. “We did have a fight, but I guess everything’s okay now.”            Messenger nodded. “Ed’s come a long way,” she said. “So have you, Honey! So have you.”            Alana didn’t know how to reply, except with a lame, “Thanks.” She fought to get her bearings, to believe her own eyes. Messenger was really back!             On their way out, Ed was busy with the coffee line, but called, “Have a nice walk, Ladies.”             The day was sunny and clear but cold, one of those winter days in the city when the air seems cleaner and warmer than it really is. They started on their usual route through the neighborhood, arm in arm, like always, dodged crowds of people pouring down the street on either side of them. Messenger’s solid body right there beside her and her slow, steady gait soothed Alana’s jagged nerves and helped her sort her mixed-up feelings. This would be so sweet, Alana thought, if only I hadn’t posted.            They walked quietly together down First Avenue. “Messenger, I have to say, you really scared me. Even Ed was worried in the end. It seemed like you’d just disappeared into thin air. But I guess even you can’t do that.”             “Well, yes, I can. In my own way, that is. But moving between worlds can get to be hard on a body. Specially one old as mine.” She unlinked her arm and pulled her red cap down to cover her ears.            Alana stared at her. “What are you talking about? Moving between what worlds? How?”            “I’ll tell you more. But, look. There’s the Professor. He’s one of the folks I want to see.” They walked along the street by the fence to the playground and came to the Professor’s office, set up today in the pocket park. Surrounded by his walls of crates stacked two-tall. The Professor stared intently at his blank screen. Stacks of papers covered each crate. And on his desk, he’d arranged his stapler, scotch tape dispenser and three-hole-punch.            They walked towards him and he looked up. “I see you’ve returned,” he said to Messenger.            “Yes, I have. Where’s your coat, Professor? It’s mighty cold today,” Messenger called.            “I’m swamped, Madame. Believe me, I am swamped.” He typed furiously, did not look up again. Alana loved to hear the old-fashioned clicks his keyboard made.            “May I come in?”             “Certainly, but I only have a moment.”            When Alana chuckled, Messenger locked eyes. “Never underestimate him,” she whispered.             Messenger pulled an apple out of a pocket and left it on the closest stack. “Bundle up, now. It’s cold.”            He glanced at the apple but kept typing.            Meanwhile, Alana snuck a look at her phone to check her site. Three-thousand views. When she’d logged 1,000 views earlier that morning, she’d been excited. Now it all made her sick to her stomach. She stuffed her phone back in her pocket. They headed away from the Professor down the street. “You said you know how to move between the worlds—are you talking about different dimensions?”            “Uh-huh. Sure. Call it whatever you want. These other imaginal worlds lie in the space all around us. No boundaries. We’re part of them and they’re part of us. That’s not new news but our smarty scientists are just beginning to f
SOCIAL MEDIA ARTISTRYHave you seen the amazing social media posts our talented designer, Brandon O’Neill, has created, often featuring evocative, original photography of NYC by Joy Whitehurst? Check it out and please consider following us @messengerthenovel on Facebook and Instagram and @messenger_novel on Twitter. CALLING ALL BOOK CLUBSWant to discuss MESSENGER with your friends? Consider choosing MESSENGER: A Novel in 16 Episodes as one of your book club selections. Liz Keller Whitehurst would be happy to join your book club gathering as a virtual guest to discuss all things MESSENGER, to ponder some of the questions included in each episode description and to answer any questions you may have. Schedule your meeting by emailing Liz at messengerthenovel@gmail.com. It’s free! ALL GOOD THINGS MUST COME TO AN ENDBelieve it or not, we are coming to the end of MESSENGER, with just a few episodes to go. But don’t worry. The podcast will remain up and available to catch up on any episodes you missed, to re-listen to episodes, and to share with friends. THIS ISN’T GOODBYE! Thank you so much for listening to MESSENGER. If you’d like to keep up with MESSENGER news and with Liz Keller Whitehurst’s future projects drop us a line at: messengerthenovel@gmail.com. This information will only be used for these updates.  Credits/ContactsAuthor: Liz Keller Whitehurst: messengerthenovel@gmail.comFor inquiries about MESSENGER or rights queries, contact April Eberhardt: april@aprileberhardt.comBook editor: Annie Tucker: annietucker@gmail.comPodcast design/social media: Brandon O’Neill: oneillcreativeco.comPhotography: Joy Whitehurst: Instagram: @turquoisekoiAudio production and voice artist: Rachel Pater: richmondstoryhouse.orgOriginal music and sound direction: Wells Hanley: wellshanley@gmail.comRecording and audio editing: Lance Koehler: minimumwagerecording.comSpecial thanks to Wilson, Joy, Audrey and April Find Us Online Website: messengerthenovel.comFacebook: facebook.com/messengerthenovelInstagram: instagram.com/messengerthenovelTwitter: twitter.com/messenger_novel Questions to PonderThis episode explores unintended consequences that Alana must face and accept responsibility for. Have you ever had to suffer unintended consequences because of a decision you made? How did you cope?Alana must now face many losses, much bigger than just the writing project. What are they?Where is Messenger now? ---------------------------------Episode 14 Complete Text  📖 (Click here to access the PDF)--------------------------------- THE LAST DAY IN THE PARK Alana noticed the difference immediately when she and Messenger walked through the south gate to the park that morning. Police were everywhere. Granted, a few were always scattered around, keeping an eye on things. Normally, Alana would have been happy to see them. “Police officers are our friends!” she and her classmates had chanted three times each Friday morning, when Officer Stanley visited her elementary school with the D.A.R.E. dog, McGruff. But today she remembered the strange woman’s warning about the police and felt their eyes watching Messenger and her. “The police are our friends,” Alana whispered to herself, but the back of her neck tingled. Things are getting really weird around here, she thought. Or is my guilty conscience just making me paranoid?            She and Messenger had agreed to meet at the park to see if the fountain had been turned back on, now that spring was almost here. They walked past the Garibaldi statue, the green and blue public recycling cans rusted out at the bottoms, the old, half-dead tree, strange growths morphing in every direction. Just a few small smudges of chartreuse dotted its ancient branches. When they got farther in, Alana realized why the police were here. So many more people than usual were present and milling around.            “Do you have any idea why there’s such a crowd? Is it some holiday?” Messenger asked her.“I don’t think so.” It couldn’t be the website, she reasoned. She walked along the path, arm in arm with Messenger. Don’t make eye contact with any of them, she cautioned herself. But she couldn’t shake the notion that she and Messenger were being watched from all sides.             Alana turned back to Messenger. Her eyes bored into Alana’s, intense and strong. Alana had never seen her look so sad or so old.             “Are you sure you don’t know what’s going on?” Messenger asked her.            Was this one of Messenger’s games? Did she know what Alana had posted? How? Alana struggled to read Messenger’s face while she walked and talked, pretended nothing was different, everything was fine. Normal. Even though every cell in her body knew it wasn’t.            The fountain was not on, but a swarm of people had formed around it—some sitting along the edge, some milling around the concrete pavement. Buzzing, waiting. Anticipation crackled in the air. Alana and Messenger approached the crowd.            “Hey! There she is!” a thin, drugged-out girl called from the side of the fountain. The crowd surged towards Alana and Messenger like a colony of ants. They were soon surrounded.             “Aren’t you that Messenger woman?”            Oh, no! A wave of dread almost knocked Alana down. It was the website!            “I want a message!”            “Give me a message!”            “Lady, please. You gotta help me!”            “Does the church know what you’re doing?”            “Do the police know what you’re doing?”            “Who are you anyway?”            Shock shook Alana to her core. She spun towards Messenger to find her staring right at her. Her eyes met Messenger’s amber ones and Alana realized without a shadow of a doubt that Messenger knew everything. Everything.            Alana couldn’t face her. She took her arm. “We’ve got to get out of here,” she muttered.            Messenger wouldn’t move. She turned to Alana, “What have you done?”            “Nothing!” she whispered.             Men and women, moms and dads, old and young people, babies, kids, beggars, street people of all ages closed in on them. Not menacing, exactly. Calling and crying and demanding, growing louder every minute.             At first, Alana was relieved to watch four police officers elbow through the crowd and push it back, away from her and Messenger. They’ll help us, she thought. We can get away. But when she looked into their eyes, she wasn’t so sure.            The last voice Alana remembered hearing screamed, “Old Bitch! You think you’re a Voice from God?” More hate lodged in those few words than Alana had ever heard in her life. The man’s voice sounded tinny, like he was talking underwater.             He was tall, about six feet, bent forward, a man on a mission, resolute, with a steady gaze. Big and chubby, rather than muscular. His eyes, his nose and mouth looked too small for his large head and face. His dark hair was curly and chopped unevenly. He followed behind them, mumbled, blathered, yelled about Satan and hell. Lots about hell.             They tried to ignore him and hurried to get away. The hairs on Alana’s arms stood up and the terrible energy charging the air around them filled her whole body with fear and dread.             Then everything fell into slow motion.            “Don’t think you can get away from me. Oh, no you don’t! I’ve got the power here.”            He charged. Using all his might, the man slammed into Messenger, butting her with his right shoulder. Made his hit. Alana would never forget the flat sound of contact as his body rammed Messenger’s. She flew forward from the force and hung there a moment. Alana reached out with both arms, somehow believing she could catch her.             But instead Messenger catapulted forward, out of Alana’s grasp, and landed face first on the concrete pavement. She slid before coming to a stop and seemed to shrink before Alana’s eyes. Her red cap had flown off, now crumpled by her side. Her completely bald head shocked Alana to the core. One shoe had fallen off, and a swollen, exposed foot hung twisted on the end of her ankle like a misshapen animal. A pool of blood stained the concrete around her head.             The man panted from his exertions, spun around towards the gathered crowd and snarled, “Run!” It seemed to take forever for him to finish saying that word. “Run!” he yelled again. Many people did.             Then everything sped up. Still screaming about Liberals and God and judgement and Satan, he charged towards Messenger’s body, now curled in a fetal position. “You are nothing. Nothing!” he cried, his scruffy face contorted, crazed.            “Stop it!” Alana pleaded, trying to shield her. “Leave us alone.”            But he was too fast. He drew back and kicked Messenger’s prone form with as much force as his push. He grunted, kicked her in the back, then again in the head. Her poor body offered no resistance. Alana could almost feel the kicks in her own body, delivered via his tan work boot, steel-reinforced toe, with rawhide shoestrings double-tied.             Before he landed the third kick, two big men from the crowd grabbed him, and within a moment the police were on him, too. They pushed him down, arms pinned behind him, his face slammed on the same pavement as Messenger’s.            Alana dropped beside Messenger, not knowing what to do, afraid to touch her. “Help!” Alana cried. “Please help us.” Be okay, be okay, be okay, she prayed.            An ambulance’s shrill scream cut the air. Alana jumped. Blood continued to pool around Messenger’s head, smelled like dirty iron. Alana got up the nerve to try and turn her, but someone called, “Wait! Let us help.” Others gathered around the body, and, working together, they gently turned Messenger so she could breathe. A purple-blue egg of a welt rose on the side of her head and nasty gashes and abrasions from the cement wept blood. Her nose, flattened at a weird angle, poured red, mixed with the stream fro
SUPPORT MESSENGER!Thank you so much for listening to MESSENGER. Please consider rating it or writing a review on your podcast site or sharing it with a friend.  CALLING ALL BOOK CLUBSWant to discuss MESSENGER with your friends? Consider choosing MESSENGER: A Novel in 16 Episodes as one of your book club selections. Liz Keller Whitehurst would be happy to join your book club gathering as a virtual guest to discuss all things MESSENGER, to ponder some of the questions included in each episode description and to answer any questions you may have. Schedule your meeting by emailing Liz at messengerthenovel@gmail.com. It’s free!  ALL GOOD THINGS MUST COME TO AN ENDBelieve it or not, we are coming to the end of MESSENGER, with just a few episodes to go. But don’t worry. The podcast will remain up and available to catch up on any episodes you missed, to re-listen to episodes, and to share with friends.  THIS ISN’T GOODBYE! Thank you so much for listening to MESSENGER. If you’d like to keep up with MESSENGER news and with Liz Keller Whitehurst’s future projects drop us a line at: messengerthenovel@gmail.com. This information will only be used for these updates.  Credits/ContactsAuthor: Liz Keller Whitehurst: messengerthenovel@gmail.comFor inquiries about MESSENGER or rights queries, contact April Eberhardt: april@aprileberhardt.comBook editor: Annie Tucker: annietucker@gmail.comPodcast design/social media: Brandon O’Neill: oneillcreativeco.comPhotography: Joy Whitehurst: Instagram: @turquoisekoiAudio production and voice artist: Rachel Pater: richmondstoryhouse.orgOriginal music and sound direction: Wells Hanley: wellshanley@gmail.comRecording and audio editing: Lance Koehler: minimumwagerecording.comSpecial thanks to Wilson, Joy, Audrey and April Find Us Online Website: messengerthenovel.comFacebook: facebook.com/messengerthenovelInstagram: instagram.com/messengerthenovelTwitter: twitter.com/messenger_novel Questions to PonderWhat do you make of Alana’s dream? Have you ever had a dream that enlightened you, albeit in symbolic/dream images?Why do you think Ed is so forgiving to Alana?What does Messenger mean when she tells Ed, “You’re ready.”? ---------------------------------Episode 15 Complete Text  📖 (Click here to access the PDF)--------------------------------- ALANA TAKES STOCK The reporters soon lost interest and left Alana alone after a few days, when they figured she wasn’t going to say anything more about Messenger. For them, after the violence had played out, Rickie Brokoff was identified and charged, there was no story. It all added up to just another act of urban terrorism, violence committed by another young, angry fanatic. The authorities hadn’t revealed a direct connection between Alana’s website and the attack, but Alana knew in her bones the truth.                      Messenger was gone. Each day, Alana prowled the streets, the doorways, stoops, storefronts, benches. Still hoping. She strained her eyes, longed for that dot of red. How many times had Alana walked these streets with Messenger, tried so hard to ask the right questions? To keep her talking about her messages? Where they came from? What they meant?             Alana scoured the Internet for traces of Messenger, for posts about any message from a strange angel. Nothing. She tried to check in every day with the Flower Lady, the lady with the Chihuahuas. Ostap. The Professor. She asked all the crusty kids outside the barbershop every day if they’d seen Messenger. Even the neighborhood cops, to see if they’d seen her or had any news. Jackie seemed to have disappeared again, too. Alana figured she was with Messenger, wherever that was.             Alana had considered all the people in the neighborhood her friends, too. But since the attack, a new awkwardness filled her whenever she was around them. Some, like Ostap, were very clear about their feelings. Whenever she saw him on the street, he wouldn’t acknowledge he knew her, wouldn’t speak, and walked right past her.            The Flower Lady confronted her soon after Messenger disappeared from the hospital. “You have no idea what you’ve done! We all put our necks out for you, not just Messenger.”            “How? Tell me!”            “No, I’ve already said too much.” She turned away and stared into her buckets of flowers.             Ed’s kindness was the only exception. Ed! He should have been the most hostile, since he was probably closest to Messenger and knew all about Alana’s role in the attack. But, no. Alana would never forget how natural it had felt to fall into his arms when all those people had chased her from the hospital.             One morning, after he’d served her yet another free coffee, she said, “Hey, Ed. You know the other day, when all those reporters were after me?”                            Ed filled a filter-lined coffee basket with freshly-ground coffee. “Yeah?”            “Listen, thanks again for helping me. For locking them out.”             “No problem.”            She studied him. “Why are you being so nice to me? You know everything I did.”            “I’m always nice to you,” Ed said, focused on the basket.             “No. I’m serious. Everybody else around here’s giving me the cold shoulder, and who can blame them?” Her voice caught. “But not you.”            Ed met her eyes and lingered there. “I have no right to judge,” was all he said.            “What do you mean?”              Ed paused, then shook his head and turned away from her towards the coffeemaker.            Alana gathered her things and left. That’s so Ed, she thought. Drop a cryptic remark and then refuse to explain. As she walked down First Avenue, Alana realized again how little she knew about Ed’s life or his past. He’d only reveal little tidbits here and there. But his response made her determined to learn more.             After another hour of fruitless searching, Alana returned to Ed’s. He was busy with the drink line, so she settled down on her stool, rubbed her eyes, fought her exhaustion. Messenger, where are you? she cried inside. She stubbornly held on to her dimming hope that if she worked and searched hard enough, she would find some clue, some way to make things right. Beyond her guilt, which she owned, Alana fought her old angry, hurt feelings which bubbled up unexpectedly and brought tears to her eyes. I guess I thought Messenger would try and find me. Or at least say good-bye. Or leave me a message after all our time together. It doesn’t look like she’s going to. What would I say to her if she were still here? What message would I give the Messenger?            Alana dug her notebook out of her backpack and jotted this letter to Messenger. Dear Messenger,            I was so wrong. I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you and posted the website. I’m sorry about Rickie. I’m sorry about all of it. I meant well. (Did I?) I’m just so very sorry.            I know I probably drove you crazy, stalking you all over the neighborhood, asking questions, bothering your friends, demanding your time, taking you away from the job you had to do. I just want to say thank you for all you taught me. I still don’t understand most of it, but I see the world differently because of you. Though you’d never know it from the choices I made—from what I did.            This may sound lame, but I do see it now. Believe me. You never gave me a message, like all those other people I interviewed. But that’s okay. Just knowing you was my Clinamen. It changed my life.            Thank you.            Love,            Alana             That night, Alana dreamed she was in a hotel. She stood in a long hall with rooms on either side of it, ugly green/brown carpeting on the floor. Way down the hall, a person turned a corner and walked towards her. Alana knew it was Messenger because of her slow, steady gait, even though she was very far away. Alana ran down the hall to meet her, but Messenger suddenly turned in the other direction and disappeared. It was one of those dreams where you can never get where you’re trying to go, no matter how hard or fast you run. The hall seemed to grow longer as Alana ran. “Messenger!” she cried. “Stop! Wait! Help me.”            All she heard in response was Messenger’s giggles. Running down the hall on the ugly carpeting, Alana found feathers and pennies that fell out of Messenger’s clothes, like a trail of breadcrumbs. But even though Alana searched all the way down the immense hallway, as far as she could see, Messenger was gone. GUILTY The next morning, on her way in, Alana spied four or five feathers on the sidewalk, one red, the others gray and white, weird for the city. She found several pigeon feathers, too. And a penny on the subway steps and one on First Avenue, both heads up. They seemed to be signs, especially after the dream. She collected each one and put them carefully into her backpack.             Alana got coffee at Ed’s and sat at the end of the coffee bar before making her rounds to search. She knew she should head out but sat there instead and watched Ed wash dishes.            When Ed looked up, she realized tears were dropping down her cheeks into her coffee.            “Alana.” Ed stuck the blender pitcher into the draining rack and handed her a brown paper napkin.            “Oh, Ed. I feel so lost without Messenger. I know you do, too.”            Ed nodded.             Alana wiped her eyes. “If I could just tell her how sorry I am for what I did. Somehow make it right. I just feel so guilty.”            Ed leaned his elbows on the bar and clasped his hands into a fist. “You want to know about guilty?” he asked. “Let me tell you about guilty.”             She braced herself while Ed paused, as if he had to force the words out. “How about feeling guilty because nothing’s more important to you than your next drink? I lost my job over it. I was a contractor until I fell off a roof. The only reason I didn’t break my neck was because I was so drunk. And young. I’d
Welcome to another bonus episode of MESSENGER! Back in the early episodes, we asked listeners to send in messages that they had received.  We were so excited to receive even more real-life messages from our listeners since our last bonus episode, and we wanted you to hear them!  Just like the other batch, we heard lots of different kinds of stories with a common thread: the messages were life-changing to the receivers.  And just like in MESSENGER the novel, timing is always key.  We hope you enjoy!   M’s Message:I sat in a class as the first words out of the professor’s mouth were: “There is an artist within each of us. The purpose of this class is for you to find that creative spirit within you.” His words rolled over me and moved me to the core. By that fall, I’d signed up for my first photography workshop and was on my way. The message from the professor changed my entire life.   Susan’s Message:When on a retreat, the last day of it, I sat on my bed feeling sad to go home. Something told me to pray for a friend when I got back home. Within 24 hours of arriving home, someone asked me to invite the friend’s brother to a yoga class I was going to. From that day on, for 11 years until his death, we were together every single day, laughing and having fun.  Maken46's Message:  My boss told me I needed another dog so it wouldn’t be so hard on me when my dog, who was 20 years old, left us. A few weeks later, a person in the park saw our bichon and said she had a bichon needing a home. This new dog, Jack, was a perfect companion to our older dog and us. Thanks, Messenger!   Jo Ellen’s Message:I have gotten important messages through my dreams. Once I was dreaming that babies died under my care. After hearing my dream, someone asked me if those babies might be me. I was stunned. That was the beginning of my journey learning how to value and know myself, and therefore have the inner strength to support and contribute to others.Theresa’s Message:The unexpected source is me. I am a big proponent of dreams and dream analysis. For me, my dreams reflect my current emotional state and what is going on in my life. Not prophetic but present. Last night, I dreamt about ocean waves and writing a pop song that becomes popular. Calm, Empowerment. Power. Career transition.   David’s Message:  This message occurred in my late 30’s and turned things for me in a solid direction. I was broke but wanted very badly to drive three hours to visit a girlfriend. I went to a gas station to fill up, and my credit card was rejected. I sat in my car, dejected, deflated, hopeless.   I prayed to Spirit.   I got the “thought/question” in my mind, Would you like a dispensation?  I asked, What is a dispensation?   The “thought” came back, Do you want a dispensation? Would you like to drive to Charlottesville?   Of course, I said. Yes!   Go write a check for the gas.   I did. I spent the weekend with my girlfriend and somehow had no worries, even knowing I had no money in the bank to cover the check. Early Monday morning, a friend called who was doing roofing, asking if I’d help him for cash at the end of the day. That was a Wow! I tried throughout the day to call the bank but no answer, only to learn from my friend that it was a bank holiday. Wow! I deposited the cash at the night deposit to cover the check. All was well.   Bill’s Message: After law school I spent a number of years in relatively benign public service, then joined a small law firm located at 15th and M NW in Washington DC.  I wasn’t happy and one afternoon I felt a strong, almost overwhelming desire to leave the office and see a movie. At the time there was a cheap theater on Pennsylvania Avenue around 20th Street so I walked to it.  I didn’t recognize any of the offerings.  I opted for a movie I had never heard of, Meetings with Remarkable Men. When the movie was over, I spent close to 15 minutes in near total inner silence—a condition unknown to my normally racing brain.  There was a small brochure with a telephone number on it in the lobby of the theater.  A few weeks later—I called the number.  Someone contacted me and thus began my first adult spiritual training, several years in the Gurdjieff work.   Ellen’s message: I was a young mother with 2 school age children and a three-month-old baby.  Our family had recently moved to a new city, so I was putting our new life together, finding schools, a house and most importantly a cardiologist for my infant.  Katie was born with ventricular septal defect—a hole in the heart. The new cardiologist I found scheduled open heart surgery by her six-month checkup.  I was frozen with fear for my infant.  One day, I picked up my older children from school and drove to a nearby park which featured a ride on a dinosaur that the older children loved and feared. The dinosaur had become a welcome, familiar face in a new place. I put the baby in her car seat in the play area and began the game of chasing the older children and rocking the baby as I ran past.  I silently prayed, "Please, God, help me."  I screamed the prayer in my head as the children ran and laughed.  A thin, young boy came into the play space and joined our game as we ran and chased and laughed around the dinosaur.  My older children lost interest in the game and went to play on other equipment.  The young boy sat down with me and said, "You know, I have a hole in my heart, but I can do all the things that other kids do.  Sometimes, I get tired, but I can still play.  I have to go now, my Dad is waiting for me."  As quickly as he appeared, he was gone.  I sat on the park bench, stunned, crying with joy.  When my older children asked why I was crying. I answered, "The little boy came to tell me your sister is going to be alright." 
ALL GOOD THINGS MUST COME TO AN ENDBelieve it or not, this is the last episode of MESSENGER. But don’t worry. The podcast will remain up and available, so you can catch up on any episodes you missed, re-listen to episodes, and share it with friends.  THIS ISN’T GOODBYE! If you’d like to keep up with MESSENGER news and with Liz Keller Whitehurst’s future projects drop us a line at: messengerthenovel@gmail.com. This information will only be used for these updates.  A NOTE FROM LIZ KELLER WHITEHURSTDear Reader/Listener:Thank you so much for listening to MESSENGER! We hope MESSENGER has brought you comfort, hope, perspective, motivation and inspiration. May each of you receive the message you need most! Thank you for your supportive notes, messages and, most of all, for sharing MESSENGER with your friends. MESSENGER: A NOVEL IN 16 EPISODES could not have happened without the creative collaboration of some very talented folks. Brandon O’Neill designed and created our artful logo, amazing podcast site and all of our outstanding social media posts on Facebook, Instagram and Twitter, often featuring evocative photos of NYC by Joy Whitehurst.Wells Hanley’s joyful, original theme music for each character and his superior sound editing skills stitched this production together in an amazing, coherent way. And Lance Koehler’s recording acumen made Wells’ job so much easier and everything sound so good. A very special thanks to Rachel Pater, our remarkable narrator, whose voice you heard each and every week and whose vocal virtuosity truly brought Messenger, Alana and all the other characters, to life. Rachel advised, consulted and collaborated with me on all aspects of this project from beginning to end and my gratitude to her knows no bounds.Thank you and great job, everybody! To contact any of the above, you can find their contact information under Credits/Contacts. Blessings!Liz Credits/ContactsAuthor: Liz Keller Whitehurst: messengerthenovel@gmail.comFor inquiries about MESSENGER or rights queries, contact April Eberhardt: april@aprileberhardt.comBook editor: Annie Tucker: annietucker@gmail.comPodcast design/social media: Brandon O’Neill: oneillcreativeco.comPhotography: Joy Whitehurst: Instagram: @turquoisekoiAudio production and voice artist: Rachel Pater: richmondstoryhouse.orgOriginal music and sound direction: Wells Hanley: wellshanley@gmail.comRecording and audio editing: Lance Koehler: minimumwagerecording.comSpecial thanks to Wilson, Joy, Audrey and April Find Us Online Website: messengerthenovel.comFacebook: facebook.com/messengerthenovelInstagram: instagram.com/messengerthenovelTwitter: twitter.com/messenger_novel Questions to PonderDid the ending surprise you? Did you see it coming? Go back to the beginning of the book and read the first entry in Messenger’s Composition Book which completes the circle. How has this entire process been an initiation?How do you think Alana will respond to Messenger’s last entry—her message to Alana?How has Alana changed through knowing Messenger? How has Messenger changed through knowing Alana? ---------------------------------Episode 16 Complete Text  📖 (Click here to access the PDF)--------------------------------- IN THE ALLEY Alana headed down Fifth Street towards First Avenue and approached the entrance to the alley. She hadn’t been back down there since the day they viewed Messenger’s ruined altar. That was another hint of what was coming. Another warning I ignored, she thought. She still regretted not taking a picture of it. She’d give anything to have it now.            She stood at the entrance, then decided to walk in and see if she still heard that strange buzzing. Sure enough, as soon as she stepped into the darkened alley, the same sound filled her ears, just like before. There was static in the air, an electrical charge she could feel. Above the buzzing, she was sure she heard faint footsteps, coming from farther down.             Her skin went cold. “Hello?” she called over the buzzing. “Who’s there?”            Should I run? All the nerves on the surface of Alana’s skin tingled as she strained to listen to what were now two sets of footsteps echoing in the alley from down the way. She froze, eyes widened, braced herself.             Messenger and Jackie walked around the corner! Messenger’s face shone in the darkened light of the alley and she held her arms out wide. “Alana!” she cried.            Alana’s heart leaped and she threw herself into Messenger’s embrace, felt her substance and weight hold her tight. Alana’s tears streamed as she sobbed into Messenger’s red cap, “Oh, Messenger. I’m so sorry I posted the website. It was all my fault. That monster Rickie found you through me.” Choking tears made it hard to get the words out. “I didn’t understand, didn’t know what he would do. I’m just so sorry about everything.”             Messenger gently pulled away and patted Alana’s shoulder. She dug in a pocket and handed her a brown paper napkin from Ed’s. “Oh, Honey. It’s okay. Forget about all that.” Messenger looked just like she always did. Multiple coats, red cap, face open and shining—like the attack had never happened. She waved her hand as if to brush away everything between them. “Everything’s okay now.”            “You’re all right?” Alana swabbed her eyes and blew her nose.            “Sure, Honey. See?” She stretched out her arms and turned all the way around.  “Good as new.”            “But how did you get up and out of the hospital like that?”            “I helped her,” Jackie chimed in. “She couldn’t have done it without me. And Rob.”            Messenger chuckled. “Now that is the truth, Jackie.”            “Wait,” Alana said. “You two know Rob?”             “Uh huh. He’s our friend. The police were getting too nosy, so I had to get out of there quick, you see,” Messenger explained. “Jackie snuck in and she and Rob helped me.”            Alana studied Messenger’s face and body more carefully. She couldn’t see one bruise. No stitches. Her nose was straight and looked perfectly normal. Relief filled her entire body.            “I don’t have much time,” Messenger said, “but I’ve got some things to tell you before I go.”            Alana’s heart sank. “Go? Where? You can’t leave again! Please! I’ve been looking all over for you since you left the hospital! I’ve missed you so much!”            “I know and I’m sorry about that. But I have no choice. I’m not going to be a Messenger anymore.”            “What?”            “No. It’s decided. My time as Messenger is over.”            “No! You can’t quit. What about all the people who need messages? What about the Clinamen?”            “Don’t worry, Honey. You don’t think I’m the only Messenger? Oh, my no. I’m just one of many. We’re all over the place. Name a city—you’ll find Messengers there. But then, the real story is: we’re all messengers for each other. Everybody on this earth. Everyone can be a messenger for someone else. That’s the flow for you!”            Alana objected, “But not like you.”             Messenger smiled patiently. “No. We’re not there yet. But we’re heading in that direction. Then, the Clinamen will come. As soon as enough people know it, feel it, deep down in their bones and get moving. Speaking of moving, I’ve got some traveling to do.” Her face brightened even more. “I’ve got a daughter to find.”             Alana’s hand flew to her mouth. “What? You have a daughter?”            “I do. She’s grown now. Twenty-eight.”            “My age.”            “Uh-huh. I had to leave her with my mother. After the messages started coming, these people, the Watchers, found me and explained what was happening. They said I had to work to help create the Clinamen by delivering my messages. But I couldn’t do that and still live my old life. See, people like us have had to hide.”             When Messenger said, “us,” a chill ran up and down Alana’s spine. Who is “us”? she wondered.            “I’ve told you before how dangerous good news can be. We couldn’t risk bringing danger to our loved ones. We had to leave our families and our homes.”            “How old was your daughter when you left her?”            Suddenly Messenger looked older and sadder than Alana had ever seen. “She was just a baby. A toddler.”            Alana’s eyes widened. “How could you do that?”            Messenger dropped her head. “It was terrible. The hardest thing I ever did. But those are the rules for Messengers. You leave everything, strike out on your own.” Tears filled Messenger’s eyes. “Was it really necessary? Probably. To keep our loved ones safe from what happened to me in the park. But it was a big price to pay.”            “Too big.” Jackie shook her head.             “It was wrong. Now I’ve got to make it right.”            “Yes, you do!” Alana automatically agreed, then realized what she had just said. Her head swam with each new revelation. “This is a lot to take in. Who are these Watchers you’re talking about?” Alana asked.            “Well, Jackie is one of them.” She’s my main Watcher.”            Jackie stood up straighter and nodded.            Messenger continued. “And there are others, but I don’t know who they are. For my protection and theirs.”            “What do the Watchers do?”            “They help, protect and defend the Messengers, of course. They guard and watch for upcoming dangers. They warn you when trouble’s coming. Then step in when necessary, to help.”            “Well they sure did a lousy job with Messenger!” Alana blurted out.             “Listen, Girlie. We did our best, but Messenger is stubborn as a mule and you . . .”            Messenger touched Jackie’s arm and interrupted. “The Watchers did warn me. They did all they could. But I chose to ignore their warnings.”            “Why would you do that?” Alana asked.            “For the Clinamen. I want things to change.”            Alana pressed. “You allowed Rickie to attack you to bring about a Clinamen?”            “No,” Jackie
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