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    Reborn to Endless Night: Fragments from the Life of Anu Vijara
    Reborn to Endless Night: Fragments from the Life of Anu Vijara
    Reborn to Endless Night: Fragments from the Life of Anu Vijara
    Ebook59 pages53 minutes

    Reborn to Endless Night: Fragments from the Life of Anu Vijara

    By Jason Reynolds

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    About this ebook

    Spanning thousands of years and multiple continents, Reborn to Endless Night introduces the Uroboros mythos, the epic saga of the species who ruled the world until the rise of monotheism reduced them to demonic outcasts—to 'vampires'—a caricature they find deeply offensive. The series adds some fresh twists to the genre's classic tropes. Rooted in hard science and focused on the philosophical implications, this novelette is a dramatic thought experiment, a reflection on human nature from the perspective of our transhuman cousins. Full of exotic locales and suspenseful, blood-drenched scenes, you will hopefully find the story entertaining and enlightening. Reborn is an appetizer, so to speak, to the first main course in the series: the novel, Uroboros (Coming in 2014!).

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherJason Reynolds
    Release dateDec 20, 2013
    ISBN9781311121622
    Reborn to Endless Night: Fragments from the Life of Anu Vijara
    Author

    Jason Reynolds

    Originally from eastern Tennessee, Jason Reynolds is an indie writer and professor with a Liberal Studies degree from the University of Central Florida where he was an instructor in both the English and Philosophy departments. He also taught mythology and creative writing courses at Full Sail University in Orlando. He and his wife Jennifer then moved to western North Carolina where he taught Gothic Literature and Cultural Diversity at South College Asheville. They are currently living in the Chicagoland area where Jason is teaching philosophy and humanities at Moraine Valley Community College.His main literary influences are Mary Shelley, Poe, Hawthorne, Melville, Lovecraft, Faulkner, O'Connor, Orwell, Vonnegut, and Philip K. Dick. His stories blend historical, horror, fantasy, and science fiction into speculative narratives that explore both contemporary and timeless philosophical themes. His fiction has appeared in ResAliens Magazine, The Horror Zine, A Feast of Frights, Big Pulp, and The Midnight Diner.

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      Book preview

      Reborn to Endless Night - Jason Reynolds

      Reborn to Endless Night:

      Fragments from the Life of Anu Vijara

      Jason Reynolds

      Copyright by Jason Reynolds 2013

      Smashwords Edition

      Follow the author and read other titles at http://uroboros73.wordpress.com

      Contact him at uroboros73@gmail.com

      This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

      For Jenn

      You are not reading this. You did not read this.

      —Anu Vijara

      Fragment I

      Calcutta, India. 1883 CE.

      Teeth grinding, nails digging into the meat of my palm, I had to pause for a moment and lean against a gaslamp, its soft glow fusing with the other streetlights to form a halo spread across a skyline crowned with spires, minarets, and smokestacks, becoming a gauzy veil against the heavens. The moon, a bright crescent freckled with craters, held me there in a sort of trance, a brief reprieve from the hot sour stench, the ceaseless murmurs and chatter—from the hunger gnawing at my insides. Finally, the tram hissed, spit a puff of steam, and chugged away from the curb. I headed into the road, shouldering my way across a thoroughfare clogged with sweaty bodies, sidestepping a rickshaw or two before entering Bowbazar.

      The lanterns sagging back and forth from pagoda-shaped awnings gave the marketplace a blood-red shimmer. Chinese merchants, immigrants from the Opium Wars, cajoled me as I passed, pushing their leather goods, dry fish, and vegetables. I was dressed as a Babu, after all, a Bengali gentleman presumably with a pocketful of rupees. But I was not there for fish or shoes. I cut down a narrow alley, striding along the worn greasy brickwork toward the tenement I had settled upon the night before.

      Inside, I asked the attendant, a portly Chinese gentleman, for a room, and he led me down a hallway to a small den in the back. Parting the beaded partition, he ushered me in and, striking a match, lit the lamp beside the door-sill. That was when I spotted the Englishman in the corner: gaunt, spindly frame stretched across a bamboo bed, gazing dully at the ceiling, arms folded reverently across his chest, hookah hose coiled around one hand, a book in the other.

      He did not acknowledge us; he didn't even stir. I edged onto the bed by the door, watching impatiently as the attendant packed a sticky ball of opium into the hookah. He handed me a hose; I put it to my lips and pretended to suck as he laid a flame to the black ball, then blew out a mouthful of smoke, affecting a hefty cough. He grinned and nodded, the fat under his chin quivering.

      Yes, I assured him, dropping more rupees into his hand. Quite tasty.

      Calling me 'Babuji,' he bid me an adventurous evening, handed over the box of matches, and shuffled out of the room. I looked to the corner again and observed the Englishman.

      What brings you to Calcutta, sir?

      He did not answer—didn't even move—so I approached him, padding softly across the oriental rugs. Behind the neatly cropped sideburns and drooping mustache, the young man's face was pasty and moist as if from fever. From the cut of his linen shirt, the embroidery of his waistcoat, and the paisley cravat, I took him to be a man of considerable wealth, almost certainly a resident of Chowringhee Road.

      What brings you to the City of Palaces, sir? I waved my hand across his eyes, still not getting a response. An administrator for the Raj? Perhaps an actor on Theater Road? Or are you a man of private enterprise?

      I crouched and poked his shoulder. Nothing. Not even a flicker in his widened pupils. His mind no doubt swirling in its own reveries, he would remain perfectly oblivious to the operation I was about to perform.

      I pulled the hose and book—The Complete Poetical Works of Lord Byron—from his limp fingers, placed them on the floor, and unfolded his arms, draping his left hand over the edge of the bed. Admiring his soft,

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