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Cassandra laughed. I can shop, read, and socialize all with a single blink. Cassandra frowned. Not a moment before, and not a second after. Hypatia slept deeply, and for a time, she found true peace, a long-standing stillness, one that made her feel as if she was rocking on a small boat in the middle of the ocean, a deep mist surrounding her. For some time, she rowed the boat, and then gave up control, and let it drift wherever it wanted to go. Life was like that, she once read: to get where you wanted to go, you had only to let go of the oars.

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Up ahead, where the mists broke, appeared another boat steered by a shriveled up Chinese man, reading a book. Hypatia nodded.

The Writer Who Slept for a Hundred Years: A True Story – Hunter Liguore

Will you share it with me? Too busy to savor such a small book? Hypatia blinked, her lips puzzled in a ball. Clear as a bell. She went on a little ways, first steering, then letting the ebb take the boat wherever it liked. Soon, shrouded in the mist came another boat, this time with an older man boasting a wide, tooth-filled grin. She knew his face immediately—it was Dr.

Dwayne Briar. Just waiting now for the good fortune to come my way. Did I do something wrong? All the great masters knew enough to take joy in the work. The journey begins with a single thought, followed by hard work free of the good opinion of others, all the while not worrying about the outcome. That is what the words of Lao-tzu mean: with effort comes no-effort. With doing comes not-doing. With beginning comes an end. Write for the sake of writing, not the outcome. She ran her hand in the water, and touched it to her face.

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She listened to the way the water cupped the side of the boat; she closed her eyes and felt the swaying, the tranquil movement. But then the rocking grew more intense, until the boat was tilting back and forth, water filling the hold. Hypatia tried to bail it out, but it poured in, sinking the boat.

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As she went under, the water nearly choking her, she suddenly woke—. Sitting beside her was a twenty-something-year-old boy, holding an empty cup. The moment had finally arrived. Hypatia L.

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Hypatia pressed the book to her chest. I finally manifested the publication of my book. Or was it my blog, or word-of-mouth. Tell me, how did they discover me?

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It fell to me, and let me tell you, seeing you lying on your back every day, while I had to go to work got me miffed. I posted an ad in the Evening Chronicle about you and the book, and the next day I had a hundred offers. They all liked the story of you being asleep for one-hundred years. Hypatia felt a little deflated, tired even, enough to go back to sleep, but realized there was no point. Her book had indeed been published; there was nothing more to wait for. Over the subsequent months, Hypatia went on a whirlwind book tour, via the Net and TV.

The book was a phenomenon and so was she. She eventually warmed to the idea that the book, in its own right, was ultimately loved and cherished by millions; how it began seemed less and less important. Soon, she bought a little farm and orchard, as she had always hoped to do with the sale of her first book. She got an office set up in which to start her next novel. She also had the local librarian start a library for her. Where are Tolstoy and Vonnegut? Oh, Reardon Joyce, you must mean, one of the old Big Band writers?

It is a truly great day! Hours turned to days, and then weeks to a year, while Hypatia wrote every waking minute. Her dream had been to be peer-reviewed, to move into the elite circle of published writers, and now that she had reached the goal, she wanted to stay there. Every thirty days she finished a new book—made possible with implanted brain software allowing her to think the story into being—so in the course of the first year, she had produced twelve new books. She no longer had to worry if they were marketable, well-written, or even if the audience would like them.

She was free of the need to search for an agent—she was on Top , and the public read whatever she put out. If it had the name Hypatia L. Several years passed. Now, she was all tapped out, the public still demanding more. In the ensuing quiet, with her mind empty, no longer on a new, vast world, or new characters and conversations, she had time to think about her old life. Hypatia longed to go into the other room with a page of prose and read it to Perpetua. Her wife had always been her first reader, her confidant on top-secret plots, her co-pirate in epic adventures.

She could tell if it resonated, even without her saying. Hypatia also thought of Little Pippin, her wonderful cat that sat on the table while she typed. Often Pippin served as someone to read the story aloud to, which helped identify problems with narration or dialogue and all sorts of things. Pippin was patient with her, as was Perpetua. Few knew it was Perpetua that worked to pay the mortgage and food, while allowing Hypatia time to finish her masterpiece.

They lived poorly, forgoing vacations, new clothes, furniture, and other things that most normal people possessed. It was essentially Perpetua who drove Hypatia on. She was determined to do right by her. At the end of every day she had little to show for her efforts, only a few pages of words, a new battle scene, perhaps, or a few pages of flowery description. Even with all her success, none of it seemed to matter without the few people she cared about to share it with. Part of publishing the book in the first place was to show Perpetua that all their sacrifice had paid off.

The sadness overwhelmed Hypatia.

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So did the droves of people invading her farm to get a look at her writing through the open windows. Hypatia went to the living room for a sit-down. The unveiling was tomorrow, and Hypatia was supposed to attend as the guest of honor. The kitchen table was her writing place, bright and airy, close to her teapot, and the bird feeders where she could look out in between sentences.

She missed those days; she missed the house and all that went with it. As she put her head down to rest, she began to yearn desperately for her old life. Hypatia fell into sleep, although it was restless. She found herself back in the misty river swimming, and in search of a bathroom, not wanting to pee in the water, though it seemed that no one was around to notice. Then it occurred to her that she only had water dreams when she had to pee in waking life, and that the trick was to force herself awake in order to get out of the water and into a real bathroom.

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As soon as she thought it, Hypatia found her eyes fluttering open, her heart racing. She expected to see her house on the farm, but instead she was back in her old house—not the museum—but her real old house. The rain was tippy-tapping the roof and gutters outside, the light in the room had grown darker, as if only a few hours had passed; night approached. Pippin was sleeping peacefully on her legs. She did indeed have to pee, but thought she could wait. As she lay there, the strange dream ran over in her mind.

She recalled the joy of seeing her book in print, but also the sorrow that followed. Almost immediately, in true writer fashion, she considered writing the dream into a short story, but a critic-voice reminded her that there was no market for such a story. Hypatia relaxed and pet the cat, the slow purr began with a low vibration, until it swung into a full melody, filling the room. Pippin poked her head up, a cat-smile on her face.

Not too long after, Perpetua came home from work. Get a lot of writing done? She imagined her inbox might even be full since she last checked it, several hours ago. She was about to get off the couch and power up the computer, when she looked at Pippin, so peaceful and content, her little cat-breath moving up and down in a constant rhythm. Perpetua came and sat down at the end of the couch. And this is all that matters. Wayne W. She revels in old legends and heroes. Subscribers receive quality lists of upcoming deadlines for lit mags and contests, free fiction, and exclusive content regarding writing, craft, and interviews from established authors.

At The Masters Review, our mission is to support emerging writers. We only accept submissions from writers who can benefit from a larger platform. Typically, writers without published novels or story collections, or, publications with low circulation. We publish fiction and nonfiction online year round and put out an annual anthology of the ten best emerging writers in the country, judged by an expert in the field. A man who has become senseless does sometimes not breathe for a long time; his body trembles; his face has a frightful expression; his eyes are staring wide open.

The countenance of a sleeping person, on the other hand, is peaceful, he draws his breath at regular intervals; his eyes are closed, his body does not tremble. A sleeping person again may be waked by a gentle stroking with the hand; a person lying in a swoon not even by a blow with a club. Moreover, senselessness and sleep have different causes; the former is produced by a blow on the head with a club or the like, the latter by weariness.

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Nor, finally, is it the common opinion that stunned or swooning people are asleep. With regard to deep sleep scripture says, 'He becomes united with the True' Ch. IV, 3, 22 ; 'Day and night do not pass that bank, nor old age, death, and grief, neither good nor evil deeds' Ch.

VIII, 4, 1. For the good and evil deeds reach the soul in that way that there arise in it the ideas of being affected by pleasure or pain. Those ideas are absent in deep sleep, but they are likewise absent in the case of a person lying in a swoon; hence we must maintain that, on account of the cessation of the limiting adjuncts, in the case of a senseless person as well as of one asleep, complete union takes place, not only half-union.

In how far it is equal and not equal to sleep has already been shown. It belongs to death in so far as it is the door of death. If there remains unrequited work of the soul, speech and mind return to the senseless person ; if no work remains, breath and warmth depart from him. Therefore those who know Brahman declare a swoon and the like to be a half-union.