Currently residing in Montreal, Quebec, Hunter was born out east in Oakville, Ontario, but grew up in the west, having lived in Calgary, Alberta, for most of her life. After attending Alberta College of Art and Design, Hunter learned how to convey characters and story through artwork, giving her a strong footing in both her style and determination. Her goal is to give people an experience that will resonate with them, stir their emotions, move them in some way and leave them wanting more. Hunter works tirelessly to bring her graphic novels, comics, illustrations and concepts to life, building an online and real-world presence that work in tandem to promote and share her work.
The Siren
Lt. calls this place the Honeycomb. Wish I had thought of that. The Collective Human Consciousness looks exactly like a honeycomb, only an infinite version of one, with a maze of indigo-blue walls that scroll like waves in every direction as far as the eye can see. Each hexagonal cell glimmers softly in the darkness, illuminated by a crystalline coffin at its core—the chamber of a body in stasis.
Lt. says there are 7.9 billion souls all told in here. The entire human entity. He says, “Janie, girl, these are exceptional times we live in. Exceptional times for us to be alive. We’re the ones awake in the Honeycomb. It’s up to us to wake the rest of ’em.”
A deep rumble rolls through the far reaches of the Honeycomb. Energy crackles in the atmosphere. Indiscernible echoes mount through the labyrinthine corridors of air all around me. It’s the sigh of 7.9 billion sleepers trying to wake up.
Hugging the wall, I lace one leg behind the other and inch along the crumbling ledges which compose the outcroppings of the cells. The ledge I’m on now is the width of an elephant’s foot at its widest point and a tightrope wire the rest of the way. It used to scare me, the climb—you could drop freakin’ Everest down the abyss between the walls and it wouldn’t touch them—but now it’s not a problem. I learned forever ago not to carry around weighted thoughts when I climb. Clearing my mind until I drone makes me light enough that I practically float on air. You have to be light to make it all the way to Combat Outpost Phoenix. My cell is a serious long way from there.
Reaching up, I grab the next outcropping. I pull myself onto the ledge of the cell above me and then slide along on my stomach until I have purchase enough to stand.
About time. I recognize the girl in this chamber. She’s my neighbor.
I pause when I realize I’m humming. I might never see this place again, I think, and I have to pay my respects—obsessive-compulsive to the core, I know. The girl in the crystalline chamber in this cell looks like me. At least, she’s what I want to think I look like: wavy auburn hair, swathed in a toga of shimmering gossamer cocoon threads. The onset of adulthood carving a voluptuous figure underneath. Mostly it’s the serene look on her face, like she’s whole, unmolested by the wakefulness that symptomatically infects the lucky few of us in the Honeycomb. Although, I do admit I’ve wanted her to wake up for as long as I can remember being in here, wanted them all to wake up. Thought that was a sin for the longest time. Until Lt. told me to get my head on straight.
My humming morphs into full song as I admire the girl. Why is it that I sing in my head but scream on the outside? It’s so natural for me in here. The peace I feel in the Honeycomb is alarming. I’m calm. Pacified. Yet strangely hollow, like there’s a hole in my belly that can’t be satisfied with food. This is why I have to fight back against the freaks who’ve trapped us all inside our own minds.
I ascend to my cell. I depart through the threshold at the far end. I don’t look back.
Outside the Honeycomb, my feet sink into faintly translucent green grass as thick as St. Augustine and as soft as Bermuda. Ripples move outward from spikes of breeze that hit the grass like pebbles in a pond. This is my glen—well, it’s more like a field. It spans a day’s walk all around, and expires in a mist so thick you can’t see your hand in front of your face. I’ve never dared venture far into that mist. Mere footsteps past the terminus could get me lost, and I know I would never return.
According to the team at COP Phoenix, this is my Unconscious Mind. No one can enter or leave it. Not unless I want them to.
I tread through the grass, singing at random and leaving a trail. I’ve tried to imagine animals and birds in my glen (weird that none show up, because animals like me in real life, and I like them—more than people). Night and day come in procession, and clouds pass through the gateway of the sky, but this is all according to my internal clock. Time is relative, anyway.
Autopilot gets me to the halfway point. A solitary willow tree atop a hill marks it. And it’s past this willow that things get complicated.
The further into my glen I go, the more hyper and agitated I get. The closer to the final gate and my Preconscious Mind, the more calculated and flighty . . .
Oh hell. I’ve split in two.
Yes. And there she is! Darting to my side, then falling behind—darting, falling, darting, falling. My Mirror Image. Always, that stringy hair! Not the kind that goes unwashed for weeks on end, mind you. Just the kind that lays flat. Dull and lifeless no matter how much you brush it. It’s oxidized in the waning light, and it snakes over her shoulders, to her knees, when she squats like a magpie ready to burst into flight between sprints. Ug. Unlike me (thank god), she’s still wearing her nightgown. Embarrassing.
“Janie.” She shakes her head “no.”
God, she’s a twig! Seventeen and skin and bones. How the freak did she get so skinny?
“Janie, don’t do it!”
I’m anger, she’s fear. The song I’m singing crumbles to noise on my lips.
Before me looms the final gate: My Preconscious Mind. At my side, my Mirror Image stops to look up, too; she doesn’t like what she sees and pulls on my sleeve. This final gate is a facsimile of my house from real life: two-storied with Italian-styled brick and vinyl siding, front and rear porticos and columns hidden in ivy. I have to bypass this gate to reach my goal.
But it’s inhabited.
The Grunge. Lt.’s so good at coming up with names. “Don’t know what their right name is,” he usually says. “Don’t frankly care. But I say they’re grungy, the way they get inside you and wear you like a skin. Grungy!” And every time he says that, he shivers. Right down to the core.
There are two Grunge in my house right now. They’ve been there since their kind enslaved us. And I have to make it all the way through my house, from the back door to the front, to bypass them, which I’ve never done before.
The house is sensory overload. It towers against the sky, a clash of colors that radiate out in jagged auras, like an organ of noise. Next to me, my Mirror Image shakes her head, pleading with silent eyes for me not to go in there.
I ignore her. The doorknob is twinkling with silver, gold and olive-colored microdiamonds. Reaching out, I grasp it. And instantly I’m flooded with memory.
Janie, hurry up. We’re going to be late.”
Mom has on that beige suit she likes to sport when she’s trying to take the world by storm. Form-fitting and chic all the way down to her white silk collar. For serious business-use only. She looks like a freakin’ lawyer.
“You’re not even ready yet,” she pesters me. Strolling around the breakfast table, she picks at my nightie, then bounces a lock of my hair in her hand.
“I’m watching the news, Ma. I’ll be ready in a sec.” She’s obscuring my view of the TV and I try to look around her. “Give me a break, anyway. I mean, it’s only my birthday tomorrow. Not like you care.”
Mom taps a foot on the Italian kitchen tile. “I care, Janie. Of course, I care! Why do you think I’m taking time off work to bring you downtown this morning?”
“You’re taking me to the shrink!” I focus on the TV, inhaling cereal.
“She’s a psychiatrist,” Mom corrects me. “And if your school psychologist could get you to stop fight
ing—”
“It’s the seniors, Ma, I don’t like them hazing the freshmen, that’s all. Some of the juniors are in on it too. They just don’t get it.”
“Yes, well, you broke a boy’s nose the other day. His parents are pressing charges.” She’s tapping her foot again. “How do you want to be perceived?”
I get up and dump my cereal bowl in the sink. “Same as always.”
As soon as I’ve showered, brushed my teeth and changed, we drive to the shrink’s office, downtown.
“Hi, Janie,” says the receptionist, whom I’ve never met. “You look nice.”
Yeah, of course I look nice. I’m a carbon copy of my mother, only better. I flash her my most winning smile.
“Dr. Blessbe is still with a patient. If you could have a seat in the lounge, she’ll be with you momentarily.”
“It’s all right. We’re early,” Mom replies.
Early. I roll my eyes. Yeah.
I take a seat in the lounge and change the plasma TV overhead to the news, while my mom flips open a magazine. Gotta get my daily fix of global mayhem, you know. God, it smells like antiseptic in here.
“This is a CNN Special Live Report.” An Asian lady, with perfect makeup and enough hairspray in her curls to kill a skunk, clips onto the screen. Her speech is flawless. Not a single “um.” I roll my eyes again.
A shot of the Antarctic ziggurats blips onscreen.
“Whistleblower archeologist Dr. Jerry Growlinger, one of the researchers involved with Operation Deep Freeze, has died in a car crash today. This sad story comes to us a month after Dr. Growlinger admitted to leaking sensitive information to the media about the National Science Foundation’s excavation of temple ruins under the ice in Antarctica.” The reporter pauses in sync with her teleprompter. “The ruins were discovered by a science team from the Amundsen-Scott Station last year and are said to predate the oldest Mesopotamian and Mesoamerican ziggurats on record.”
More shots of the ziggurats in the ice blip on screen. They’re cut short by a shot of an accident scene, and the reporter talks over the sirens. “Among Dr. Growlinger’s more controversial statements was his claim that the hieroglyphs found in the temples have no known analog in previous scripts. This has since ignited a frenzy of debates in the scientific community, but there is currently no evidence pointing to Growlinger’s untimely death as being anything other than accidental.”
The cameras pan to a yellow-tape area. Then they shoot to a map of Antarctica.
“Oh, is that more of those pyramid thingies they found in Antarctica?” Mom peeks over her magazine.
“Shhh!” I tell her. This is serious. At least the reporter is professional, I think. She doesn’t toss her curls like some of those other bimbos do.
“Dr. Growlinger’s credibility has been under fire since his unprecedented interview last week with investigative journalist Jed Black of ABC News,” continues the reporter. “In the interview, he stated that constituents of the United States Antarctic Program overseeing civilian and scientific operations in Antarctica, including Operation Deep Freeze, and several chairmen of the Trilateral Commission joint-funding the dig, have been contacted by a delegation of, quote, ‘nonhuman entities.’”
Mom snorts and noisily goes back to flipping through her magazine. I don’t care. My eyes are glued to the screen.
“Ray Durmengard of the Trilateral Commission has publicly denounced Growlinger’s allegations of ‘first contact’ as a fabrication and states, ‘Growlinger is an attention-monger who craves the media spotlight and has an axe to grind.’ He left the team over a dispute with paleontologists involving the origin of the hieroglyphs. Currently, Durmengard maintains that the hieroglyphs are pre-Sumerian but not, quote, ‘otherworldly.’”
Once again, the camera pans back to the reporter. “Work on the ruins continues as planned. The excavation team is set to open an inner chamber in the largest of the ziggurats today, known as the Portal Pleroma, or the ‘Doorway of Light.’”
“Janie?” I’m jolted out of my hypnosis. The news has changed to another topic with another perfect reporter. “Dr. Blessbe will see you now,” says the receptionist.
Great. Hooray. I put an extra bounce in my step.
The receptionist ushers my mom and me into the good doctor’s office and the antiseptic smell kowtows to a cloud of old lady’s perfume. I can’t believe it’s the doctor’s; she’s way too young for that. She’s blond and perky and wears a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. She shakes my hand first, then my mother’s, and sits in a leather chair, her burgundy skirt short enough to see China if she uncrosses her legs. This is so cliché.
Dr. Blessbe gestures for my mom and me to take the leather couch across from her. Just in time, I stop myself from blurting, “Should I take the chaise lounge and cross my hands over my heart?” I want this to go smoothly so that I’ll never have to come back here again.
“I understand that you’re having problems at school, Janie,” Dr. Blessbe begins in a honey-sweet voice. “Would you care to tell me about them?”
Would I care? Seriously? Mom gives me a stern look.
“Absolutely,” I respond, nice and smooth. “Only, you see, I think there’s been a misunderstanding. My mother thinks I’m in some kind of denial, when actually, I take full responsibility for my actions.”
Suppressing a squeak, my mother steamrollers over me with a description of my “extracurricular school activities.” It’s just a front. We both know why she’s really dragged me here. Dr. Blessbe starts writing in her notebook.
Is it me, or is it hot and sticky in here?
“Oh, it’s not some kind of vendetta,” I assure the good doctor. I proceed to fill her in on the more intricate points of peer pressure, defending oneself with words before fists, but how sticking up for others in the face of a few black eyes when you’re being press-ganged into the more popular position is sometimes the only other option.
Dr. Blessbe is scribbling furiously now.
She proceeds to ask me the inconsequential details of the fights, then moves on to seemingly innocuous, unrelated stuff. Like my family, my health, my mood now and at different points in time, any “other” extracurricular activities I have, and my obsession with vitamins and supplements. I know it’s a ploy. I answer honestly.
What the good doctor doesn’t know is that she’s twirling her foot. Either a nervous habit or a vain twitch. Well, her shoes are black leather high-heeled boots, with a wide side zip on the inner leg and light gold hardware. The heels are prohibitively high, but the rounded toe makes the boot look more domestic and sensible than dominatrix. Gucci is my guess. Probably a thousand bucks.
I compliment her on them.
Dr. Blessbe doesn’t reply. But I see the slightest smirk in the corner of her mouth.
She doesn’t write anything in her notebook.
“You know, I would say that this whole meeting is a waste of your professional time, Dr. Blessbe,” I comment, “but I’m here for my mother’s sake.”
“Janie!” mom hisses.
The doctor scribbles some more. It’s all mysterious, this psychiatrist stuff, enigmatic and ooh-ooh. I look at my mom, knowing that I’m about to sacrifice her for our own mutual good. I mean, she doesn’t really have the money to be spending on me coming here, even though she likes to pretend she does. Besides, she’s always the one telling me that everything’s for my own good.
“I love my mother,” I tell Dr. Blessbe, sincerely. “She’s a really good mom. She does so much for me.” I lay it on thick: “And I want to thank you for seeing us today. My mom just wants what’s best for me, you know?”
That’s all I say. Mother is horrified.
Dr. “blessed-be” Blessbe smiles.
“Will you excuse us for a moment, Janie?” she says and asks to speak with my mother alone, outside in the hall. They close the door. How stu
pid, like they don’t think I can hear them if I press my ear to the wood?
But it makes me wonder. Have I won? Or have I fallen on my sword? The anxiety creeps up my esophagus.
“I’m so sorry, Dr. Blessbe. She does this at home all the time,” the muffled voice of my mother atones through the grains of wood in the door. “But she’s usually volatile. And impulsive—”
“There’s no need to apologize, Mrs. Syren. Manipulation can be an attribute of several underlying personality disorders . . .” Mumble, mumble. “I’ll need to run a few tests. Janie can fill out a questionnaire . . .” mumble, “will help narrow . . . and rule out coexisting character pathologies and other complications as well. But based on our consultation today, and given your concerns, your daughter may be exhibiting traits of bipolar disorder.”
What? There’s a pause. My mother says something.
“Oh, don’t worry, Mrs. Syren,” replies Dr. Blessbe. “By itself, bipolar disorder is completely treatable.”
There’s something smooth and sticky all over me.
Oh freak, oh freak!
Panic hits me like a seizure and I’m flailing, thrashing, ripping!
I’m out of it. I’m okay. I check all my limbs, my digits. Feel my face. At least the stuff wasn’t wet. Anyway, I’m in my nightie and it’s pristine.
Heaving, I shove the crystalline coffin, with its insulating cocoon, right off the ledge. I don’t hear it hit bottom, but I wait, trying to come to terms with where I am. Okay, I remember going to sleep last night. I remember loathing my mom, Dr. Blessbe, people in general. I remember basking hatefully in how nice it will be in a year when I graduate, because I’ll finally be on my own. Vaguely, I also remember the strange presence in my room as I faded out.
Then it hits me, and I just stare at this place.
Where the freak am I?
Far in the distance, a deep rumble travels like the buildup of thunder through the void just beyond my ledge, and I can swear I see the scintillating cell walls move like living things. Funny, the brief panic I felt waking up is completely gone, replaced by an unpretentious curiosity. If this place is as real as it feels, I should be panicking.