Another Life: A Sequel to Keeping Sanity

By Garrett Alread

Another Life is Alreads sequel to Keeping Sanity, following the story of Paul Brown through his perception of life. Another Life takes a look at the social inequities we face in contemporary society, how we deal with love, and our choices that determine who we are. Ultimately, Paul will be faced with all this and more as he determines where his life will lead him and how he will get there.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 14, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524500931

Garrett Alread

Garrett Alread is currently living outside of Rochester, New York, and is studying communication and marketing at Houghton College. Garrett is also playing baseball for Houghton and continues to work on his music between piano and guitar.

Book preview

Prologue

Of course I said. It was an easy question; not necessarily meant for me, but it was lobbed up in such an appealing way that I had to impart my opinion upon it. Ah, I see we’re awake now Mr. Brown? He said. Only slightly glancing up from the paper he was quietly marking with his characteristic blue pen. The coffee sir, I said, It helps a bit, as I gestured toward the sleek travel mug with a smirk. Black I presume? The professor said, once again only hinting in the smallest way that he could focus on you and the paper at the same time. I repeated myself in the same manner as before, Of course.

A few soft laughs escaped the other students sitting around the misshapen table of desks that had been assembled in the center of the room. It was a bland room, square, with creaky desks of wood and chairs that had been Thoroughly graced, by former students, as the professor liked to put it. Now Sarah, as Paul so kindly put it- of course. And the professor went on to explain why this and why that and detail in more description than any of us truly needed to grasp the concept. I had once again zoned out during this, one of his typical and slowly digressing rants, or more closely commentaries on a number of shallow topics that could be simply understood by reading the text.

The class: Literary Classics, met Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, in Chamberlain Hall, just past the campus center. Sarah, had obviously not paid even the slightest attention to the meaning of Invisible Man, nor did half the class. They too were attentively focused in on Professor Wiess’ slur of literary terms and occasional chuckles of the students’ obliviousness. I think it was about finding his identity, and Ellison’s need to break from restricted ideas, to be free in a sense, I heard one student saying. That sparked more talk about Ellison and Marxism and the Bourgeoisie and more. It was good, but it was shallow. It was nothing close to the discussions I had assumed would take place. I would rather have the class alone with the professor, but such luxuries I know will not come.

I had taking a liking to Chamberlain. It was the largest building on the immense campus and was home to creative and innovative minds alike. It was sectioned by Wings as we referred to them. The Left wing which most closely faced west was dedicated to the arts and any subdivision of the broad term. Whether it was music, writing, or any other creative expression, you’d find it in the left. Right, was your computer sciences, technological studies or anything you could call a software. But neither of those wings were what made Chamberlain so unique oddly enough. The Back, as it had been dubbed well before my time on campus, was a place for which left and right had no boundaries. The music sweetly played, the flitter of keyboard type perpetuated the air, a place where creation could mean a number of things.

It was a long and open corridor with tall windows and a high ceiling. The carpet was somewhat dull but it had kept its lavish guise on the hall. The beautiful ornate double staircase that stemmed from the center of the small upstairs sitting area had been hand-carved by passing students. It would take more time than any one human had to truly appreciate the expanse of minute details woven into the wood. It would be a lie to say that more than at least a handful of students including myself often tried to do so, however. Large maps hung on the walls facing the turnaround of the staircase that gave the feel of a Victorian Era estate. Sumptuous furniture that watched the hall were scattered around near windows or small plants that lined the concourse. Along with all this, a small but very fitting statue of a pineapple sat roped off underneath the large center of the staircase on full display to the hall.

It was here that creation crept from corners and leapt from the balcony, flowing through the speakers in the ceiling that played striking classical music at all times. The right wing had managed to fund a project to line the great hall with speakers so inspiration was felt in every possible sense. Classical music just so happened to be the only genre of music that was accepted by both parties at the time of the decision. It played constantly, but from where or controlled by whom, I had not the slightest notion of. Maybe that was all part of the beauty. The history and the knowledge that graced its walls could be felt. It was tangible, and it yearned for more minds like the past.

Chapter 1

There are very few things like a heart-to-heart conversation that can make as big an impact, while still being so simple. I could still hear just the way he said it. My father’s intonation on just the right syllable to make you almost lean in while he was talking. Like you would gain extra wisdom by just being close to him. The pauses in the sentence, the sound of his breath, those eyes that drew you in. Deep brown and hazel at just the right times. You could fit the entire galaxy in those eyes, and they would hold the stars. It was as if you could find all the answers to life if you just talked with him enough. That’s just the way that it felt, that was when I was young though.

Maybe that’s part of the reason I talk like I do, because it’s different. The words, the sentences, the conversations just take a new life from my side. I don’t hear the same things from others, I always seem to lose myself somewhere else. There are few people who can hold my attention, and fewer yet who truly make an impact. That’s the challenging part about it. It’s one thing to talk to someone else, it’s entirely another to impact them with your words. My father was one of those people. Every sentence left you grasping for more, just one more word.

Some people are incredible at expressing who they are and what they’re going to do, and they can grab everybody’s interest in a heartbeat. For the most part, they’re the extroverts, the ones who are probably athletic, fun to be around, and laid back. On the other end of the spectrum, you have your introverts. The ones who probably have their nose in a book, quietly talking with their small group of friends, or relaxing with a coffee. Either way, the people at the ends of the spectrum are the ones who have it easy. People who find themselves at either end of this imaginary line probably know why they’re there, and they except it. Extroverts wouldn’t change a thing about themselves, and the introverts are perfectly happy too. But don’t confuse extroverts with obnoxious tools, or introverts