Can We Reach Nirvana?
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Can We Reach Nirvana? - Kimberley S Klein
Can We
Reach Nirvana?
Kimberley S Klein
Copyright © 2022 by Kimberley S Klein.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.
Rev. date: 07/28/2022
Xlibris
844-714-8691
www.Xlibris.com
845317
Dedicated to my niece Kenzie Klein, my mom, Marty Lyon, my sisters Kelley and Kayla, my dog Holly, and my best friend Casey Lane (Penguin Head!)
1.JPGHe
approached his former self crucified up on the wall in chains. And he’s never seen anything look more pathetic.
He’s wearing all black leather, obviously trying to be hardcore, and it nearly makes him heave. Being chained up like some demented scarecrow is probably the best thing in the world for a wimp like him(self). He sniffed his own boot, then sneezed reproachfully with narrowed eyes squinting up at his face hidden in shadow.
A raven landed on the outstretched arm to the right, because of course it did. It peered down at him, though he wasn’t sure how since the ugly thing was blind.
What do art thou seek?
It asked in a croaky voice. He shouldn’t have been surprised at this but he was. And yet wasn’t.
Nothing in particular. Why do you need to ask?
He was more surprised when those words came out of his very lupine mouth. He shouldn’t have been able to do that…
More crows and ravens were flying in, landing in an oval around him, surrounding him; all asking the same question:
"What do art thou seek? What do art thou seek? What do art thou seek? WhAt Do ArT tHoU sEeK? WHAT DO ART THOU SEEK?"
Well, now he was seeking a way out. His huge paws were slipping out from under him as he tried to backpedal away from them all and their unseeing stares.
I-I don’t know how to answer that question… Leave me alone!
He spun around but they were there, too. They were all around. And even more were coming, cawing like broken alarms taped over his sensitive ears.
WhAt Do ArT tHoU sEeK? WHAT ART THOU SEEK?
Then night fell.
#
He awoke wet and strongly stinking of beer. It made his overly-sensitive nose wrinkle. Even in person form he could smell the bitterness just fine and taste it on the back of his tongue as if he had taken a swig…
You whimper in your sleep. It’s quite cute, lad,
The British accent was annoyingly strong and had humor strung all through it like silk lace. The man to whom it belonged was basically built on laughter and booze from the bones out and wore black everything to put out the air that his skinny ass rightfully owned the world. Certainly, the patches of sleepless nights under his drooping eyes weren’t just dark, they were black; though, he masterfully managed to pass it off as the ever popular ‘guyliner .’
Raymond Trebeau scowled and shook the alcohol off that was way, too reminiscent of a dog, hoping he achieved in getting some of it all over Marston Hayes. He didn’t say anything to Mars afterwards, just grabbed his leather duster jacket off the bar – the exact one he had been wearing in his nightmare, he briefly acknowledged – and then made to head out the door. He heard the rumble of Marston’s growl behind him.
"Well, fuck you, too, Ray, He bitched shaking the pile of jet black curls atop his head to rid it of liquid.
I had assumed you’d want to be woken since your so bloody insecure about your wolf. Oh, and by the way, you forgot your keys in your rush to leave me for a fool. Ray stopped and looked over his shoulder, groaning under his breath when he saw Mars had told the truth and he turned on his heel to come back and retrieve them. His lips tightened in a line when Marston, continuing to be
helpful," pushed the set to slide jangling towards him so he wouldn’t have to walk the rest of the way.
"I’m not your pup, Mars. You don’t need to fawn over me. I’ll handle things how I like to," Ray groused, heavy brow furrowed over soul-eating blue eyes and his own rough American accent making him sound petulant as he watched his fingers of his left-hand curl over the keys to pick them up. Mars clucked in mock disapproval.
"Tut, tut, mate! Whoever said I gave a rat’s ass about what happens to you? I just care about whether our pack is –"
"Your pack." Ray was staunch that he wasn’t having any part of that.
Mars blinked, but let the comment disappear out of site and out of mind. " – the pack stays safe at all times. You insist so much, though, about not letting anyone find out your real self –
The asshole actually made air quotes when he did this. —that I would think what I just did would tickle you pink!
Mars reached into the inky recesses of his jacket just then and emerged with a pack of a gross, off-brand cigs, lighting up quickly. The bartender behind the old-fashioned wooden counter, tall, rotund but not fat, bald on top except for the gray stubble around his ears that matched that enclosing his mouth and chin and wearing a surprising clean gray shirt and jeans with stained brown construction worker’s boots, leaned across to the Brit now surrounded by a thick cloud of nicotine smoke.
Hey, Mars, you can’t do that in here during the day. Delicate constitutions of the hipsters these days, you know.
He told him in a very even tone for such a large specimen. Mars gave him a narrowed side-glance, Ray noting even from where he stood that his sclera had turned blood red and irises yellow – though definitely not from the cigarettes – before lashing out at the guy.
"Oh, you must be fucking joking, mate! It’s a bar, for Christ’s sake! And we’re the regulars here! You own this place, Malcom, give those upstart, little bleeders an arseful of teeth if they get all whiny and shit." His voice garbled a bit from speaking around the cig, but he was loud and stern as someone in his position should be. He paused, however, taken aback a little when Malcom growled low in his throat, eyes also burning a flashing orange.
I don’t make the rules about political correctness here, Mars. And like you just said, we have to keep up appearances. If the media says smoking is bad, smoking is bad. Got it?
Malcom had become gravelly, unknowingly undermining authority. He only got to enjoy it a couple seconds more, though, before Mars’s thin lips rapidly extended into a black maw full of teeth, snapping at the bartender so that he had to quickly step back, his growl downgrading to a whimper. Mars’s face hurriedly returned to normal once his power was reasserted as if nothing happened and he nonchalantly took another drag of the cigarette he’d popped back into his mouth. The silence that followed was enough to choke a beast. The rest of the pack huddled at their tables and pretended nothing was happening.
"Talk to me like that again and I won’t hold back from ripping your throat out next time. Then we’ll see whose talkin’ of keeping cover