I promised this ages ago, I know, but work has been crazy-busy since then and so writing time has been... lacking. I also picked up a copy of Super Mario Galaxy, which has also cut into my everything-else time.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy reading it.


This is the story of Callie Ann Morris and the choices that she made. Some of them were big, and some of them were small, but there was not one that was insignificant. This chapter shows the first choice she made, the first of many on the way to her surprising destiny.

Miss Morris - Chapter 1

Callie stared at the computer screen, willing the machine to work for her. She felt her eyelids going heavy and the figures in her vision swim. Her head lolled to one side and she almost lost the urge to fight it. Just before the point of no return, the analyst slapped herself in the face a couple of times.

“It’s no good,” she whispered to no-one in particular. She got up from her cubicle and tottered off to the coffee machine on the floor below.

Thin and gaunt though she was, Callie took the stairs. She knew that exercise could help keep you awake, so she crossed the floor – “the bullpit”, as the senior managers called it – to get to the stairs running up the side of the twenty storey building. She clasped the handrail as tight as she could. The young woman trembled her careful way down the stairs, muttering a couple of curses when she stumbled.

Then the coffee machine was in sight. She smiled as if greeting an old friend and drew the coins out of her purse. The apparatus clanked its way through the process, ending with a steaming cup of joe. The analyst grinned, took the plastic cup and downed it in one steaming gulp. She immediately felt something inside her ping back to life.

“That’s more like it!” she thought as she skipped back up the stairs to her cubicle and sat down. The problem was so obvious now: there was a bracket missing from a crucial cell. She put the all-important piece of punctuation in place and grinned as the spreadsheet colourfully righted itself. The young woman pumped her thin fist as she saved the file, already opening up the company’s e-mail program to send her boss the now fully-functional spreadsheet.


The euphoria from that one “Eureka!” moment kept Callie going for the rest of the day and well into the night. She sat on her bed, dressed in a white nightie, playing absently with her thick brown hair. The young woman was surrounded by cans of Red Bull, bottles of Lucozade and cups of coffee that had long since gone mouldy. The panic button registered in her peripheral vision. She turned to face it, considering the tiny red cylinder that may well be all that separated her from a painful death.

It had last time.

She tried not to… but in the end, she couldn’t stop herself recalling what had happened last time she had fallen asleep. A blast of fatigue had taken her by surprise and she’d dropped off with no warning whatsoever. She’d woken quickly – being unable to breathe usually has that effect. Struggling to see, let alone stand, she’d somehow hit the button. Her GP had arranged the system: the button connected directly to the nearest A&E, which would then dispatch an ambulance.

The ambulance crew had found Callie face down on her bedroom floor. She was no longer breathing, they told her. After an emergency tracheotomy, the scar of which Callie still bore, they took her to the Accident & Emergency’s best-equipped ward and fought to save her life. The analyst would always remember the moment she had woken up: it felt like an elephant was sitting on her chest, and her limbs were made of rubber. Her throat was red raw.

Callie started to cry.

Cold, slimy tears oozed down her tired face, past the huge rings around her icy blue eyes that made her look like she’d got two permanent black eyes. The poor woman, with her unique allergy to sleep, had the face of a long-term heroin addict: sunken, fleshless cheeks, with lifeless lips and a weak chin. Her make-up routine masked what it could, but every so often she would catch a little boy, or girl, pointing at her face, and then being scolded by its mother.

The pressure of trying to maintain 24-hour wakefulness had worn Callie’s body down to that of a skinny boy: hipless, bustless, ribs poking out. Any muscle – or even tone – she may once have had had been sacrificed for energy. Precious energy, to keep going, to keep alive, to not be dragged down. She did, though, have the finest nails and best-kept hair you could ever wish to see. It was an odd contradiction.

Raising herself from the bed with quiet sobs and uncontrollable shudders, Callie started to clean her bedroom.


Just after the dawn chorus Callie applied her make-up. She was an expert, having spent many hours practising and experimenting with different regimes. The gentle woman followed this up with spending an hour selecting her outfit for the day, ending up with a cream suit that hadn’t had an airing for a few weeks. Breakfast was a leisurely affair: buttered croissants with a pint of orange juice and a cup of strong coffee.

Only those in management knew about Callie’s condition. It sometimes caused conflict on the floor when it seemed like she was the recipient of extra privileges, so the young analyst went about her business as quietly as she possibly could. She had already been told that there was no chance of promotion at the firm, but she was happy enough there, working with spreadsheets in her sparse cubicle. The pay rose a little above inflation every year, and there was her disability allowance to help tide her over.

Life was a certain kind of sweet for Callie Morris.

As ever, she sat and watched the sun rise. It was this more than anything else that kept Callie going: the majestic sight of the sun shining its light onto everything filled her with warmth; a desire to keep going, despite everything. Grinning happily as the world filled with sparkle, the brunette went downstairs to work on her packed lunch.


The phone at her desk rang. Callie nearly jumped through the roof: it was the first time in her four year tenure at that firm that it had done so. Cautiously, as if it were wired to some kind of explosive, she picked up the receiver.

“Hello?”

“Hello.” The voice, male, was affable, a touch creaky, and with an edge of oiliness – like a game show host who knows that he knows more than you. “Am I speaking to Callie Morris?”

“Yes sir,” the young analyst replied. After a strange pause Callie realised she was expected to carry on talking. “How may I help you?”

“Well, I am interested in your… unique medical condition, Miss Morris,” the man replied. Callie frowned, just as the man laughed. She made to put the receiver down, but the man must have noticed something, as he shouted “WAIT!” The young woman shuddered in shock, but put the phone back to her ear.

“Could you get to the point please sir,” she said. The man cleared his throat.

“Yes. My name is Professor Damien Scitts, Callie. I believe that my team and I have found a, a, a, well, not so much a cure, as such, to your ailment…” There was another pause. “Well, it depends, really. It might go some way to easing your, your, discomfort, I suppose one would call it.” Callie raised an eyebrow.

“I’m listening, Professor,” she whispered. She could practically hear the man nod.

“Very well. We must meet, Miss Morris, to discuss how we might, er, proceed,” he continued. “That would be best.” Callie nodded in agreement before realising.

“I should like that,” she said politely. “Where would be most convenient to you?” Callie heard the professor drum his fingers on something.

“Well, now, if I may be so bold…” he began. “I would like you to visit me at my laboratory.” He paused. “Tonight.” The young woman gasped. “I feel that there is no sense in letting a person in your condition suffer any longer than is necessary,” the professor explained. Callie frowned.

“I’m not so sure about that, Professor,” she retorted. “How can I really trust someone with whom I’ve only had a telephone conversation?” The man gave a rickety laugh, and suddenly Callie felt concerned for his health.

“You’re quite right to point that out, Miss Morris,” the scientist responded. “I should have thought of that.” There was a lengthy pause, during which the man’s breathing became increasingly laboured. He coughed horribly before speaking again. “I tell you what,” he continued, his voice thickened with phlegm, “if my proposition does not, er, er, interest you, I will never get into contact with you again.” Hearing the hesitation, he added, “and you could bring anyone you wish with you.” That got her.

“OK,” the analyst said, after another lengthy pause, “where do we meet?”


The rest of the day passed in a blaze of dullness. The next time she had a free moment, Callie had rung her friend Keith. He was a fitness instructor from the local gym; Callie wasn’t a member – it would waste far too much precious energy – but they had been friends since the age of six. Keith, at six foot three and several pounds of healthy muscle, would be able to protect her if anything went wrong. He was also tanned, and had long, blonde hair. He looked like the stereotypical beach bum, except for his large, gleaming muscles, which he took every opportunity to show off.

Callie used to have a crush on him, but he had grown so big-headed that she had thought better of it years ago. They had remained in touch, and reasonably close. Keith was one of the few people Callie had told of her condition.

So it was that Callie picked up Keith in her battered yellow Citroen a shade after six o’clock. They followed the Professor’s directions to a shabby-looking building deep in one of the city’s maze-like and dirty industrial complexes. The analyst parked on the road nearby, just in case a quick getaway was needed.

“Well,” said Keith, standing beside the car and looking at their surroundings, “I hope this is going to work out for you.” Callie gave him a wry half-smile as she slammed her door closed.

“You’re my muscles, Keith,” she taunted. “If anything goes wrong, it’s up to you to get me out of here.” The fitness instructor flashed his whitened teeth at her, and pulled his arms into a double biceps pose. The white T-shirt he was wearing (despite the bitter October cold) rode up a little, emphasising his strong chest. Callie caught herself before she stared at him.

“I can do that!” he said in his best Hollywood action hero. Lowering his arms, he waited for Callie to walk round the car and join him. Grinning uneasily, she slid her arm around his tight torso. The pair walked into the building: Scitts & Vithell Laboratories. It was a squat red-brick building, which made it stand out amongst the filthy concrete monstrosities surrounding it. Weak sunlight glinted off numerous windows. A pair of glass doors opened automatically as the two approached.

“How nice,” Callie murmured. Keith frowned comically, making his companion laugh. A slight redhead, of similar build to Callie herself, sat at reception. She wore a simple pink blouse and black trousers. A badge identified her as ‘Helen’. “Hi, Helen,” the young brunette began. “My name is Callie Morris. I have an appointment with Professor Scitts.” Helen smiled, a beautiful sight that caught Keith’s eyes too.

“He’s been talking about you for quite a while now,” Helen said, her voice sultrier than Callie had been expecting. Catching herself, the redhead put on a business-like manner. “Who is your friend here?” In the moment’s pause, she added, “Security reasons, you know. There’s a lot of sensitive research going on in this building.”

“This is Keith Hampton,” she said, using both hands to indicate him. “He’s…” She trailed off, realising that maybe it wasn’t a good idea to reveal that Keith was only here to be her bodyguard.

“OK,” Helen said, ignoring the pause, scribbling onto a couple of pieces of paper. She folded them into some empty name-tag holders, and passed them over her desk to the pair. “These are your name-tags,” she continued. “You have to wear these at all times whilst you are in this building.” They nodded. Callie attached hers to the breast pocket of her cream jacket. Keith clipped his to the waistband of his stupidly tight jeans.

“Thank you, Helen,” he said kindly. The redhead – rather unprofessionally, Callie thought – rolled her eyes at her handsome friend.

“Any time,” she smirked. “Professor Scitts’s office is just down the hall to your right. There’s a sign on his door, you can’t miss it.” Callie thanked her politely, and dragged her friend away.

One wall of the corridor Helen had indicated was glass, giving out onto the lawn and the street. Callie couldn’t stop herself checking that her car was still there; it was. The other wall was red-brick with large wooden doors spaced evenly down its length. She opened up and fished around inside her handbag, withdrawing a can of Red Bull. She smiled with relief and drank it almost in one gulp.

“How can you do that?” Keith asked, checking each of the wooden doors he strode past, looking like he was taking it personally when it wasn’t the one he wanted.

“Practice,” Callie replied out of the corner of her mouth, in between huge gulps. She motioned towards one of the doors with the near-empty can. “Here it is,” she announced. “Professor Damien Scitts,” she read, from the plaque on his door. The young analyst knocked on the door timidly. “Professor, it’s me, Callie,” she called, tiny undercurrents of fear playing over her voice. The Professor’s voice boomed back at them.

“Do come in, my dear!” he said, followed by a loud and painful-sounding cough.

The girl opened the door slowly. The first thing that struck her was a wave of heat. As she rounded the door, holding it for Keith, many more things struck her. The Professor was sitting with his back to them at a large desk, the kind you would buy in to put in a study for a film set in the 1930’s, on a deckchair. On top of the desk was a red and white checked tablecloth, and on top of that was a picnic spread the likes of which belonged in a Famous Five novel: a towering plate of cold meat jostled with at least eight different bottles of sauce, and several slices of buttered bread leaned over a selection of salad foods that not even her local supermarket could match. Three dinner plates were stacked neatly on one side, with matching sets of cutlery.

“Ah, my dear, how positively delightful to meet you!” the Professor exclaimed, clasping his hands together as he rose to greet her. “And who is your friend?” Keith brushed past Callie, who was still taking in the vast spread on the table. He pumped the Professor’s hand carefully: not hard enough to harm the obviously older man, but also hard enough to hint that he could exert considerable force… if it became necessary. “Keith Hampton,” he said, grinning. “You must be Professor Scitts.” “That I am, young man,” the scientist replied, nodding gently.

The Professor’s age was difficult to pin down: in certain lights he looked old – maybe seventy – but then again, when he smiled, he could have passed for mid-forties. His silvery hair was slicked straight back with a little wave at the back. His eyes, framed by half-moon glasses, were green. His lined face looked kind, particularly when he smiled, which he did often. He wore a sharp navy blue suit, which he later revealed had been made for him. He was skinny without being skeletal.

Professor Scitts gestured to the empty deckchairs surrounding the desk.

“Please, sit,” he said happily, sitting himself, as if to show them how it was done. “We need to make a start on this food.” He paused. “A sizeable portion of my department’s monthly budget has gone on this meal.” His eyes twinkled as he joined the pair of them, both cautiously taking their seats on the opposite side of the desk-cum-table. The Professor sensed their anxiety as he neatly fixed his napkin to his shirt.

“I assure you that nothing on this table has been tampered with in any way,” he said, adding actions to his words by taking some of everything and eating heartily. Still wary, Callie and Keith started picking at the vast spread. The quality of the food soon won them over, and soon enough they were discussing plans.

“This is not intended to be a solution, as such, Miss Morris,” the Professor said eventually, swirling some orange juice around a plastic cup. “It is intended to be a stopgap, really.” He coughed painfully, covering his mouth with a handkerchief. “Do excuse me,” he smiled when the fit was over. “As I was saying, a stopgap. So that science has more time to find a true solution to your condition.” Callie frowned.

“How will this work?” she asked through a mouthful of ham sandwich. The Professor’s eyes twinkled.

“The plan is to approach the problem from two directions. My team and I have invented a compound that will give you more energy, and also significantly increase the capabilities of your immune system. Thus you will be better able to maintain your punishing twenty-four hour wakefulness and, if you do succumb, better able to fight the effects of your condition.” Callie looked mischievous.

“How will this work?” she asked again. The Professor arched an eyebrow and looked round to Keith. The young man shrugged, unable to follow even what the aged scientist had just said.

“Essentially, we will be providing you with a large boost in testosterone to make you stronger. That will be coupled with, as befits your gender, doses of progesterone and oestrogen. Male and female hormones can cancel each other out, but we believe we have found a way to keep them apart and do their jobs on your body. There’s also the immune system boost I mentioned earlier. We intend for the substance to be taken orally – eaten, in fact.”

“How many doses?”

“We believe four will be sufficient. We’ll monitor everything about your physical condition to make sure that there are no unintended side effects. You will also need to go to the gymnasium regularly to up your strength levels, as there is nothing in the world that will give you muscles without exercise, but I assume Mr. Hampton will be able to help you with that.” Keith nodded.

“Sure.” The Professor looked straight into Callie’s eyes.

“What do you say, Miss Morris?” Callie looked from one to the other, wondering how the future would pan out. Simply, there was no way that she could pass this offer up.

“I’ll do it,” she said, placing her sandwich on her side plate decisively.

Great writing. Nice flow as well. Hope this wonam becomes as big and strong as the words the explain how she got there.

Looks good, good story line and excellent writing skills to back it up

Fonk, what happened to this story?  I hope you've got more where that came from.

Thanks,
AJ