Swimming Electric Blue Water. Samantha Holmes

      

Swimming

      SWIMMING ELECTRIC BLUE WATER

       Stark Raving Group LLC–Publishers

       P.O. Box 1451

       Beverly Hills, CA 90213

       Copyright © 2014 SAMANTHA HOLMES

       First Stark Raving Group edition 2014

       Cover Design and Illustration: William Stout

       Title Treatment: Bob Wynne

       ISBN: 978-1-63052-009-0

       All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission from the publisher, except by reviewers who may quote brief excerpts in connection with a review in a newspaper, magazine or electronic publication; nor may any part of this book be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording , or other, without written permission from the publisher.

       All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

       Electronically printed in the United States of America

       Distributed by Consortium Book Sales and Distribution and Bookxy

      Contents

       Chapter 1

       Chapter 2

       Chapter 3

       Chapter 4

       Chapter 5

       Chapter 6

       About The Author

       Stark Raving Group

      Chapter 1

      White flakes floated down from the homogenous grey sky to join the white blanket covering Velsk, a town north of Moscow. Yuri Konikov liked the snow. It reminded him of when he was a child on his grandparents’ farm. He would sit next to the window, a fresh cup of hot cider warming his hands, watching the snow fall. There he felt wanted, loved. It was a great feeling.

      Today, Yuri did not have time to linger on the memory. He was late for practice. He rushed for the bus, his outstretched hand grabbing the rail as he pushed his way inside. The bus was crowded — always crowded. He couldn’t remember a time when he could sit down.

      The bus’s last stop was by the pool, far from the city’s center. Yuri had made this trip every day for years. He had memorized the buildings and people on the street; they were always the same people. Most of them had family only a few blocks away or rarely, if a relative was estranged, on the other side of town.

      Velsk had everything a town should have: shopping mall, supermarket, movie theaters, and parks, but all were old and decayed. The movie theater was full of stained seats and matted carpeting; the shopping mall housed only a few stores, all struggling to survive in a time when shopping by computer let you avoid the bitter cold. No one had much money in Velsk. If they did, they wouldn’t be there.

      The bus passed billboards flaunting a lifestyle of decadence. Pictures of hovercars and new improved techno-gadgets. A 3-D blond woman, who looked perpetually horny, leaned forward and blew kisses at the dingy town and its gray residences. Her already large chest grew while her expression exaggerated with excitement. Bright neon orange letters read, “Bigger Breasts without Surgery! Financing Available with 0% Interest for a Year. Have a Chest the Universe Wants to Squeeze!” Another billboard showed a handsome man shielding his eyes as he looked at his brilliant shiny red Luxor HoverCraft, bold reflective letters beneath saying, “Want a new home car wash? Deluxe Platinum Polisher washes, waxes, and buffs your vehicle to a blinding shine!”

      Yuri remembered a family that had saved to get its own car wash station with the optional wax and shine cycle. Their neighbors were enthralled by the strange portal, with its robotic arms and moving cloth wheels, that the vehicle would drive through. The envy was short-lived when the electric grid was blown out, and the entire neighborhood went dark for a week. Now, the owner had to go from house to house and ask them to turn off their lights and appliances when he wanted to use his car wash. For the inconvenience, the neighbors expected full use of it, of course.

      The last stop was approaching. Yuri maneuvered himself through the wall of people who had boarded the bus after him. No one said anything as Yuri passed, a shared understanding of mutual disinterest. The door opened, and the line to board waited patiently as the passengers exited the bus. An old woman, bundled in numerous layers of clothes, stared at Yuri as he got off. He caught her gaze and nodded politely. Quick as a cat’s pounce, she grabbed his hand. Instinctively, he tried to pull away, but her grip was stronger than expected, and he didn’t want to hurt her.

      “Do you need some help?”

      For a moment, everything around Yuri faded away except for her intense stare. Her eyes were a pale blue, strong and clear, surrounded by skin that looked like wrinkled crepe paper. As she gazed at him, tears formed and spilled down her cheeks, and her lips drew back as if in pain.

      “I’m sorry for you,” she said in Russian. Her voice had so much grief in it that Yuri was taken aback. She turned away to board the bus and struggled up the steps, pulling heavily on the rail, as if trying to escape him. The door shut behind her with a hiss, and the bus pulled away with a thick choke of smoke.

      She must have mistaken him for someone else. He walked toward the gate of the Russian Alliance Fitness Center. The wet snow fell heavily on him, soaking his old coat. The sky had darkened into a charcoal grey; there was going to be no break today. He looked at his watch, clucked with disappointment at the time, then jogged the rest of the way.

      The pool was outdoors, barely heated in the winter and rarely cleaned in the summer. About twenty men were already swimming laps as three heavily clothed men watched from folding chairs on the far side of the pool. The tallest man saw Yuri running to them and stood up. Yuri smiled with recognition. Grigori always made Yuri smile. He was an odd looking man, with a style meant to attract attention, even if it was bemusement. His long, thin hair merged with an inexact, and rarely flattering, configuration of mutton chop sideburns. A visitor of dumpsters and swap meets, his clothes ranged over forty years of fashion trends. These clashing layers were never meant to occupy the same decade, and the number of layers added even more girth to his already large body.

      “Yuri, this is a bad habit,” he said, tapping his watch.

      “I know, Grigori. My sister needed help getting ready for school.”

      “Lost her socks again?”

      “No, this time her shoes.”

      Grigori matched Yuri’s grin, then gestured to the pool. Yuri shed his clothes down to a tight, bikini-style swimsuit. He was a tall man, over six feet, with a narrow waist that made his shoulders look even broader. Stretching was quick. When he raised his arms straight over his head, he looked like an aerodynamic craft. His skin was smooth, unblemished, and pale, except for his tan back. Yuri still conformed to the tradition of removing most of his own body hair; he would stop if he could ever afford the water cutting body suit that the wealthier swimmers used. After his stretches — in this temperature it was counter-productive — he dove gracefully into a lane. The water cleanly enveloped his body with only a little splash. Here is where Yuri got his energy. The moment he touched the water he felt stronger, faster, at home. His life was always equally split between land and water. He was flying, a feeling that never lost its magic.