Ci is for Cireelia: Book One: The Journey Yet Unknown
Author
Arthur Areyan
Author Bio
Arthur Areyan studied at Brooklyn College (CUNY) where he discovered two passions – Astronomy and writing. It was his professor of Advanced Exposition who asked Arthur to promise him that he will continue to write no matter where life took him. He graduated with honors with degree in Psychology, but chose a different career path. He currently works for a boutique IT consultancy – the company he helped create.
His constant quest to learn more about our world led him to mediation and later his research into the field of the Subconscious. Both are proving to be very positive, eye-opening endeavors. It is meditation that helped him find his path back to his passion – writing.
He enjoys taking sailing lessons from the masters of the craft (his sister and brother-in-law) whenever their busy schedules allow it. He loves growing Heirloom tomatoes that his daughter (a self-proclaimed tomato connoisseur) really enjoys. He is a self-taught carpenter and a product designer. But nothing compares to a wide-field view through his Dobsonian telescope pointed towards the heavens on a darkest of nights.
He works, lives and creates near Princeton, NJ. His daughter’s cat Sammy (a rescued Russian Blue) often accompanies him at (or on) his desk. “The air fresh so smell” is Arthur’s recent expression that makes his daughter smile. Arthur’s dyslexia became apparent at around fifth grade but was never formally diagnosed. It’s through incessant reading of anything that landed into his hands that he overcame this affliction (99% of it).
Through his books’ characters he will continue to share with his readers his passion for the beauty and mystery of our Universe and visions of the prosperous future of the Human Species.
Description
Four years ago Tim’s life changed forever when his father died in a car accident. Almost overnight his laughter and the care-free days became distant memories… What is it called when your life turns inside out or upside down or sideways? When blues are replaced with murky grays and the words of love are replaced with the words that burn, scald and stab?
The only things that his tyrannical step-father can’t take away are his friends, his books and his soaring imagination. A chain of events leads him to a Neuro-Science department of a local University and a simple fMRI brain scan shows Tim a door to a new reality – the reality he’s been dreaming about.
This book is about the search for answers, and the discovery of who you are in light of the events that unfold in front of you. It is about believing in yourself and the image of your future self that you hold on to despite the onslaught of negativity that you are subjected to. It’s about the beauty that a human mind can imagine and create. It’s about faith. And “Faith is the substance of things hoped for; the evidence of things not seen.” (Hebrews 11:1).
And as for Cireelia – it is Humanity’s new home planet. My dear readers will learn more about it in Book Two. In the future time, that Tim briefly visits in Book One, we do survive as the species. We survived our adolescent stage of development and moved past the superficial differences. But one thing remains – over-population and a looming shortage of natural resources including water. But instead of fighting over it or controlling access to it, we, as the People of Planet Earth, put all of our combined efforts into finding an alternative solution. The discovery of Cireelia is a huge part of that solution. Our advances in planetary terra-forming allowed us to make it a habitable planet. Tim’s Father (in the future) is the man who is in charge of coordinating the first voyage of the first thousand or so families to Cireelia.
Join Tim on an amazing adventure of Books One and Two of Ci is for Cireelia. Peek into the future of a modern society, meet incredible alien life and marvel at the bright future of the human race. Pack lightly, all you need is your imagination. Enjoy!
Book excerpt
One summer she sent me away to a sleep-in summer camp. It felt nothing like a summer camp, more like a school for very sad kids. She’d visit me once a week on Fridays, late in the afternoon. On those days nothing else was more important to me than my mother’s visit. Sometimes I couldn’t even eat – just stare in the direction of the gate. I’d wait for her outside the first minute we are allowed onto the playground. The playground was huge with lots of bushes and pine trees. Often times we were left to ourselves as the staff congregated by the benches shaded with an overhang corrugated roof. They knew it was next to impossible to climb a ten-foot chain-link fence. And if kids wandered off, they were quickly found. I’d hide in the bushes by that fence and wait for mother to come up the road and up to the gates. Then she’d ring the bell and I’d run out from the bushes totally blowing my cover and run like crazy yelling Mom, Mom, Mom! Then an attendant would unlock the gates and let her in. I then would embrace he
r torso and she’d hug me back still standing up, with one arm on my back in a reserved you-are-making-a-scene type of hug. I don’t remember her ever kissing me.
She’d spend about thirty minutes chatting with the staff and some time with me. Then she’d already be readying to leave, saying she’d need to catch a train before dark. But I swear I’ve seen his red car parked behind the overgrown bushes. If I pressed my face really hard against that chain link fence I could see a little further down the road.
When she’d leave past the gate, I’d be clinging onto the fence surrounded by the camp staff. I’d keep whispering Mom, Mom, Mom until she’d disappear from view. No force could tear me away from that fence. They tried. The nurse would be called to talk to me. She would use a motherly voice, if that’s what it sounds like. She’d say “Honey” and “I know how you feel” and “She’ll be back before you know it.” I think she meant it because her voice would tremble sometimes and her eyes would look very sad. I’d let go then and hug her around her neck, sobbing on her shoulder. She’d carry me to her office and treat my bruised fingers.
Every Friday afternoon repeated itself like a recording. Except for one Friday when mother did not come. I don’t remember much about that day, except for what that nice nurse told me later. She said that I started breathing very hard when they told me she wasn’t coming and they got really scared for me. They gave me a medicine to help me sleep and I slept for an entire day. Those were the longest two-and-a-half months when a day lasted as long as two stitched together with burlap threads of missing and longing.
Author Website
http://www.amazon.com/Arthur-Areyan/e/B016J1YAMW/ref=dp_byline_cont_ebooks_1
