Messenger: A Novel in 16 Episodes

Elizabeth Keller Whitehurst
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MESSENGER is the story of a mysterious old woman who delivers life-changing messages to seemingly random people all over New York City and Alana, a young journalist determined to uncover Messenger’s story. In the surprise ending, Alana discovers the true meaning of their journey together. You can find the complete text of each episode, Questions to Ponder and show credits in the episode description.

  1. EPISODE 1

    Episode 1: Alana Searches for Messenger

    “You know that message you’ve been waiting for your whole life, as long as you can remember? You’ve looked for it in the mail, e-mail, text, letter, in every book or magazine you’ve ever read. On billboards. In other’s faces. I bring that message.”  --Messenger Can one message change a life? A city? The world? MESSENGER is the story of a mysterious old woman who delivers life-changing messages to seemingly random people all over New York City and Alana, a young journalist determined to uncover Messenger’s story. In the surprise ending, Alana discovers the true meaning of their journey together.   Dear Reader/Listener: The seeds of MESSENGER began in 2013, when, during a time of great need, I begged for a message, for the answer to an overwhelming problem. Now, in 2020, with all the challenges we face together, MESSENGER’s time has come.  I hope you’ll enjoy entering Messenger’s world each week, when you’ll find a new episode of MESSENGER to listen to and/or to read the complete transcript here. May you find comfort, hope, perspective, motivation and inspiration, and may you receive the message you need most.  Blessings, Liz Keller Whitehurst   Credits/Contacts Author: Liz Keller Whitehurst: messengerthenovel@gmail.comFor inquiries about MESSENGER or rights queries,  contact April Eberhardt: april@aprileberhardt.comBook editor: Annie Tucker: annietucker@gmail.comPodcast design/social media: Brandon O’Neill: oneillcreativeco.comAudio production and voice artist: Rachel Pater: richmondstoryhouse.orgOriginal music and sound direction: Wells Hanley: wellshanley@gmail.comRecording and audio editing: Lance Koehler: minimumwagerecording.comSpecial thanks to Wilson, Joy, Audrey and April  Find Us Online  Website: messengerthenovel.comFacebook: facebook.com/messengerthenovelInstagram: instagram.com/messengerthenovelTwitter: twitter.com/messenger_novel  Questions to Ponder What do you make of Messenger’s Composition Book entry, which begins this episode?Have you ever received a message from an unexpected source?Why do you think Alana is so certain that Messenger and her story are the big break she’s been looking for?The Flower Lady is another mysterious character in this episode. What role do you think she’ll play?  --------------------------------- Episode 1 Complete Text  📖  (Click here to access the PDF) ---------------------------------   MESSENGER’S COMPOSITION BOOK:   Call me Messenger. Don’t be afraid. Don’t be anxious or worried. Everything’s gonna be okay. You want to know, know, know. Want me to write it all down. Well, I like to write. Ooooh, I love this notebook! Lots of clean, blank pages. They smell so good. You think you’re pinning me down, Honey, but you’re in for a surprise. Everybody is. Oh, well. If it’ll make you happy. Here goes.              You want to understand what’s going on here—what I’ve been trying to do? You know how in books or stories writers will use lots of symbols instead of saying what they really mean? Something stands for something else? Well, this won’t be like that. I’m going to tell you what’s what. Now don’t expect too much. This is just a smidgen of it. Look, you can’t figure it all out, no matter how hard you try. Let’s just say the swerve’s a hint—a wink—a little nudge along the right path.             This is how it’s done: You wait and wait. You won’t know it’s coming. You wake up one morning. It’s sunny or it’s cloudy. You get up early or snooze for a while. Doesn’t matter. It’ll seem like any other day. What I mean is, you will have no idea anything’s about to happen to you. That, just around the corner, on your way to work or to the store, the message will come. You’ll realize everything that’s happened in your life—whether you ate Lucky Charms or Fruit Loops every morning for five years as a child, whether you like blue, whether you’re right or left-handed—every single thing you’ve ever done or thought or experienced will come into play.              You might feel happy or elated or afraid or terrified or cry or laugh or scream. Doesn’t matter. It’s like having a baby. Ready or not . . . here it comes. And it’s yours now—forever. So, if you’re smart, tuned in or whatever you want to call it, you’ll watch for it all the time. You know the end of the story, even if you don’t know the particulars. Or the big “W”—when.             No matter how much you wish for it, or want to get it over with, depending on your temperament, doesn’t matter. Until the time is right, no amount of fretting or sweating will make it come. So, don’t begin that game at all. Your message will arrive when it’s good and ready.              Okay—let’s put it another way. You know that message everybody’s been waiting for their whole life, as long as they can remember? They’ve looked for it in the mail, e-mail, text, letter, in every book or magazine they’ve ever read. On billboards. In others’ faces.              Well, I bring that message. That’s my job. It’s up to me. That’s why I came. It comes through me for you. When you least expect it, when you give up and stop looking, that’s when you’ll get it. It’ll explain everything, answer those questions that wake you up in the night in a cold sweat, turning, longing, watching the hours tick by. So, here you go.    SIX MONTHS EARLIER THIS IS WHAT STARTED IT ALL ALANA’S NOTEBOOK:   Transcript of video MARTY posted about his encounter with Messenger.             Lots of people have replied to the photo I posted of the mystery woman who gave me a message. They want to hear my story. Okay, so here goes.             I’m heading to work, see? It’s a perfectly ordinary day. I know because when I think back, try to put it all together (like when you drop a glass and it breaks, you better find all the pieces, or you’ll step on a slice barefoot in the night), I couldn’t find anything—no warning. No tip-off. No clue. Nothing.             Nothing’s on my mind that day—just tired. Dreading work. All my problems plucking my nerves. Money, my parents’ bad health, my wife’s mad at me again. My hair’s definitely falling out. Every day—more hair in the shower drain. Kid’s failing algebra for the second time, dog keeps peeing in the same places in our tiny patch of lawn. All these dead circles of grass staring up at me. The usual.             I get out of the car and hurry down the street and there she is. This woman. We’d call her a bag-lady back in the day. I don’t really pay attention to her—too much else going on all around—people, noise. Listening to that God-awful bing on my phone telling me I’ve racked up a hundred new e-mails to read when I get to work. So, I’m about to pass her without really seeing her. You know, I try my best not to make eye-contact with these people—give them a little privacy in their shame.              So, I jump when I feel her touch me. I’m shocked and then, like they say—electricity. She hands me something. I feel my hand clutch it. It’s just a dirty piece of paper. Okay, I figure—must be one of those things they give you in exchange for money—flyer, newspaper, whatever. But it isn’t.             At first, I shove it in my overcoat pocket till I get to the next wastebasket. I pull my hand out, ready to drop it in, still not paying attention, until my eyes rest on the words. It’s not a copied, printed thing. It’s handwritten. And for some reason, I start thinking how you don’t see that anymore. Everything’s printed, copied—or not on paper at all. So, it wasn’t the words, at first. I didn’t focus on them. It was the curiosity that a message—no—a note—handwritten—does for you. Your heart leaps somehow. You can’t keep from wondering—Is this it? Is this the one?             So, I finally read it. And when I do—how can I tell you—it’s like time stops—like all those moments in life. When the doctor calls, “It isn’t cancer.” Or the car door slams late in the dark night, when your daughter’s late coming home. Or your wife’s text: “I still love you.” Those moments are really very short but take up a lot of room in a lifetime.              This was one of those. Not long. Not profound. TAKE A CHANCE. FOLLOW YOUR DREAMS. I know it doesn’t sound life-changing or earth-shattering. But listen. Really. It is. I was making some big decisions in my life at that time. After I got the message, everything reconfigured for me. It lightened me up. Reminded me of who I am. It was just what I needed.             So, what do I do? Well, quite naturally, I go back. I want to find her and thank her and ask where all this is coming from. Like, where’s she getting it? Who’s sending it? It’s obviously not from her. I go back to the exact same spot near the wastebasket, in front of the chicken place on 11th.             But she’s gone. Completely. Without a trace. I walk around the block, look everywhere. Nothing. I even go into the chicken place to ask if they’ve seen her. “Ah—yeah. Old? Red cap? We’re always chasing her off,” the young kid, his polyester uniform too big, awful acne, says. Then looks at me like I must be crazy.             Well, I don’t give up easy. I keep walking those streets, determined to find her, to figure out what gives. Finally, way down First Avenue, I catch a glimpse of her red cap. I run towards her, stop and snap a really bad photo through the crowd. When I pull my phone back down, she’s gone. I don’t know if she turned down a street or disappeared into thin air. The photo I got is terrible, but it at least captures something about her.

    34 min

  2. EPISODE 2

    Episode 2: Alana and Messenger Finally Meet

    MESSENGER A novel in 16 episodes By Liz Keller Whitehurst Read by Rachel Pater   Credits/Contacts Author: Liz Keller Whitehurst: messengerthenovel@gmail.comFor inquiries about MESSENGER or rights queries,  contact April Eberhardt: april@aprileberhardt.comBook editor: Annie Tucker: annietucker@gmail.comPodcast design/social media: Brandon O’Neill: oneillcreativeco.comAudio production and voice artist: Rachel Pater: richmondstoryhouse.orgOriginal music and sound direction: Wells Hanley: wellshanley@gmail.comRecording and audio editing: Lance Koehler: minimumwagerecording.comSpecial thanks to Wilson, Joy, Audrey and April  Find Us Online  Website: messengerthenovel.comFacebook: facebook.com/messengerthenovelInstagram: instagram.com/messengerthenovelTwitter: twitter.com/messenger_novel  Questions to Ponder In “Messenger Starts Something” it seems that Messenger was also looking for Alana. Why?What “hard spots” do you detect in Alana?What are the mysterious/unexplained aspects of the story thus far? What are you curious about?After learning more about Messenger, what do you think she’s up to? What is her aim?  --------------------------------- Episode 2 Complete Text  📖  (Click here to access the PDF) ---------------------------------   ALANA AND MESSENGER FINALLY MEET   One week later, Alana finally found her.              It was a bright, clear fall day. She was sitting on the third stool from the left at the long table at Ed’s Starbucks on 3rd Street and First Ave. Alana had just planned to go in for a coffee and to see if Ed would tell her any more, before she hit the streets to search. Ed wasn’t busy and since there was no line in front of her, she’d ordered before she’d even looked around the shop.              When she turned, Alana saw her for the first time. She sat with bags scattered around her, that red stocking cap pulled down over her ears. Her body poured over the sides of the short stool. Her heavy coat (or coats) couldn’t hide the heft they held.              After weeks of playing Hide and Seek, following lead after lead, all leading up to this moment, Alana shivered all over, something she’d always done in intense moments. Trying to still her chattering teeth, she inched across the room very slowly, as you’d approach a stray dog or a scared child you’re afraid might bolt. On her way, Alana caught Ed out of the corner of her eye. He made eye-contact with the woman, then nodded in Alana’s direction.             “Hello? Excuse me, hello?” Alana sputtered. All the rehearsal she’d done in her head, anticipating this moment, left her. She waded through her bags to stand beside the woman’s stool. Alana’s heart pounded out of her chest. Surely everybody in the coffee shop must hear it, too.             The woman turned slowly, and their eyes met. Her eyes were amber, like many had reported, but shone so bright, with flecks of gold in them, they dazzled. She held Alana’s gaze for the longest time, like she could see things there Alana didn’t even know about. It both scared her and made her feel safe at the same time. She didn’t want her to stop looking. Finally, after so much waiting and searching, Alana had her full attention.             Then, she smiled at Alana. All her wrinkles fell into place as if that’s where they belonged and opened her face, so she looked like a child.Something in her eyes, her smile, made Alana sense Messenger had been waiting for her, too, had expected her to show up today. Was glad to see her, even. Had she planned to finally allow Alana to find her? Had Ed or the Flower Lady tipped her off? Or was it a deeper knowing? It really felt like they’d already met many times before. Like she knew her. But that was impossible.             “Hello,” Alana said again. “I’ve been looking for you.”             “Uh-huh. That’s what I hear.”             “I’m Alana Peterson. I know you.”             “Oh, you do, do you?”             “I mean, I know about what you’ve been doing for people. Aren’t you the person giving out messages?”              She didn’t answer.             “Could we talk a little? Can I buy you a coffee?”             “Ed gives me coffee for free.”             “Oh, that’s so nice of him. Listen, I’m really interested in you. In the messages, I mean. I made this blog. I’ve interviewed some of the people you gave messages to. It’s all incredible. Could I ask you a few questions? Would that be okay?” Alana talked faster as she went.             “Why?”             “Well, you’ve been doing this for a long time, it seems, but nobody’s reported about you, so I want to write a story about you and the messages. Would you agree to that?”             “About me? Why?”             Alana hadn’t expected all these questions. “I just think what you’re doing is fascinating and significant. You know—life-changing. For the people who get the messages, that is.” Lame, lame, lame! Alana felt like she was failing a test. She chewed her cuticles and waited.             The lady smiled again and Alana noticed she was missing some teeth in the back. “Sure, Baby. We can talk. But not right now. I got to go.” She stood up and gathered her bags.             “Wait!” Alana shrieked. She couldn’t leave now. “Do you really have to?”             “I do.”             “But how will I find you again? I’ve been looking for so long already.”             The woman threw her head back and laughed, as if Alana had told the funniest joke ever.              Alana tried again. “Please wait. Can I come along with you so we can talk?”             “Not today. Thanks, Ed,” she called to him. He waved to her and nodded to Alana.             Alana couldn’t believe this was happening. The woman was headed to the door—getting away. “Please wait,” she called. “I don’t even know your name.”             “You don’t happen to have any chocolates on you? Those ones wrapped in red foil? I dearly love them.”             “No, but I can get some.”             “You can find them at the Rite Aid.” She turned and smiled. Paused a beat, as if deciding whether or not to say more. “You can call me Messenger,” she added, over her shoulder. “Bye-bye.”   MESSENGER STARTS SOMETHING   I finally found her, Messenger thought. She slowly walked down First Avenue a few blocks, then turned onto Fifth Street. She’d sensed the girl’s presence for some time now, felt her energy draw closer. She had to smile when she watched her walk into Ed’s. A smile of releasing. Her own plan to shake things up was set in motion. She would accomplish it through this girl and nothing would ever be the same again. Her life-task would be fulfilled.              Did she have the strength, after all these years? The power to create her own swerve? Was the girl really the one? Yes. Those beautiful, bright eyes! It was the first thing she’d noticed. Those deep brown eyes that went on forever. Just like her daughter’s eyes, she remembered. Now, that wasn’t what this was about. That didn’t enter in. But the fact she’d even register this synchronicity showed her it was time.              Messenger sat on her favorite bench by the fence along the black asphalt playground. The school building was rundown and the paintings on the asphalt, including a map of the U.S. and a mysterious bulls-eye, faded and peeling. This girl was very young, Messenger had to admit. But that’s what we need. We can’t keep doing things the old way. It’s time now. Everything seems to say so. Messenger could read the signs. Clear as the nose on your face, she thought. No more secrets. What’s the use with these young ones? Their brains are already different from ours. Evolved. More evolved ones coming in all the time. They can’t remember not being connected in this new way. They know things on a level we had to work hard to come by.             Granted, she felt some hard spots in this girl that needed releasing, but nothing she couldn’t handle. No, Messenger thought. I’ve seen worse. Well then, Let ‘er rip! It has to happen, she thought, sorting through her stash of paper, as a new message welled up from inside her. I’ll just help things along a little. She giggled. What’s the worst thing the Watchers can do to me for breaking the rules? She wasn’t sure. It would be bad, she knew. The Watchers were probably already on it—sensing what Messenger had in mind. They would know. She had to move quickly.    TALE OF THE WHALE   That evening, Alana stood by the door at Tale of the Whale, where she hostessed a couple of nights a week. She’d worked there ever since she’d moved to the city. Her best friend, Mary’s apartment-mate was leaving NYC for a new job, so she’d connected Alana with Gus, the owner and manager of Tale of the Whale. Gus, desperate, had hired Alana on the spot. And Alana knew her inheritance from her mom wouldn’t last forever. Grueling as it was, her hostessing gig helped keep her afloat. Decorated with old fishing paraphernalia, crab pots, buoys, fishing nets, Tale of the Whale was supposed to look like a seafood shack you’d find in any beach town. It was okay food at an okay price and had been an okay side gig for Alana. Gus also gave her and the waitstaff a free meal, another plus.              Between waiting for new customers, Alana filled the water glasses of the few guests they had and planned her strategy. She had to admit, after all her

    37 min

  3. EPISODE 3

    Episode 3: Alana Gets Some Answers

    MESSENGER A novel in 16 episodes By Liz Keller Whitehurst Read by Rachel Pater   Have you ever received a message from an unexpected source? What message would you like to receive—or give? We want to hear your reports and observations and to collect any messages you'd like to share. Send us an email at messengerthenovel@gmail.com, and you can see some that we’ve already received on our social media pages.  We look forward to hearing from you!   Larry’s message: Four months after my wife died, I was discussing going to Paris with dear friends. But I felt guilty about traveling without my wife. The next morning when I got out of bed, I stepped on something small and hard. It was a sterling-silver charm from her bracelet. And not just any charm. It was the Eiffel Tower! I believe it was a message from my wife. “Bon Voyage!”  -Larry K.   Credits/Contacts Author: Liz Keller Whitehurst: messengerthenovel@gmail.comFor inquiries about MESSENGER or rights queries,  contact April Eberhardt: april@aprileberhardt.comBook editor: Annie Tucker: annietucker@gmail.comPodcast design/social media: Brandon O’Neill: oneillcreativeco.comAudio production and voice artist: Rachel Pater: richmondstoryhouse.orgOriginal music and sound direction: Wells Hanley: wellshanley@gmail.comRecording and audio editing: Lance Koehler: minimumwagerecording.comSpecial thanks to Wilson, Joy, Audrey and April  Find Us Online  Website: messengerthenovel.comFacebook: facebook.com/messengerthenovelInstagram: instagram.com/messengerthenovelTwitter: twitter.com/messenger_novel  Questions to Ponder Have you ever experienced “the Beat,” as Messenger describes it, or “the Flow” as Alana does?Alana throws herself wholeheartedly into this project. What risks does Alana face? Have you had a time in your life when you thought taking a risk, even a longshot, was justified? How did it work out?Very different people with very different circumstances post about their messages. Do you notice any common threads?Describe the developing relationship between Alana and Messenger. Have you had a similar one? Were you Alana or were you Messenger?  --------------------------------- Episode 3 Complete Text  📖  (Click here to access the PDF) ---------------------------------   Posts continued to pour in on Alana’s blog. POST: JEFF   I quit. I was sick and tired of giving. Of taking the blame for everything wrong in the world. Of taking the fall for a God I was positive did NOT exist—not as my parishioners saw him, anyway. And yes, I do mean Him. A black-and-white, easy-answer, glib-reply, clear-explanations-for-everything-God. I was tired of taking responsibility for this Monster, whom people had created in their need for answers, justifications, for order. Who punished evil-doers with natural disasters of all kinds, infant death, cancer, plagues, AIDS, incest, any other trial or disappointment. You name it and they call it His Will. Gruesome.             I was also really tired of voicing doubts in the whole system and being met, at best, with blank faces, at worst, with whispers and dirty looks, passive aggression (“Don’t you think you should dress a little more professionally? And that hair!”). Maybe I could have gone on, carried all these projections, all this grief, all these expectations for a while longer before I self-destructed. But the last straw was when this intolerance for doubt extended to the youth of the church and I was asked to step in and do something. The problem was: I was on their side. The way it seemed to me, they acted a lot more grown-up than their parents or the elders of the church.              That was the problem—at least my diagnosis of it. Growing up. Nobody wanted to do it anymore. They wanted God to be Daddy—not like the daddy they’d got but a really good, nice Daddy perfectly attuned to them who predicted their wants and needs before they did and granted all their wishes. He’d say, “Yes!” to everything. He would understand everything and never, ever let anything bad happen to them. It was okay if bad things happened to somebody else, but not them. Daddy would fix everything for them and punish anyone who dared do the least thing against them, while he would never hold them accountable for anything.             This would be just dandy but it’s so far from the truth as I’ve experienced it, with parents when a son comes out of the closet, or an aging parent is wasting away in pain, or a spouse just drops dead one morning over coffee. Or a house burns to the ground, leaving nothing behind. Where was Daddy when they needed Him? Off fishing or playing golf? Where?             So, I finally stopped a minute. Well, to be completely honest, for a month. I took a leave of absence to “discern and prayerfully consider” what to do next because I was absolutely done.             Then, on my first week back, a young couple from the church, who had tried forever to get pregnant—all sorts of tests and invasive procedures and finally—yes! She was pregnant and everything was going well. So we thought. I’m not a doctor and don’t know who dropped the ball, but in the course of delivery, the umbilical cord wrapped itself around the baby’s neck several times. She was a big baby and she strangled before the doctors realized the trouble. She had to be delivered just as if she was alive.              The couple, dark circles so deep around their eyes, they both looked like they’d been punched, which they had, called me into the hospital.              “What do we do now?” the young dad asked me, his eyes wild like a spooked horse. The young mother was struck mute from shock and sorrow.              I embraced the dad—held him close as I would a son. But I had no words.              He pulled away, angry. “You’re a priest but you have no answers here? Nothing? You got nothing?”             I had no words for that lovely young man and his wife, no meaning, only silence in the face of a tragedy, the worst gift I could have given them.             The young mother found her voice. “Get out of here,” she told me.              So, I was walking down the street, heading to the Diocesan Office to quit. Yes, you can quit being a priest. They don’t make it easy on you, but it can be done. I heard this weird humming behind me that sounded other-worldly, or like some witch. A chill ran up my spine and I turned to see a rough-looking old lady in a red stocking cap. My eyes met her amber ones. She didn’t say a word, just handed me a slip of paper then walked off down the street. I didn’t know what to make of her or of any of it until I looked down and read the message. WE NEED YOU TO HOLD YOUR POST.   POST: ELAINE Where to begin? Well, I guess I’ve always been a seeker—since Day One. I don’t know why. I was always trying to figure everything out, to make sense of this crazy planet we find ourselves on. My energy worker tells me I need to relax my third eye between my eyebrows—let it fall back and rest. But how, when we’re in such mess? Maybe being an Aries, too, has something to do with it. I’m always in my head. Anyway, I kept noticing this old lady in different places all over the neighborhood. A coffeeshop. A park bench. The street. The bookstore. I didn’t think much of it, just noticed. She could have been homeless, but she didn’t seem out of it like most of them did.              Anyway, I smiled at her one day when our eyes met across the coffee shop. She winked at me, like she knew me, or we both knew something everybody else didn’t. I glanced around the room to see if anyone else noticed, but no.              I looked back and she stared at me—still smiling. I immediately cut my eyes away, then back down at my magazine. When I looked up again, after an acceptable time, she was walking over. Oh, shoot! I thought. Here we go. She wants money. Should I jump up and leave? Pretend I don’t see her?              Before I’d decided, she’d put a hand on my shoulder. It felt so warm and substantial, steady, like it could hold me firmly on the earth in a way I hadn’t been held before. I raised my head and looked into her face. Her sparkling, deep eyes were clear amber but rimmed in white. “Here, Baby,” she whispered. “This is for you. It’s what you’ve been looking for.” She handed me a scrap of old notebook paper. The lines were blurry, like something had spilled on it. “Take it.”             I stuffed it in my jacket pocket, jumped up and ran out, left my magazine and a half-drunk coffee. I even bumped into this guy checking his phone. I had to get out of there. Then my boss called with a question and I listened to a voicemail from my niece, read a text from a friend I was supposed to meet later. I walked along the sidewalk, really felt the cement beneath my boots for a change, calming my pace, tried to breathe. I felt that paper in my pocket, even though both hands hung by my sides. I wanted to reach in, grab it quickly and drop it on the ground without another glance.              I thought about that lady, the way she hobbled over, as if that short journey cost her energy she didn’t have. The last joint of her index finger twisted out at a right angle from the rest. Her nails were chipped and dirty, with traces of red polish. Why had she given the paper to me, anyway? I was a stranger.              I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t just drop the paper but, for some reason, I couldn’t make myself read it either. I never read comments teachers wrote on my papers, whether good or bad. Something in me couldn’t bear the scrutiny, as if my nerves would snap—like the string that flipped back and blinded my vio

    33 min

  4. EPISODE 4

    Episode 4: Messenger Receives a Message

    We’re looking for your stories of receiving a message from an unexpected source. Or, can you tell us what message would you like to receive—or give? We want to hear your stories - long or short, profound or pedestrian, and to collect any messages you'd like to share. Send us an email at messengerthenovel@gmail.com, and you can see some that we’ve already received on our social media pages.  We look forward to hearing from you!   M's Message: I sat in a class as the first words out of the professor’s mouth were: “There is an artist within each of us. The purpose of this class is for you to find that creative spirit within you.” His words rolled over me and moved me to the core. By that fall, I’d signed up for my first photography workshop and was on my way. The message from the professor changed my entire life.   -M.N.   Credits/Contacts Author: Liz Keller Whitehurst: messengerthenovel@gmail.comFor inquiries about MESSENGER or rights queries,  contact April Eberhardt: april@aprileberhardt.comBook editor: Annie Tucker: annietucker@gmail.comPodcast design/social media: Brandon O’Neill: oneillcreativeco.comAudio production and voice artist: Rachel Pater: richmondstoryhouse.orgOriginal music and sound direction: Wells Hanley: wellshanley@gmail.comRecording and audio editing: Lance Koehler: minimumwagerecording.comSpecial thanks to Wilson, Joy, Audrey and April  Find Us Online  Website: messengerthenovel.comFacebook: facebook.com/messengerthenovelInstagram: instagram.com/messengerthenovelTwitter: twitter.com/messenger_novel  Questions to Ponder Were you surprised to learn Messenger has/had a daughter? How does this revelation shift your sense of who Messenger is?What’s going on between Alana and Ed?What’s the swerve Messenger discusses? Could this be part of a larger purpose to the individual messages?  --------------------------------- Episode 4 Complete Text  📖  (Click here to access the PDF) ---------------------------------   MESSENGER RECEIVES A MESSAGE    Alana was huddled with Messenger at Ed’s Starbucks one cold day the next week. They sat on their stools at the long table. Messenger loved her particular stool at Ed’s. Whenever Alana suggested that a chair or booth would be much more comfortable, she shook her head. “No, Baby. This is the exact right spot. The energy comes up here. Everything’s just right for receiving.”             Alana strained to feel something, anything through her seat. “Energy? From where?”             “From the earth. Right here.” She picked both swollen feet up and put them back down. Holes covered her sad shoes. Alana decided to dip into her dwindling savings and spring for a new pair of sneakers for Messenger.              Messenger carefully folded the rough brown napkins somebody had grabbed and left on their table. “Oh, goodie day! Won’t these come in handy later?”             “To wipe your mouth?”             “No, Child. For the messages. Napkins don’t really work so good, they either tear or smear. But they’ll do in a pinch, since I’m out of paper again.”             “I’ll bring you some more tomorrow,” Alana promised.             “Thank you!” Her face broke into a smile, practically shone.             Alana noticed she’d rubbed some lotion on her cheeks and she looked more rested.             “Not so ashy today, huh?”              Alana just nodded. Messenger did that a lot. Read her mind. No, that was too way out there. She probably just observed where Alana’s eyes rested, then used logic to figure it out. Right?             Messenger pulled out the nub of a flat, red carpenter’s pencil from one of her pockets and closed her eyes. “Give me just a minute,” she murmured. She sat very still and her eyes watered.             Is this a message? Alana’s heart leaped. She sensed that Messenger wanted privacy, so she turned away and let her eyes wander around the coffee shop. People stared at them, then dove back to their phones, tablets, laptops. Alana glanced over to the coffee bar and noticed a tall, blonde girl with checked bell-bottoms, very stylish, who ordered from Ed. Behind her stood this old guy they often saw on the street, his poor neck permanently bent forward at an excruciating angle.              Alana snuck a glance back at Messenger. She smiled with her eyes still closed, rocked back and forth to some gentle, silent rhythm. She scribbled with the pencil. Alana realized she’d never watched her write before. Messenger was left-handed. Her hand looked like a crab as it drug across the napkin. She always had the shadow of ink or graphite along the side of her left pinkie finger and hand. Alana strained to make out the scribble. She thought she heard Messenger humming, but maybe it was the crowd or the espresso machine.              “Can I read it?” Alana asked when Messenger stopped writing, even though she knew what the answer would be.             Messenger kept her eyes closed and laid her hand over the napkin. “Sorry, Honey. This one’s not for you.”             Alana felt like arguing. “But why not. What harm would it do?”              “Nope! You read it—you take some of its power.” She did seem sympathetic when she said it. “Listen—I don’t read them either. I just write them and whatever comes out, that’s it. Bad penmanship and everything. No wonder I can’t write so good. Teachers tried to change me to right-handed when I went to school, then fussed when I couldn’t form my letters just right. So—there’s that. Hope folks can read the messages and make out what they need to.”             “Have you ever considered asking somebody to use a computer and print them for you?”             She opened one eye and looked at Alana, then must have thought better of it and closed it again. “Honey, those computers are all well and good. Yes, when they’re about the business of connecting, they’re very good. That net, you know.”             “Wait—the Internet?”             “Sure. You can call it that. Don’t you see? More and more people are figuring out how everything’s connected. But how come people still feel so alone?”             Alana thought about it. “I guess they miss real human contact. That’s what people aren’t getting.”              Messenger’s eyes flew open and she took Alana’s hand. “Listen to me, anything that means something to you, write it down by hand. Hand’s directly connected to the heart—don’t you know? Yes.”              Alana later fact-checked and found Messenger was right—as usual.              “And I wouldn’t get too dependent on those computers. Just in case.”             Alana pushed because she didn’t like the ominous tone to Messenger’s advice. “What’s going to happen to our computers? A disaster? Or a terrorist attack?”             She smiled that, “You’re so sweet,” smile of hers. “A disaster? No. But better safe than sorry. And don’t you worry. No matter what happens, everything’s going to be okay. From either extreme, it’ll swing back. Always corrects to the middle way.”             “Seems like people are moving to the extremes these days.”             Messenger laughed. “Yeah. It’s about time to cue the aliens.”             Alana’s eyes popped. “Aliens?!”             “If they arrived on the scene, we’d all cooperate like you wouldn’t believe, right?”             “Probably.”             “Uh huh. It’s about time. And it’s about time for me, too. Gotta go deliver this.” She collected her bags and Alana helped her stick her arms into her outer coat.             “Can I tag along?” she asked.             “No, Honey. Not this time.”             That’s what she always said. Alana fought her rising frustration.             Messenger put a hand on Alana’s arm and kissed her cheek. She waved at Ed. “Take care.”              Alana watched her walk slowly through all the people down First Avenue, biding her time. “Where do you think she’s going, Ed?”             Ed leaned on the bar. “No telling!”             Alana sighed and quickly finished her latte. Today, Ed had made a flower in the foam for her. She’d grinned at him to acknowledge it. She had to admit, Ed was attractive. He would actually be very hot, she thought, if he wasn’t so annoyingly aloof—especially about Messenger. She waved goodbye to him, too, headed out the door quickly, because today, she’d decided not to obey Messenger.              Messenger already had a head start, though not a long one, judging by how slowly she always walked. Alana scanned up and down the block, past all the dead grass and trash in the tree medians, then walked around the neighborhood. She asked the Flower Lady, the lady with the Chihuahuas—who wouldn’t even answer! Not even a simple question! She asked Ostap, the owner of So Hair, whom Messenger had introduced her to. He sat in his usual spot, straddled his orange plastic chair outside the barber shop. Nothing! Nobody had seen Messenger that morning, so they said.             Are they lying? Alana wondered. Covering for her? Did she ask them to? Why? When she’s agreed to cooperate with me? What’s she up to? Alana was determined to find out. Are they all just enjoying messing with me? she wondered. None of it made any sense. Who can I trust here? Who will trust me? And another burning question

    27 min

  5. EPISODE 5

    Episode 5: Messenger’s Altar

    We’re looking for your stories of receiving a message from an unexpected source. Or, can you tell us what message would you like to receive—or give? We want to hear your stories - long or short, profound or pedestrian, and to collect any messages you'd like to share. Send us an email at messengerthenovel@gmail.com, and you can see some that we’ve already received on our social media pages.  We look forward to hearing from you!   Audrey's Message: I was looking for a place to live and had passed a particular apartment complex many times. I soon realized it was really the perfect location for me. I went to talk with the staff about possible openings, but no one was on duty and I couldn’t get in. I turned to go and a woman in a wheelchair came right up to me. “Can I help you?” When I told her I was interested in living there, she said, “Come right on in with me. I’ll show you around and I know two people who will be glad to show you their apartments!” I took her welcome as a sign, the message I was looking for—someone to say, “Come in. You’re welcome here.”  I called and got on the list but was told the wait time was 6-8 months. Ten days later, I got a call there was an apartment for me. It was the exactly right place for me.   Credits/Contacts Author: Liz Keller Whitehurst: messengerthenovel@gmail.comFor inquiries about MESSENGER or rights queries,  contact April Eberhardt: april@aprileberhardt.comBook editor: Annie Tucker: annietucker@gmail.comPodcast design/social media: Brandon O’Neill: oneillcreativeco.comAudio production and voice artist: Rachel Pater: richmondstoryhouse.orgOriginal music and sound direction: Wells Hanley: wellshanley@gmail.comRecording and audio editing: Lance Koehler: minimumwagerecording.comSpecial thanks to Wilson, Joy, Audrey and April  Find Us Online  Website: messengerthenovel.comFacebook: facebook.com/messengerthenovelInstagram: instagram.com/messengerthenovelTwitter: twitter.com/messenger_novel  Questions to Ponder Messenger’s altar may be very different from traditional altars you are familiar with. Have you ever made an altar? What did it consist of? Why was it meaningful for you?Through the flashback to Cathy’s Birthday, we learn that the experience Alana had at Messenger’s altar is not her first of this kind, an experience that cannot be rationally explained. Why do you think Alana withheld her experience in the alley from Messenger?What do you make of Messenger’s theories at the end of Episode 5, about how best to deal with violence and evil?  --------------------------------- Episode 5 Complete Text  📖  (Click here to access the PDF) ---------------------------------   MESSENGER’S COMPOSITION BOOK: SEVEN ALTAR IDEAS   INCLUDE THE FOLLOWING: Photos—You don’t need to know who the faces are—The eyes make them so powerful.Anything that sparkles or catches light—glass, mirrors, marbles—chrome or other metal.Anything living—plants, flowers, leaves, rocks, dirt, moss, lichen, bark, feathers, seeds, sand, earth, wood—all bring different qualities. Food, water, drink of any kind. Alcohol has Spirit in it!Holy items, relics, candles and flames. Wax is excellent.Art—drawings or prints or pottery or sculpture. Little figures of people or animals, fabric, old patches of clothing. String.Animal fur, bones. Feathers. Human hair. Pennies. Don’t worry about “heads down.” Finding it is the lucky part. Other coins, bills. They don’t last long on any altar—magic! Make your altar in a place of safety, as far away from electrical lines as possible because electromagnetism interferes. If it can be arranged on a known ley line, better yet. Outside, in nature, is best—fresh air, beneath the stars, sun and moonlight, in line with wind or a breeze. Near running water is best yet, though still water is also good.              These altars are not only beneficial for the souls who come in contact with them, but to all beings, both physical and spiritual. The altars go deep. They send down roots of energy and connect all holy places on earth and in other dimensions. Even if they are tampered with or—at worst—robbed or destroyed—doesn’t matter! Don’t worry about it! The act of making them brings power and positive energy to our planet and to other levels or dimensions. From there, the Watchers have witnessed your efforts and trials and hold you close with invisible arms. They work on your behalf at all times and in every way.   MESSENGER’S ALTAR    Alana had found Messenger on Fifth Street, after getting a tip from the Flower Lady. It was an overcast day that felt colder than it really was. Damp and wintery, dull gray. The sun didn’t stand a chance. It was lunchtime, so Alana had left Messenger on their bench by the school yard and ran around the corner for sandwiches. Once they were made, Alana carried a big white paper bag back and sat down beside Messenger.              Messenger clapped her hands. “Did you say, ‘extra mayo’?”             “Of course! Ham and American cheese on white. EXTRA MAYO!” Alana handed Messenger her sandwich, neatly wrapped in white paper, along with a napkin.              “Wonderful! Thank you. What did you get, Honey? Your usual?”             “Uh huh. Turkey and Swiss on whole wheat. Hold the mayo.”             “You don’t know how to live,” Messenger teased.             They sat quietly, enjoying their lunch. Messenger devoured her sandwich and Alana ate half of hers, then stowed the other half in her backpack for dinner. Messenger rolled the foil and sandwich paper into a tight ball and they collected their trash in the big paper bag. Messenger sat quietly for several minutes, then abruptly stood up. “Come with me, Honey. I want to show you something.”             Alana’s heart lifted. She was usually the one who begged Messenger to share—anything. A tip, a clarification, an explanation. They threw their trash in the basket and Messenger led her to the opening of a narrow alley between the buildings where the guy from Three of Cups Sicilian Restaurant usually sat on a crate to take a smoke. Today it was empty and they were alone.             As soon as they walked in, Alana noticed a strange buzz, a sort of echoing sound to the space. She wrapped her scarf more tightly around her neck. The smell of garbage, damp brick and dirt filled her nose. The buildings blocked the sun, so it was dark, cold and very damp. Messenger walked ahead until she came to a protected area behind one of the buildings, beside some trash cans.              “Here it is.” She spread her arm as if showing Alana her greatest treasure.              Alana gasped.             Perched on two side-by-side plastic crates, which formed a sort of table, Alana saw an altar. Messenger had taken cardboard boxes to create different levels and surfaces for the treasures. On each, she’d burned candles and dripped wax—all colors—red, green, yellow, purple and white. The wax dripped onto the boxes and down the sides. In the wax, she’d stuck pennies, marbles, bottle caps. Green Heineken beer bottles, cobalt blue wine bottles, clear bottles all held white candles of their own. Live yellow, blue and purple pansies dotted the surfaces, along with snips of pine. Several fresh carnations, from the Flower Lady, Alana suspected, added to the living parts there.              Alana saw the head of a doll, its eyes wide open. Sunglasses. Photos of people’s faces stared out also, pulled from magazines or maybe “Have you See Her? or Him?” posters from the street. Bits of red and silver tin-foil from the chocolates she gave Messenger dotted it, too. Shards of glass and mirror formed a mosaic in one section.             Alana pointed. “Where did you get those?” she asked.             “Off the road after a wreck. They sweep up, but they always miss some. That’s where I come in!”             Alana continued to notice the buzz echoing through the alley. She could only stare at Messenger’s incredible creation. She saw string, bright red and forest green, squares of red flannel fabric and a floral print. Rocks—some piled in neat little stacks. She wondered if they were held together by wax or just balanced there on their own. Smaller white church candles about as thick as your finger were stuck into the wax and formed the shape for infinity on one level. It took Messenger three matches from a Three of Cups pack to get all the candles lit. Meanwhile, Alana saw pennies, “heads-up,” stuck in the wax and what looked like black human hair. Maybe it was from a weave. There was also a tiny, delicate bird nest and some animal bones.              “Messenger,” she finally exclaimed. “It’s beautiful. I love it! Amazing! How long did it take you to make it?”             Messenger smiled so wide Alana could see all the blank spaces in the back of her mouth where teeth should have been. “A long time, let me tell you. I worked on it a little every day.”             Messenger motioned to Alana to stand right in front of the altar then walked around behind her. She placed a hand on each of Alana’s shoulders and gently moved and adjusted her. After a minute, she whispered. “Can you feel it?”             Alana turned around to face her. “What? Feel what?”             Messenger turned her back around and ran her hand up and down Alana’s spine. She placed both hands on the back of her head, then rested them on Alana’s shoulders. “Can you feel your feet?” she asked.             “Uh huh.”             “Anything else?”             “No. Nothing,” Alana answered quickly. She pu

    38 min

  6. EPISODE 6

    Episode 6: The Flower Lady Weighs In

    We’re looking for your stories of receiving a message from an unexpected source. Or, can you tell us what message would you like to receive—or give? We want to hear your stories - long or short, profound or pedestrian, and to collect any messages you'd like to share. Send us an email at messengerthenovel@gmail.com, and you can see some that we’ve already received on our social media pages.  We look forward to hearing from you!   Lucinda's Message: Soon after my father’s memorial service, I was walking in my new neighborhood and passed an older gentleman several times before we stopped to speak. He told me he was out on his lunch break. I marveled at his youthful appearance and he laughed and told me he was 81, the same age as my dad. He went on to tell me how wonderful the company developing my neighborhood was. He comforted, reassured and made me feel our decision to buy a home there was a good one. It would work out fine. Though I looked, I never saw him again. Why had he appeared that day? Why had he spoken of the same subject my dad had reassured me about in our last conversation? I think the older gentleman was a messenger.    Credits/Contacts Author: Liz Keller Whitehurst: messengerthenovel@gmail.comFor inquiries about MESSENGER or rights queries,  contact April Eberhardt: april@aprileberhardt.comBook editor: Annie Tucker: annietucker@gmail.comPodcast design/social media: Brandon O’Neill: oneillcreativeco.comAudio production and voice artist: Rachel Pater: richmondstoryhouse.orgOriginal music and sound direction: Wells Hanley: wellshanley@gmail.comRecording and audio editing: Lance Koehler: minimumwagerecording.comSpecial thanks to Wilson, Joy, Audrey and April  Find Us Online  Website: messengerthenovel.comFacebook: facebook.com/messengerthenovelInstagram: instagram.com/messengerthenovelTwitter: twitter.com/messenger_novel  Questions to Ponder How will Messenger know when the timing is right? What timing, or whose timing, is she referring to? If you were Alana, how would you react to this development?The Flower Lady raises themes of loss with Alana, as she tells Alana about her own mother, then asks Alana about losing her mother. Do you think Alana has dealt with her grief? What “hard places” do you detect in Alana now that you know her better?Which item in the list, “11 Things Everyone Wants to Hear,” speaks to you?  --------------------------------- Episode 6 Complete Text  📖  (Click here to access the PDF) ---------------------------------   COFFEE SHOP LESSON   Messenger smiled at Alana. They sat on their usual stools at Ed’s. “Did you get all that down?”             Alana held up a finger as she jotted the last of her notes. “Wow. Great. Thanks so much.” She put her notebook back into her backpack and cleared her throat. This was it. She’d planned exactly what she would say, had even written it down, word for word, in her notebook. “Messenger, I wanted to talk to you today about a new idea I’ve had. A big idea. First, I really appreciate you spending all this time to help me with my story. But now I think this whole thing is bigger than that. Would you consider letting me expand it all into a book about you and the messages?”             Messenger was quiet for the longest time. Then she turned towards Alana. “Okay,” she finally answered. “We can try that.”             Alana jumped up and hugged Messenger so hard she almost knocked her off her stool.              “Whoa, Honey!”             “Sorry! Just got excited.” Alana steadied Messenger and sat back down on her own stool. A huge smile spread across her face, full of relief that she hadn’t had to launch into the big sales job she’d planned. “That is so great! Thank you! Because I’m all in. I’m totally committed to this. And I’m going to work my hardest to make it happen. Okay, now, can I put my notes and the posts on an expanded website? Would you agree to that? It would create more buzz and encourage people to keep posting experiences and spread the word about our project. Also, can you ask people to post on my blog when you give them their message?”             Messenger burst into the loudest, deepest laughter Alana had ever heard.             “Why is that so funny,” Alana demanded. “A book takes a lot of work and planning. I’m trying so hard here.”             “I know. Cut it out! Don’t try so hard and you’ll be surprised how much better things will go.”             “You don’t understand. We have to expand our on-line presence, now that we’re getting more engagement.”             Messenger hooted. Everybody in the shop stared at them. “That’s not how this works,” she managed to say.             “It’s not funny,” Alana snapped.              “Oh, yes, it is.” Messenger collected herself and wiped away the tears running down her cheeks with a brown paper napkin. “Oh, Honey—I’m sorry. It’s just that—well—you crack me up!”             “But I wasn’t kidding! These posts from people are deep and poignant. Why can’t we give everybody a little encouragement, you know, like you say—energy. Hope. What’s so wrong with that?”             Messenger, now serious, listened intently to each word Alana spoke. She nodded, then answered, “Baby, I know. Nobody knows more than I do. But you gotta wait.”             “Why?”             “Timing’s not right.”             Alana felt anger rise up her throat. “Well, Messenger,” steel filled each word, “when do you think the time will be right?”             Messenger sighed and wiped a lone tear which traveled down her cheek. “I’ll be sure to let you know.”             “Why not now?”              “Trust me.” She touched Alana’s arm. “You’re going to have to trust me.”   ALANA’S NOTEBOOK:   Today, Messenger agreed to my request to turn our project into a book. And tonight, I’m having a panic attack. All my fears are drowning me. Do I really have anything here? Has all of this been a desperate fantasy? I’ve got to get a grip. Breathe. Breathe.             What’s it all about, anyway? What would I tell Mary? Okay, there’s this woman—I don’t know how old. I don’t know where she lives. I don’t know anything about her past or her family, if she even has a family. I’ve only met a few people I suppose you’d call her friends.              Okay, so no back story, obviously. She won’t really tell me much of anything about her daily life, beyond the focus of the inquiry. And what is the focus of the inquiry? Well, every day, so she says, she receives a message. She writes it down. It’s never very long—a few sentences, at most. Then she starts to walk. She walks the streets slowly, until through a physical sensation or a feeling she gets, she knows who the message is for. She finds them and gives it to them. That’s it. Wow, writing it down like this really makes it sound like I’ve got one great big nothing on my hands. What a query! Pretty lame. I just thought I’d have made more of a name for myself as a writer by now. After all, I wrote my head off for free, served my time at that click-bait job—I did all of it. But what do I have? Nothing. Nada. Just this lame story about a sketchy old woman who tells me to call her Messenger. Sometimes I pray, “Is this all you got, God? Is this all you got for me?” Whenever I read about a new writer, or even a favorite writer of mine, I’ll figure out their age when they made it—I’ll do the math and compare it to my age now and then a voice inside me screams, “Hurry up, Alana. Hurry up! There’s no time! You’ve fallen behind. You’re running out of time.” Some days the voice yells, “Too late! You blew it. Forget about it and take a good desk job. That’s all you’re good for anyway. What a fool to hope for more.”             But I’ve got to keep going. Mom always said when I’d get discouraged, “In this family, we don’t quit.” Lots of journalists do get their start with just one story—not necessarily a big one—and go from there. First, they publish it as an article. But they can’t stop investigating. They get obsessed with it and just keep going. The story morphs into a book. A big book! A best-selling book. Is that what’s happening here? Is this my destiny? Is my future staring me in the face?             Or am I the crazy one—so desperate for what I want, like those loonies who see the face of Jesus in a pepperoni pizza? The Blessed Mother statue crying oily tears that can heal people? A callus on a tree that looks like the monkey god?             No. What holds all this together, is a change. A real change in people’s lives. Not everybody. Far from it. Some ignorant people don’t even read their messages and throw them away. How stupid can you get? But some are truly changed—their lives turn. Even if it’s subtle. The point is—the messages carry weight. From the moment they’re received, they have the power to change a life. One life at a time. One person at a time. That’s how she works.   MESSENGER’S COMPOSITION BOOK: THINK OF A PLAY   Think of a play. You sit in the audience with all these other people (souls), watch the action. Sometimes it’s right in front of you on the stage or sometimes the actors come from the sides or even from out in the audience. It’s all still part of the play. So, you have your own life, your reality laid over the reality of the play—the drama before you. But if it’s a good play, or a good night for the actors, or both, you lose touch with your own reality—the big man wedged into the s

    27 min

  7. EPISODE 7

    Episode 7: The Clinamen

    We’re looking for your stories of receiving a message from an unexpected source. Or, can you tell us what message would you like to receive—or give? We want to hear your stories - long or short, profound or pedestrian, and to collect any messages you'd like to share. Send us an email at messengerthenovel@gmail.com, and you can see some that we’ve already received on our social media pages.  We look forward to hearing from you!   Credits/Contacts Author: Liz Keller Whitehurst: messengerthenovel@gmail.comFor inquiries about MESSENGER or rights queries,  contact April Eberhardt: april@aprileberhardt.comBook editor: Annie Tucker: annietucker@gmail.comPodcast design/social media: Brandon O’Neill: oneillcreativeco.comAudio production and voice artist: Rachel Pater: richmondstoryhouse.orgOriginal music and sound direction: Wells Hanley: wellshanley@gmail.comRecording and audio editing: Lance Koehler: minimumwagerecording.comSpecial thanks to Wilson, Joy, Audrey and April  Find Us Online  Website: messengerthenovel.comFacebook: facebook.com/messengerthenovelInstagram: instagram.com/messengerthenovelTwitter: twitter.com/messenger_novel  Questions to Ponder Alana is alone in the world. Do you know anyone this alone? How does she/he/they cope?What do you make of the clinamen? Why is it important to Messenger to have a name for it?Alana becomes more and more impatient to launch her blog, but Messenger resists. How will Alana resolve this conflict? What are her options and what dangers do each hold?Which of the 10 Elements in Messenger’s list opened your heart? What would you include if making a similar list?  --------------------------------- Episode 7 Complete Text  📖  (Click here to access the PDF) ---------------------------------   MESSENGER IS A NO-SHOW   Alana shook. She’d chewed and picked her cuticles so much waiting for Messenger that morning she’d made both thumbs and her right forefinger bleed. Uhhh! Gross! she thought. Look what she’s made me do. No, Alana, she countered. You did this all on your own.             Messenger had agreed to meet her in the park, near the pigeon guy, because Messenger said she wanted to walk around the fountain. The pigeon guy had come, fed the pigeons. When all the breadcrumbs were gone, he let them perch all over him. Alana could hardly watch.              Messenger is making me insane, Alana thought. She’d cancelled coffee with Mary, whom she hadn’t seen in weeks, to meet Messenger instead. Besides, she felt terrible. Her nose was running and she wasn’t so sure she didn’t have a fever. Clouds had rolled back in and it smelled like snow. Great! She walked around the park to try and calm down even though she’d already done two loops. Still no sign of Messenger. Alana knew it was her problem, she was blowing Messenger’s “no-show” out of proportion, but she couldn’t help it. Whenever people were even a minute late, Alana catapulted back to day-care, elementary school, middle school days, when she was always the last one picked up. Oh, she’d understood why. Her mom explained it every time she was late. She was sorry, but her shift had run over. They were extra busy at the hospital or the relief nurse had been late.              In day-care days, Alana had known her mom was just next door, in the hospital. As a very little girl, the dreaded sound of toe-tapping made tears jump into her eyes. Miss Carol, who waited by the curb with her, always smiled reassuringly. But she tapped her toe. Alana cringed at that sound. It got inside her and made her own fear grow that, after all her mom’s promises, she really wasn’t coming. No one was.             Alana shook her head, dismissed the memory and began another loop through the park. When she returned to her own starting point again, she finally gave up. Messenger wasn’t coming today. That was clear. Alana’s thoughts flitted to the altar, now trashed in the alley. A stab of fear filled her. Had something happened to Messenger?Probably not. She’d been a no-show before. But now, to Alana, it felt like the stakes had been raised, that danger and violence lurked around them.             Alana shook her head and decided to walk over to another coffee shop she liked, The Dove, on Fourth Street. She hadn’t been there for a long time, not since her Messenger project had started. Another wasted day. She sucked the side of her sore thumb. Something’s going to have to change, she decided, if this book is ever going to get written.    POST: JAKE   I’m driving down the East Side Highway on a Tuesday, happy to be moving at a decent clip, for a change. It’s a clear, sunny day and all is right with my world. That is, until suddenly this black aluminum bookshelf, three-feet-by-five, comes hurtling towards me from off the back of a blue Ford 150 pickup truck. This isn’t one of those experiences where time slows down. No. That happened to me before in a snowstorm when I did a 360 on I-95. This goes way, way fast. Hyper-speed! All I can do is swerve! Hard!             The bookshelf misses my windshield by a hair—scrapes the side of my car, bounces off and crashes to the road with the most sickening screech of metal-on-asphalt you’ve ever heard. I plow into a green Subaru and just about take out the whole passenger side of the car, which is empty—Thank God! Anyway, we pull our cars over to the shoulder. The damn pickup guy just drives off like nothing ever happened but I’m too shook up to catch his license plate number. He’s long gone. I call the police and get out of the car, feel like I’ve been run over myself, but am just happy to be alive.             This girl gets out of the other car and, despite everything that’s happened in the last five minutes, I register that she’s very good-looking. She’s fighting back tears—I can tell by the way her chin shakes and she bites her bottom lip             “Oh, wow,” I begin. “I’m really sorry . . .”             She interrupts me. “How did you miss that bookshelf? What was that wack job thinking?”             “It was airborne, I tell you.”             “I thought you were a goner.”             “I know.” I clear my throat, steady my own voice. “I called the cops. Sorry I mashed your car.”             “Oh, no. I’m just so glad.” She touches my arm and we just stare at each other.              “It’s going to be okay,” I tell her. “They’ll be here soon. Well—we’re alive!”             She says, “If you hadn’t swerved . . .” Her words hang on the air, something just between the two of us. That’s when time does slow down. I hear the siren call in the distance but don’t look away from her.              “Both of us could be dead right now,” I finish her sentence.             “But we’re not. You swerved just enough to save us.”             My car’s drivable, so after all this (she doesn’t give me her number. Engaged!) even though it’s the last thing I want to do, I head to my buddy’s on the Lower East Side who’s moving. That’s the reason I was out in the first place, to give him a hand. I pull up to the curb by his apartment and notice this old woman on the street. I get out of the truck, make sure the door’s locked, turn around. She’s standing right there beside me on the sidewalk. Her hand’s stretched out and there’s a piece of paper in it.              Our eyes meet and that’s when I feel like I’ve walked through a time warp. My knees buckle, like I’m going to pass out. She hands me the paper and before I can get my head straight, she’s gone. Where or how, I don’t know. I look down at the paper, just a dirty scrap with something scribbled on it in smeary blue ballpoint ink. I read it. I lean against the truck, know I’ll crack my head on the sidewalk if I try to stand on my own. After everything that happened to me that day, then I get this message, YOU JUST COLLIDED WITH YOUR DESTINY. It blows my mind! It still does, today.              The girl breaks her engagement. We get married three months later. ALANA’S NOTEBOOK:   Transcript of interview with Gloria: ALANA: (Gloria handed her message to me. Unseen hands guide you. The worst is over.) How has this one message changed you? No offense, but this message, at face value, seems . . .  GLORIA: Vague? Trite, even? I know. It does, doesn’t it? But what appears on the surface to be so random, isn’t! At my point of despair, I received it. How would that woman know what I needed to hear when I needed to hear it? And she was right. The message was right. The worst WAS over. My husband passed away gently about a month later. How could she know that? She didn’t know me.             The message told me everything I needed to know at the time. What are the odds against a poor, probably homeless woman writing this important message down and then finding me outside the healthcare center? I’m nobody special. Thinking back, it told me someone or something out there cared what happened to me, was working to help me. Somehow sent the message to me through her. It was such a huge relief.    NOTES: I interview as many people in person as possible who’ve respond to my blog. After talking with many of them, it’s clear Messenger has been at this for a very long time. Years. Decades. Nobody tried to connect the dots until Marty. Now me. Sometimes the person will pull a message out of a wallet, with fingerprints all over it, to show me. Were they Messenger’s or the recipient’s, who’d worn the message out from reading it over and over? Some people got messages and threw them away accidentally. Or lost them. One lady lost hers and it sti

    36 min

  8. EPISODE 8

    Episode 8: Alana Breaks the Rules

    We’re looking for your stories of receiving a message from an unexpected source. Or, can you tell us what message would you like to receive—or give? We want to hear your stories - long or short, profound or pedestrian, and to collect any messages you'd like to share. Send us an email at messengerthenovel@gmail.com, and you can see some that we’ve already received on our social media pages.  We look forward to hearing from you!   Credits/Contacts Author: Liz Keller Whitehurst: messengerthenovel@gmail.comFor inquiries about MESSENGER or rights queries,  contact April Eberhardt: april@aprileberhardt.comBook editor: Annie Tucker: annietucker@gmail.comPodcast design/social media: Brandon O’Neill: oneillcreativeco.comPhotography: Joy Whitehurst: Instagram: @turquoisekoiAudio production and voice artist: Rachel Pater: richmondstoryhouse.orgOriginal music and sound direction: Wells Hanley: wellshanley@gmail.comRecording and audio editing: Lance Koehler: minimumwagerecording.comSpecial thanks to Wilson, Joy, Audrey and April  Find Us Online  Website: messengerthenovel.comFacebook: facebook.com/messengerthenovelInstagram: instagram.com/messengerthenovelTwitter: twitter.com/messenger_novel  Questions to Ponder In “You Go On,” we learn more about Alana’s mom as she reveals more details to Messenger. Based on what you know so far, how would you describe Alana’s relationship with her mother?Have you ever had a communication, however subtle (a wink), from a Loved One who has died? If so, is the circumstance on Messenger’s List?Were you surprised to learn Alana’s dad was still living? What, if any, influence does his absence play in Alana’s motivations?An old saying goes, “the first rule of magic is containment.” Sharing her project out loud, for the first time and viewing it through Mary’s eyes, deflates Alana. Have you ever had this experience when sharing with a friend?  --------------------------------- Episode 8 Complete Text  📖  (Click here to access the PDF) ---------------------------------   YOU GO ON   Alana and Messenger walked together down Fifth Street one morning the next week. “Shane’s back,” Alana announced.             “Poor soul,” Messenger clucked.             Shane sat on the sidewalk on a small square of cardboard up on the corner of Third Avenue and Fifth Street. He had no coat and the clothes he wore were full of holes. His face was red and chapped. Dirty, greasy blonde dreads, pulled back in a scarf, formed a halo around his head. The circumference of his vicinity smelled really bad and it wasn’t just the hamster in the small cage on the sidewalk beside him, either. The hamster ran on his little metal wheel very fast. He could really make that thing go. Shane watched and absently picked at the sores on his arm.              “Hello, Shane,” Alana called.             “You know, yeah—it’s so cool,” he answered, his voice high and breathy. “My hamster’s name is Breakfast, so, hey, can you give me some money for breakfast?” His beady, unfocused eyes turned to the side of Alana, not on her face. Then he caught Messenger’s eye and quickly looked away. He jumped up, puffed out his chest like a rooster, butted up against a guy in a flannel shirt and work boots who happened to walk by. Shane yelled, “I bet you fifty dollars I can arm wrestle you. Find a table! Find a table! Come on. I bet you fifty dollars you aren’t that animal!” Breakfast kept rolling on his wheel.              Messenger shook her head, pulled Alana along past him. A yellow cab drove down the street with its Flash Dance Gentlemen’s Club sign lit up on the roof. Just down the block, on the steps of the Unitarian Church, they saw a young couple sleeping intertwined, like the big pretzels the street vendors hawked. You couldn’t tell whose arms or legs were whose. Messenger paused on the sidewalk in front of them.              “I want to brush the hair from their eyes,” she spoke softly. “Spit on my hand and wipe the dirt from their faces. Tuck a blanket up around their ears to keep them warm tonight. Wind back the clock and fix whatever terrible thing happened that landed them here, asleep outside on cold concrete steps in the city in the middle of winter.”             Alana let her professional guard down. “I wish you had a message for them. To change things.”             “Me, too,” she answered. “But,” A sob caught in her throat. She took a deep breath and sighed. “It doesn’t work that way.” She turned back to the knot of kids. “Angels guard you,” she whispered.              Later, they popped into Ed’s for coffee. Ed didn’t even say “hi,” just looked up at her and barked, “Order?”             “Two coffees,” Alana snapped.             He didn’t say a word. He only charged her for one. Hers. She grabbed them, turned without a thanks and sat down.             “Thank you.” Messenger reached over and rubbed Alana’s forehead. “That better?”             “Uh huh.”             Messenger chuckled. “You keep thinking so hard you’re going to get wrinkles bad as mine.”             “I know! Ed’s hard today.”             “Yes, he is. Don’t worry about it.” She paused, “Listen, your mom has passed, right?”             Alana was suddenly alert. “How did you know that?”             “Uh,” Messenger stared into her coffee. “The Flower Lady might have mentioned it.”             “Yeah,” Alana said. “Four years ago. Lung cancer. Well—breast, really. Spread to her lungs. Terrible.”             “Tell me about it.”             “She had breast cancer and beat it once. It was cigarettes, too. She could never give them up. Even though she was a nurse. She didn’t last long after the breast cancer came back and it spread to her lungs.”             “Were you close?”                   Alana felt the air change, as if Messenger was holding her breath until Alana answered. Was this conversation about more than her just being nice?              “It was always just Mom and me, so sure, we were close. No family to speak of. Just my aunt in California and her daughter and kids. It was really just Mom and me. But she had to be gone a lot. All the time. She was a nurse. Once I was old enough to stay by myself, she’d take on extra shifts at the hospital. She had to work.”             “She did it for you?”             “I guess. For us. When she died she left me a nice savings account.”             “But that’s not going so good, right?” she asked softly.             Alana stared into Messenger’s eyes. How did she know? “No. there’s not much left.” Alana shrugged, “That’s what I’ve been living on, actually. That and a hostessing job I have at a restaurant a few nights a week. That’s one reason I’m so eager to move our project forward.”              Messenger nodded. “Do you miss her awful much?”              “I miss her. Of course, I miss her. She was my mother.”             “She’s still working on your behalf from the other side. But you never get over missing your mother.”             Alana shrugged. “What can you do?”             “You go on,” Messenger whispered.    MESSENGER’S COMPOSITION BOOK: EIGHT SIGNS TO WATCH FOR IF SOMEONE YOU LOVE HAS PASSED (DON’T BE AFRAID—JUST WATCH)   Coins turning up.Electricity. This is their favorite because it doesn’t take much energy for them to interfere. Lights flicker or bulbs blow.Mirrors. Watch them at all times. You might catch somebody in there besides yourself.Telephones, answering machines and computers.Radios. Songs always have significance and could be messages.Butterflies, birds and insects. Dragonflies and ladybugs.Animals acting funny. They whimper or refuse to go into a room or house. Cats stare.Cool drafts or cold rooms.Any or all of these could be a communication. They are close by and can help you if you let them. They will try and reach you SOMEHOW, but if you’re hooked up to your boxes, you won’t get the message.    POST: NINA   I’m trying to keep the faith without having any faith. Pray to a Swami, the Dalai Lama, The Buddha, Jesus, Mary, Mohammed, the Universe. I’ll tell you where I see the Divine. Recently, I noticed a monarch butterfly float way up there above me in the sky. I could hardly see it, just a flash of orange. So fragile! Headed to Mexico on an impossible trip, but they do it.             I remembered that butterfly when I got the message from my 84-year-old mother that after a childhood with an alcoholic father, an unhappy marriage endured for her children’s sake, thyroid cancer, stage-four uterine cancer at 70, massive amounts of chemo which caused loss of hearing and any feeling in her toes and most of her short-term memory, atrial fibrillation and several stents, now she had breast cancer and needed a lumpectomy.              That afternoon I walked to her apartment building to take her to the doctor. I really was dreading seeing my mother because I had no idea what to say. This dirty old woman snuck up behind me and stuffed a piece of paper into my hand. “For you,” she said. I took a second to look at the paper. She’d written, THERE IS NO DEATH. YOU ARE STRONGER THAN YOU THINK. The second I read it, I was that butterfly. I knew I could face this whole thing with my mother. It was doable. Her message was for both my mom and me. Amazing.   MESSENGER’S COMPOSITION BOOK:               Goal of life=personal

    30 min
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About

MESSENGER is the story of a mysterious old woman who delivers life-changing messages to seemingly random people all over New York City and Alana, a young journalist determined to uncover Messenger’s story. In the surprise ending, Alana discovers the true meaning of their journey together. You can find the complete text of each episode, Questions to Ponder and show credits in the episode description.

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