This is an important and timely question explored in the highly acclaimed spiritual novel, SNOOZE: A STORY OF AWAKENING, winner of the 2015 National Indie Excellence Award for New Age Fiction.
Written with young adult and young-at-heart readers in mind, SNOOZE further proved its literary merit by being selected as a 2016 Readers’ Favorite International Book Award Finalist in the Young Adult-Coming of Age category and receiving an Honorable Mention in the 2014 Beach Book Festival Prize competition in the General Fiction category.

Now for the first time ever, this epic visionary tale is being officially serialized—in both readable and audible formats.

You’re invited to join—either with eyes or ears—Max Diver, a.k.a. “Snooze,” along the razor’s edge of a quest to rescue his astronaut father from a fate stranger than death in the exotic, perilous Otherworld of sleep.

This inspiring tale interweaves a plethora of paranormal and metaphysical subjects, from Bigfoot and enlightenment to the Loch Ness Monster and time travel via the Bermuda Triangle.

In her review of SNOOZE published in INDIE SHAMAN Magazine, June Kent had this to say about what she described as “superlative fiction”: “Engrossing, entertaining and occasionally humorous, SNOOZE also takes a look at a wide range of subjects including levitation, telepathy, lucid dreaming, spirit animals, parallel universes and shamanic-like journeying, giving a wide range of information effortlessly absorbed as you enjoy the story as well as much food for thought.”

If you’d like your own downloadable review copy to share your thoughts via Amazon, Goodreads and elsewhere, read details and contact the author with your request.

Naturally, your generous review would be greatly appreciated even if you simply enjoy the full text now being presented on this blog and numerous podcast platforms. Keep in mind that paperback and ebook versions are for sale. A complimentary online version is also available for your reading pleasure.

IMPORTANT: Be sure to follow Snooze 2 Awaken and/or Sol Luckman Uncensored for alerts as new chapters of the 84 in total that make up Max’s extraordinary story become available.

Sweet dreams!

SNOOZE: A STORY OF AWAKENING

By Sol Luckman

CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

“Your father was governor as well as a ship’s captain and a famous painter?” Max’s thoughts were swirling even faster than before with the memory of his own father enrolling—uncharacteristically and, as it turned out, temporarily—in a painting class at UF-Cape Carnival approximately a decade earlier.

That would have put it at just after Jonah drowned. Could Captain Diver have been experiencing some sort of unacknowledged personality bleed-through from having reabsorbed his twin?

“Yes,” replied Maxwallah. “What of it?”

“He was quite the Renaissance man.”

“What is a Renaissance man?”

“Someone who’s really good at a lot of things.”

“Then you are also a Renaissance man.”

“Look who’s talking. Mr. Ranger-Shaman-Poet.”

Maxwallah chuckled modestly. “Do you like my room?”

“It’s lovely. Is this yours?”

Max indicated an open journal on Maxwallah’s desk in which a poem in Tay-wo, entitled “See the Big Picture,” looked freshly handwritten with a nearby feather quill pen.

The end of the old world
Is the small picture

The beginning of a new world
Is the Big Picture

Attention is just
Like currency

You get what
You pay for

“I quickly scribbled it down before my bath,” explained Maxwallah. “I composed it in my mind on the way home.”

“It’s really deep,” said Max with a hint of sarcasm. Then, more seriously, he added, “And beautiful.”

“Thank you. I believe it to be true.”

“Look, Maxwallah. I’m sorry about your father. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You have had enough on your mind. Artemisia always insisted the Umbodi would face the greater challenge in being the first to journey into the Otherworld. My role was—and is—to support you.”

“Artemisia said that?”

“You look surprised.”

“I’m just … trying to figure her out.”

Maxwallah chuckled again while pulling a wooden box the size of a large shoebox out from under his bed. “Good luck. Artemisia is like an endlessly tiered fountain. Just when you think you have reached the bottom, there is always another level.”

“What’s in the box?”

“My collection of dream objects. It occurred to me you of all people might appreciate them.”

“Dream objects? As in, objects you brought back from your dreams?”

“As in.”

Inside the box was an odd assortment of souvenirs: a giant shark’s tooth, a piece of chalk, a small black stone that might have been a meteorite, something like an oversized Brazil nut (now quite moldy), an ancient-looking necklace made of pieces of green turquoise, the head of a tomahawk.

“I kept my dream objects, too,” said Max.

“When did you start bringing them back?”

“Early on. You?”

“The same.”

“We really are twins, aren’t we?”

Maxwallah winked. “I am afraid so. Are you ready for your bath?”

“I’ve been ready.”

Having replaced the box under his bed, Maxwallah led Max back into the bathroom. Max watched as his twin turned on the lamp with a touch, then with another touch caused water to begin flowing through a convex opening at the top of the marble tub. “How hot do you like your bath?”

“After freezing my keesters off in the wild? Somewhere between scalding and comfortable.”

“Coming right up.” Maxwallah tapped the side of the tub three times, then indicated a bar of soap in a little niche in the wall. “You can use that for both your hair and skin.”

“What about conditioner?”

“What is conditioner?”

“Forget it.”

“Can I get you anything else?”

“Yeah. If you don’t mind.”

“Name it.”

“A razor.”

“A … razor?”

“You know, something to shave with. I noticed you shaved.”

“Of course. You will find a fresh paperstone in the cabinet behind the mirror above the sink.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“Just place your dirty clothes in the basket in the corner. I will take them downstairs and ask Mardah to launder them first thing in the morning.”

“How do I turn off the water?”

“Just tap the tub three times when the level is to your liking.”

Left alone, Max reentered his bedroom. Removing his boots, he set them on the floor beside the bed and placed his belt and sword in its scabbard on the chest of drawers beneath the windows. His poncho and hide shirt went in the wicker basket in the corner and his jeans were about to follow—when he remembered to empty his pockets.

In addition to some stale coconut shards, which he replaced with a disgusted look, he discovered first his mother’s gold-and-onyx hairpin, then his caul—before pulling out the small leather pouch containing powdered jube and jork eggshell Maxwallah had given him for his initiation.

“I wonder what this stuff tastes like,” he murmured, imagining in the same breath what it might do to him, given its “visionary” qualities.

Having stashed the hairpin, caul and pouch in the drawer of his bedside table, he checked on his bathwater—which was steaming impressively and nearly overflowing. Sure enough, three taps on the tub shut off the flow.

He selected a beige cotton towel and washrag from an open-face shelf and set them on the wooden chair beside the tub, then eased into the water, which felt slightly hotter than the Sacred Pool at Muru-amah. In other words: perfect. “I could get used to this,” he sighed just before taking a deep breath and slipping under the surface to wet his hair.

Afterward, toweling off on the thick bathmat remarking how clean and moisturized his entire body felt, he realized he had no idea how to drain the tub. Following this thought, he heard a bubbling noise—and, sure enough, the tub began to empty.

Feeling parched, he approached the sink, which had a convex stone “faucet” like that of the tub, and tapped it once. Nothing happened.

Making sure to quiet his mind and find the peaceful place inside him, he tapped it again while thinking, “Please share some of your water. Some cold water.”

Immediately, water came spilling out. Max cupped his hands underneath. It was icy. He drank until his thirst was gone, then thought, “Would you mind making the water hot now?”

The water soon began to steam. Max opened the cabinet behind the steam-covered mirror and found several ultra-thin, wedge-shaped stones the color of slate. He picked one up by the blunt end and tested the “blade” with his little finger. Amazingly, it gave him what amounted to a tiny paper cut. “Paperstone indeed!” he laughed.

Getting the mirror to work was the last test of his first bathing experience in the civilized part of the cosmic sector. Even after wiping the steam off the surface with his towel, it was more like a rock than a mirror. He couldn’t even see his reflection. “Mirror, mirror on the wall,” he said, “how do I get you to work at all?”

Unexpectedly, his words made the rock shimmer—as if changing on a molecular level—before turning into a polished, reflective surface. He stared at his sun- and wind-chapped face with its scraggle of a beard and thought, “I look like Tom Hanks in Cast Away.”

Having shaved carefully, he reentered his bedroom—only to find the basket with his dirty clothes gone and a dark blue robe and leather slippers awaiting him on his bed.

Max, who had never so much as considered wearing a silk robe, felt self-conscious turning off the bathroom and bedroom lamps and swishing back down the illuminated hallway toward the foyer with his feet in soft slippers.
Copyright © Sol Luckman. All Rights Reserved.

Introducing Sol Luckman’s new visionary novel, CALI THE DESTROYER. Learn about the single most censored story in the history of the human race—and why it matters today.