STRIKE POINT
Everyone Matters – But If You Matter Too Much – You Die
By Steve Kelley
Scheduled Release 2026
Copyright Info:
Strike Point: Everyone Matters- But If You Matter Too Much – You Die (Lightning’s Powerful Secrets)
All Rights Reserved - Copyright 2025 by Steve Kelley
Freedom Press Consulting – Meredith Dunn
One Stop Publishing – Onestoppublishing.com
ISBN # TBD
Chapter 1
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The Listeners
The World We Knew disappeared right in front of our eyes.
I was watching from the back of the room—like being at a horror movie shrinking into your seat way in the back rows, too frightened to scream. I tried to disappear like Grammy, but I couldn’t.
There was lots of fighting amongst the Elders. I hated the fighting. The unspoken insults delivered with harsh tones, contorted facial expressions, and exasperated soft exhales. Joking words that insulted and harmed people. I could feel the sighs deep in my heart. I wanted them to stop fighting.
I wanted to hide.
It’s hard to hide in a corner if the room is round.
Why did we have round rooms? Who decided that?
There was no hiding from the shouting and screeching sounds that bounced off those walls.
Our clan depends on our ears to survive. This is perhaps why our ears have retractable skin flaps over them to protect our ear canals. According to the Elders, the flaps evolved over the second millennium.
My name is Kelesitse. Kele for short. I’m from the second clan. The Elders named me with a Setswana name that means “nice girl.” I have an Australian Collie named Colocou. I call her Cou for short. Cou goes everywhere with me. She was scared too as she crouched beside me to comfort me, and maybe her too. Cou and I comfort each other, especially when the rain starts, and the thunder comes.
I have trouble with my hair. It’s not just the color. It’s orange. It is freakishly untamed no matter what I do. My hair is so big that my face shrinks like a belly-button “inny” against the curly exterior. It gives the impression of a halo around my tiny face.
My family accepts how I look but strangers always stare. I guess it’s not a problem. It’s not like I have two heads. I like that my hair covers my ears (and the flaps). I’m from the listener clan—you might remember. I’m taller than most of my clan, maybe four feet and two inches. I’m light skinned with marble streaks that match our valley rocks. You’ll know me when you see me. I love it when people say “hello” when they first see me so that I don’t feel different.
I’m thirteen. My Grandmother Mejan, an Elder, has been missing for almost two months. That is an eternity. My family is worried. I’m heartbroken. Grammy was my rock. She was really important to the second clan. That itself is important to know. One minute Grammy Mejan was next to me at the fire. A storm came. We all hustled for cover. Cou and I ran into the back. Then “poof.”
Grammy was gone.
Grammy Mejan was beautiful. She always wore turquoise, the color of our sun. Whenever Grammy could, she put turquoise daffodils in her hair—two on the left, and one on the right. I regret that I didn’t ask her why. It was just her way. When I see her, after I find out that she is okay, that will be my first question.
She will be okay, right? I question myself.
Her hair shined even in the moonlight. We’d walk some nights under our beautiful violet moon. The comfortable temperatures and the contrast of the moon against the dark sky made night walking a pleasure. When we walked late at night, Mejan’s voice was so soothing. Her voice and the incredible colors in the sky made a symphony that stimulated and calmed my brain all at the same time.
Her soft voice reminded me of the bees buzzing and the birds chirping on a summer morning as the sun comes up to light the bright purple flowers on the valley floor. The sun’s light blue and turquoise rays shimmered on the marble rock landscape highlighting the streaks in the marble our clan mined for fuel. The marble had little tiny holes that allowed the tiny critters, Glistoffs, to hold on when the winds blew. Glistoffs were listeners too.
Grammy was the quiet calm of my dreams. I miss her so. As the days go by, I fear that I won’t remember her. I’ll describe her now so that if you see her, you can help her come home to Cou and me . . . to all of us.
Grammy Mejan was better looking than most of the clan. Even those who were hundreds of years younger than she. Her arms were longer than her legs. She could touch the ground or pick the crops without bending down. Our clan has grown our own food since time began. Everyone in our clan works, the Elders perhaps work the hardest.I don’t know if it is my imagination or if her ears really were the same size as her hands. She was the Second Clan’s best listener. It is an exceedingly important honor and a privileged role.
I wonder if that is why she is gone.
When Grammy Mejan looked into your eyes, she penetrated you, right through the thin shield covering the passage to your brain. It was almost as if you didn’t need to speak when you were with her. She understood every part of you. If you had done even the smallest thing wrong, and she sat beside you, you were doomed. She made it okay, no matter what she knew. But still. There was no escaping what you had done with her. It was a good thing; it grounded me and others.
She’d spread her bony knuckled fingers over your forehead, over your cheeks, and down to your chin. Her fingers opened your inner talking bones. The swirling lines on her fingertips sensed your mood. She’d wrinkle her forehead and give a small wink and shake, as she registered your individual thoughts, like an old typewriter—the ones the very first clan used.
As she read your thoughts, it was as if she was sliding the carriage of an imaginary typewriter above and across the keys: your keys, your code . . . all open to her. She’d gently swipe each new line of thought. Sometimes the speed was rapid-fire. Other times she would slow down, and you would slow down with her. No wonder she had become important. Everyone got “typed” by Grammy Mejan. I often watched her do it. She encouraged me to listen with her, to get better at it. But I couldn’t do it the way she did. It was more natural for me to close my eyes and listen directly to people’s thoughts. I don’t know why. Our special skills were not the same.
Anyway, I think that’s why she knew so much. It was her job. I can’t help wondering . . . believing actually, that this is why she is gone. And if she is gone, will we all eventually be taken . . . ?