Jay
Stritch is a student of English Literature at Cambridge University
and a lover of all modes of storytelling. She has recently published
‘Seven Minutes’ told in the format of memory collections which
trace the interweaving, highly eventful lives of a very interesting
family. In her free time she enjoys skiing and adrenaline based
sports.
Author Links -
Book Genre: Fiction
Publisher: -
Release Date: March 2014
Book Description: What
are the memories that will define you when you're gone?It is said that when you die your brain stays active for seven minutes, in which time you relive your most prominent memories.
'The Collector' of these memories has the most interesting story of all to tell. By following the intertwining lives of a group of characters we are taken on a journey through some amazing experiences: loss, love, guilt, failure, success and what defines us as human beings. The very essence of these people emerges from their memories.
But why is Will the one this collection of memories has been given to? What is he supposed to do with them? He already has enough on his plate, now that he’s unemployed with a farm and family to run while his wife is away working. However, he can’t seem to stop obsessing about this mysterious book or put it down and it begins to affect his life in more ways than one…
Excerpt:
Seven minutes really isn’t that long. It’s often overlooked by
people as an awkward amount of time in which nothing can be achieved.
Indeed many groups of seven minutes are spent in people’s lives
simply waiting. I, however, am a collector and it is my job to make
every minute count. Everything can be revealed about a human life in
seven minutes. Today has been a particularly interesting collection,
as amongst them is the last Mangos.
I often look at my job like a card game
– perhaps similar to ‘Happy Families’ – and I relish
collecting full sets. Today the set has been completed by the life
and death of Sabina Mangos.
I sometimes revisit the rest of these
preserved lives and watch them intertwine with each other seamlessly
again. I turn to the best bits, like one would dog ear a favorite
book. Still the people I never knew in life haunt me in their deaths.
She is bent by the side of the river,
the evening sun illuminating her cheek bones and her hair is
plastered to her face. The memory at first is always startlingly
beautiful until the scream begins. It is primal, guttural and echoes
off the rocks surrounding her. Then the boy lying limp at her feet
comes into focus. But this is my own memory. To understand it better,
it’s only right that we delve into hers.
ANGELICA: 4.6 minutes
He died with his train ticket in his
pocket and his hands clasped tightly around his necklace. I know
because I was there. I start compressions frantically, unable to
remember how many to do. One, two, three, four, trying to force the
life back into him. Five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, my own
breaths rasping, willing him to join me. Eleven, twelve, thirteen,
fourteen, I stop pressing methodically, the panic taking over and I
begin to hit him wildly. Suddenly I am furious, illogically furious
at him, and I begin to spit and swear as I return to compressions.
What else can I do?
“Don’t die! Wake up! Bastard! Talk
to me! Open your eyes now!” I stop suddenly staring rigidly at his
face. “No,” is all I can think. This. Can’t. Happen. Mouth to
mouth, my mind screams, I haven’t tried that yet and I know why.
What if the kiss of life doesn’t work; what if it is the kiss of
death? What if I can’t save him? I slam my hands either side of his
head, pinch his nose and calmly breathe into his mouth. Once. Twice.
Nothing. And that is when I rock back on to my knees and scream.
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