Intuition

2015/2017/2020

Speculative Fiction; 88,000 words

Sixteen-year-old Kira dreams of becoming a doctor. She lives in Elysia, a glittering city in the clouds, and devotes every waking hour to studying medicine. Seventeen-year-old Saeth struggles to survive in Aureus, the world below: a sunless, crumbling wasteland plagued by hunger and disease.

When a cadaver goes missing from Kira’s anatomy lab, she uses her emerging gift of Intuition (an almost magical ability to sense hidden truths) to track the thief to the surface. There, she discovers Saeth—who, recognizing her as a medical student from Elysia, kidnaps her in a last-ditch effort to save his dying sister.

As the two form an uneasy alliance, they begin to uncover a dark conspiracy behind their divided worlds. Told in dual POV (think Sarah Dessen meets Rick Yancey), INTUITION follows Kira and Saeth as they work to dismantle the rigid hierarchy enforced by the Board of Trustees. But the Board isn’t completely evil—they’re doing their best in an impossible situation—and Kira’s well-meaning revolution might spark a catastrophe instead. 

As the truth unravels, she must face a devastating choice: save the people she loves, or risk everything to save humanity.

INTUITION blends medical suspense with speculative fiction, centering on healthcare inequality—a theme inspired in part by my experience practicing medicine in Africa. Rather than offering easy answers or clear-cut villains, the story asks a central ethical question: What sacrifices are acceptable in the name of saving humankind?

I stand before thick copper doors, clutching rolls of green, yellow, red, and black tape. The arches of my feet ache inside their shiny gold, high-heeled prisons. Ordinarily I would have insisted upon something more comfortable, but I wanted to look my absolute best for my debut. It is not often that one joins the ranks of the most recognizable and hated people in the world.

A headache pulsates at my temples. My hair, threaded with gold and lavender ribbons, is being pulled too tightly from my scalp. It is not much longer until the tight schedule and cameras have to move on. I am tempted to stay here and wait. To give myself another year before I walk through these doors, or perhaps five, or ten, or never.

Nauseated, I gaze at the rolls of tape one last time. I then tuck them deep within the folds of my lavender, gold-trimmed dress, which was tailored to match each curve of my body. I carefully lift the front of my dress and make my way forward. The copper doors, sensing my movement, swing open.

In that instant, the silence is shattered by desperate, miserable cries. They echo off the walls and the high, vaulted ceiling. Moments later, the thick miasma of feces stings my nose.

I stumble, and my right heel catches on the chiffon. It is with more luck than skill that I manage to catch myself before I pitch forward onto my face. Mortified, I glance up at the cameras. That is all the screen time I have before the cameras turn off and roll away.

My first appearance as the newest member on the Board of Trustees.

With a groan, I kick off the heels, and I leave them behind. The wailing cacophony assaults my ears as I stride across the balcony. My feet throb with every step. Once I reach the end, I have to force myself to lean over the wrought iron railing. The hexagonal walls begin to spin around me. The saliva shrivels from my tongue.

Although I had known what to expect, nothing had prepared me for this.

Thousands of babies are overflowing in every inch of this cavernous room. Their mouths are flung open in ferocious screams, and their tiny tongues tremble with the effort. Pink and blue striped beanies cover their hair; the youngest still have plastic yellow clips on the stumps of their umbilical cords. Amidst the cradles squeeze green-vested Aurean workers, who deliver bottles of milk and sing as they change the sopping wet diapers.

Bile rises in the back of my throat.

How do I choose? How can I choose?

I twist, and the vomit lands on the balcony instead of the babies and workers beneath me. I vomit again. And again. Four times total. I do not wait for my stomach to settle before I pick my way down the metal staircase to the ground floor; I have already wasted too much time. As I walk, I allow my Intuition to wander over the tiny, warm bodies. Bright colors explode like fireworks in my mind.

My gaze falls upon Baby 471. She is wailing along with the rest, her eyes screwed so tightly that I am unable to see their deep newborn blue. I unlatch the crib and lift her into my arms, and I cradle her against my chest. I breathe in her soft, silky skin. Her wails dissolve into hiccups. She looks around, her eyebrows slightly raised as she takes in her surroundings. A small dash of yellow blooms in her mind.

I do not like it, but I know what I have to do. I place her back in her crib, and I fasten it again. I swallow hard as I pull the rolls of colored tape from my dress. Memories come back to me: of flat grey air in a desolate landscape, of parents guiding their cachetic children from filthy shacks to filthier factories, and of an old woman with a thick grey ponytail as she rocks back and forth, knitting a shirt for a baby whom she will not live to see.

This is the life that I have chosen for Baby 471.

My fingers tremble as I rip off a small piece of black tape. It sticks to my skin, so I use both hands to press it against her crib. I smooth it down with my thumbnail. Again my gaze is drawn to her. She smiles at me, and then she giggles. In this moment, I believe that she is the cutest thing that I have ever seen.

I smile back at her through tear-filled eyes.

“Good-bye,” I whisper.

I drag my eyes away from her. It it only then that I notice the workers. They are staring at me, motionless. Goosebumps flare on my arms. They must have some idea of what this means for them to look at me this way.

A woman comes forward to wheel away the crib. She does not hide the venom in her eyes. I watch as she unlocks the wheels of the crib and rolls the baby away. Just before they disappear down the corridor, the baby opens her mouth and squeezes her eyes shut, ready again to cry.

I force myself to look at the next baby. Slowly, I unroll the yellow tape.

This is not going to get any easier.