Lorrieann's Other World

Closing Night

2011-04-09T07:47:00.001-07:00

I so miss the days when I could sit down at the word processor and put down in words the images I was seeing in my head. Plot and character would introduce themselves to my mind in full lighting and makeup, well rehearsed and ready to perform. I simply took dictation, recording the story they played out for me.

I am beginning to think that my production company has gone bankrupt and all of my players have left me. Did I forget to pay the light bill at the theatre? Did my troop go union? Where did they go?

Now, when I sit to write, all I am presented with is an empty stage. No scenery, no costumes, no actors waiting in the wings. The lights are dark and the house is empty, save for the unfinished playbills scattered throughout the aisles.

If only I'd not lost my sense of metaphor, I could explain it.

Testing the whole type it in Word and post it online thing

2011-04-05T19:20:00.001-07:00

Just trying to configure my my MSWord so that I can blog to my new blog site. But it's not working.

So nothing new there!

And then, inspiration struck . . .

2010-11-06T08:15:00.001-07:00

Or maybe it didn't. I was hoping the title would get me rolling on a great idea for a new story, or at least a witty blog. So far though, not so much.

I've been remiss in keeping my blog lately. The past two years have not been what I'd call conducive to writing funny little bits to keep the masses amused, so may I be forgiven for the lapse in entries?

Ideally I would like to finish a novel or two or six that I've been working for a few years, but I've not had the spirit to go back to them. It's not that they're especially bad — or for that matter good — stories that has kept me away. It's only that the stories have stalled, and are stubborn in giving up their secret endings so that I can keep going. I always let the story (a.k.a. the muse) lead the way, you see. If I try to steer it, move it, or otherwise coerce to go my way, the muse will just flip me the bird and flitter away. If, however, I give him free rein and let him simple dictate the story to me, it goes along fine. I've often describe the creation of my first novel, "My Brother's Keeper" as a hostage situation with the muse. He was a merciless captor who would not release me until I had delivered 180,312 words. I managed to scrape up that ransom in about three months. He was a little less demanding with "In The Wake of Ashes" only requiring 172,347 words. That one took a year. He allowed me 3 years for "By Right of Will".

(Notice how I worked in all my book titles there? That was for your convenience so you can hurry over to Amazon and buy them. Wasn't that nice of me?)

But the muse has been fickle as of late, sending me starts and fits of one story, only to pull up stakes and move on to something else, leaving me with lots of unfinished work. I feel guilty trying to start something new, when I have five projects languishing in my word processor. I want to finish them, I really do. I ruminate on plot, seeing scenes, making plans for this story or that, and when I get to the point where I'm ready to start writing, the muse smites me for daring to work without him.

It had gotten to the point that I had finally decided that my writing days were over. I said as much out loud a couple of weeks ago. "I'm done," I declared. "Archive the prose, fold up the poetry and unfinished short stories, and call it quits."

Later that day, out of the blue, my mother called to tell me that a friend of a friend of a cousin or something knew someone who was maybe interested in doing an interview with me on my latest book. Well, I know mom is well meaning, so I was polite and said, "thanks, I'll let you know if anything comes of it."

I was pretty surprised when something did come from it. I was contacted by Judy Buswick, host of "The Writers", a locally produced show that features local writers with published work. She wanted me to appear on her show. Needless to say, I was pretty glad to do so, so I put in for a day off from my paying job for the day, and got to be an author again. It was fun.

The muse smiled. "Quit huh? I don't think so."

But he didn't bring me any new story. So I figured, I'd just 'slow down'. But really, slowing down from a full stop is pretty redundant, so I just let the glow of the interview warm me for a while, and then quietly slip back into my 'not writing' mode.

Then, my friend Jesse, read one of my short stories on her radio show. "Road Trip" was suddenly being read and I was getting requests from printed versions.

The muse laughed. "Might be time to dust off that word processor, Lorrieann."

So, I came to realize that the reports of the demise of my writing career may have been premature. It's time to start again.

So, that's where I am. Starting over. I'm still waiting for the inspiration to hit, but this time, I have faith that the muse will come back to me. Maybe he'll even be demanding again. That would be nice.

I'm working on setting up a video link to the interview. I'll post it when it's available – or when the technology muse returns and helps me find a way to do it.

Cheers,

Work in Progress - The Letter

2010-08-02T18:13:00.001-07:00

The young courier arrived in the early morn before the sun made even the slightest show on the horizon, much to the chagrin of the inn keeper. The lad, garbed in a rain-sodden broadcloth riding cloak, the mud of the road thick on his boots, stood in the common room of the old Thistle and Crow Inn. His expression was calm and patient, as he endured the barrage of grumblings from the affronted inn keeper.

"What do you mean by banging a man awake at this hour? The inn is closed!" The old man barked, waving his candle toward the door, spattering the lad's cloak with wax. The courier was unmoved. "Did you not hear? Be gone! You're muddying my floors."

"I beg your pardon, sir, but I am sent to deliver a letter to one of your guests."

"A letter? At this forsaken hour of the morn? My guests are all abed and sleeping." He gave the lad a push toward the door. "Return when the sun is high, and be sure your boots are clean!"

The lad pushed back. "You are Ben Aulds, yes?"

The old man narrowed his eyes. "Knowin' m' name won't get you in any quicker — 'specially if I dinnae ken you."

"If you please, it won't take but a moment, I am charged with delivering this now, sir."

"And I said I shall not wake . . . what is this?"

"For your trouble." The lad dropped a pouch into the Ben's hand. It jingled as he caught it. "Now, if you please. I should like to examine your register, to know which room to find—"

"I've but one guest at the moment." Ben eyed the courier warily for a moment, then glanced toward the stairs then back to the pouch again. "The gentleman guards his privacy and declined to sign the registry. Give your letter to me, and I shall see that he gets it."

The lad reached into his cloak and produced another small pouch and held it out, pulling it back slightly when the inn keeper reached for it. "In which room might I find him?"

"Top of the stairs. First door to the left."

The courier dropped the second pouch into the innkeeper's hand, then brushed past him toward the stairs. A moment later he reappeared, and with nary a nod to the inn keeper, hurried past and out the door.

Before the echoes of the closing door had even waned they were replaced by the frantic clatter of footsteps on the stairs. The inn keeper turned, startled to see the tall man, his hair still unkempt from sleep, his clothes haphazardly pulled on, nearly tumble head over heels as he attempted to pull on his boots while rushing down the stairs. "Ben! Ready a horse!" he called, groping for the banister as he stumbled on the bottom step.

The innkeeper rushed forward, catching the man before he fell completely to the floor. "John, slow down, lad. You'll fall and crack your skull, and bleed all over my floor. Now, tell me, where is it you are going at this hour?"

The man clutched at the inn keeper's arms, a wild smile stretching across his face. "She's answered! At last, at last, she's answered! I must leave at once. She's consented, Ben!"

Ben's eyes went wide. "Are you certain? 'Twas truly her hand that wrote?"

"Of course! You know how long I've waited for her reply. Oh, Ben, why the worried face?"

"I worry when letters cannot wait until the light of day to be delivered—even when they've been long awaited. It makes me think there is ill in the wind."

"Always the cynic." John laughed. "You should be congratulating me. I'm to be wed, my friend. By this time tomorrow, I, the lowly John White, the son of no-one of any renown, shall return with the Lady Isabel Fenworth, by my side as my bride."

"But the Lady Isabel . . . the banns have all been called for her betrothal to Lord Penfield, John."

"It is why I must hurry, Ben, the wedding is set to take place tomorrow. I've just enough time to ride to her house in Brighton."

"You're mad!"

"Mad with joy!"

"Do you tell me you intend to just. . . spirit her away like some scoundrel in the night?"

"Scoundrel?" John laughed again. "Don't you see? It was her father who arranged her marriage, not her. The old bastard has no use for the likes of me, a simple mercer, and has told me to my face that he promised her away solely to keep her from being with me. But at last, she has determined to be free of him. Free of them all! Please, Ben, be happy for me."

Ben sighed, and turned away. "I shall be happy when I see you return and all is as you say. I pray these farthings I took are truly from the lady, and will not be your undoing." He rattled the coins, then emptied the pouch into his hands. He let out a surprised gasp, to see not the five farthings he expected but five shining gold crowns. "Zounds!" He quickly emptied the other pouch to find it equally endowed.

"It looks like you've finally made your fortune, Ben. Do you believe now? Lady Isabel is known to be generous." John grinned at Ben's open faced gawk. "I'll need some food for my journey, some bread and cheese if you can spare it." He straightened his shirt, and checked his pockets.

Ben simply stood staring down, idly turning the crowns in his palm.

"Ben?"

"Hmm?"

"The cheese?"

"Oh, yes. Yes, of course . . . cheese . . . " he said, absently dropping the coins into his pocket, before reluctantly disappearing into the kitchen.

A quarter hour later, Ben stood on the door step watching as John galloped away, the first rays of dawn painting the eastern sky red. "Red sky in the morn . . . an ill sign for certain," he sighed to himself. "Be well, my friend."

* * *

He rode hard, stopping only briefly to allow the horse to rest. Brighton, on a fair day, would be a day's ride at least, and he wanted to be within sight of the village well before dark. To do that, he would have to push the horse to his limits. By noon he had no choice but allow the animal long rest, though he was barely half way. He led the horse to a stream, then seated himself on a log to eat some of the cheese Ben had packed. He took the time to read again the letter. The script was delicate and small, slightly less neat than Isabel's usual penmanship, the words few, but in the brevity an urgency he could not ignore. 'Twas written in haste, no doubt, he thought, and after all is not the script but the words that are important.

My dearest,

Come tonight to Brighton. Look for my candle in the window. I shall wait for you.

Your Isabel

"I'm coming, Isabel," he said quietly, his hand resting over the pocket that held her letter.

Well things are rolling along now

2009-10-06T18:31:00.001-07:00

I started in on the new book again the other night. "New" is a relative term here. I've been working on Passages now for three years already. I can't believe it's three years since I started and I'm not even halfway to the finish line on this one. Too many subplots. I need a road map to keep it all straight.

I also realized, to my dismay, that it was a year ago this week that I started writing "Redamntion" (yes I made that word up.) I went back to re-read what I had started and I really like the story. I was moving along really great on that one too. I stopped working on it near the end of January, when I got laid off.

Now, logic would dictate that being out of work should have meant I had all kinds of time to write. And I did have all kinds of time. So why didn't I write? I did, a little. I worked on Passages, fully planning to get the whole thing knocked out before the end of the summer. I was rolling pretty good for a couple of months. I don't remember what triggered me to stop, but I recall opening the word processor one day, and realized that the muse had clammed up again.

So now I'm working for a living again, thank goodness, and enjoying it greatly. My days are busy, and I am going to bed at a descent hour. My time is filled -- so of course it means it's time to write. Yup, the muse is back, and he's demanding my attention, even though I do not have the time I need to be his scribe. Why does that happen?

I have now got four novels in the works, none of them related to each other. I think I'll put together an anthology and call it, The Great Unfinished Works of Lorrieann Russell.

Chapter One: The Last Ballad of Amelia White; begun in June of 2002, and languishes at 72,305 words.
Chapter Two: Farewell Arcana; begun November of 2002 because I couldn't work on Amelia anymore. This one is stalled at 50,253 words, but I really like the story!
Chapter Three: Passages; the last installment of my published series. You'd think I would get that one done just so I can have the whole set.
Chapter Four: Redamntion: begun last year on a lark. Maybe it will turn into a short story.

There are also a couple of others that I've started, and abandoned. How did I ever put 180,000 words together for that first book?

Dilbert explains the power of Twitter

2009-10-04T07:48:00.001-07:00

Well things are rolling along now

2009-08-25T18:56:00.001-07:00

I started at my new job this past week. Talk about jumping right in! It was great. I started out at a conference with a lot of folks who came in from all over the country for a three day event. There was candy and screaming monkeys. What's not to love?

Seriously, I feel like I've not stopped moving for a week. Along with a new job, I went to Maine for a family reunion, drove through two wicked ass thunderstorms and managed to add a chapter to my book.

That was the real strategy to finding a job I think. Get rolling on the book, while I have all kinds of time, then as soon as it is going REALLY good -- blammo -- got a job. I'm not complaining. I'm thrilled.

Yeah, this is just a throwaway blog for the most part. The real writing is yet to come, so please be patient and stay tuned.

Shout out to all my Xanga buds! Thanks for following me here.

The Wait is finally over

2009-08-18T05:56:00.001-07:00

What a great way to be woken up out of a sound sleep -- by the telephone. Usually that would make me upset, but this morning it was a call I've wanted for seven months -- a job offer. Of course, I accepted.

I start on Thursday, which is very quick, but they wanted someone immediately. No problem; my social calendar is pretty wide open, go figure.

Thank you to every one who has kept the good vibes coming my way. I appreciate it all greatly.

I am astounded at how it came about. They say 90% of jobs are found through networking, so I dutifully joined LinkedIn, and other jobish sorta networky places. Did the mojo with Monster and Career Builders and all those places, ya da ya da. . . and to relieve the anxiety, I visited on Facebook -- which I considered to be just a fun place to hang out.

Guess what, it was a chance connection with an old friend from high school I found through Facebook that got me this one.   Well, it IS a network, so I guess that counts. At any rate I'm very happy.

Today, I need to find some clothes that do not have shoulder pads.

Peace!

And so, Lady Songbird has flown the nest . . .

2009-08-17T14:35:00.000-07:00

After five or so years, I have chosen to leave Xanga, where I was know as Lady_Songbird, or LSB to my friends. I realize I had a little bit of a following there and I hope those readers will forgive me, and follow me here, to my new (newish) home.

I will post small works of fiction, essays, photographs and artwork as the spirit moves and time allows, just as always. I invite comment and conversation. Please be civil and polite. I do not have time or patients for meanness. Remember, I am a real human being, and do not take kindly to being called names or bullied.

As a reminder, I think I shall start this new life with a poem I wrote a few years ago, and drag out every so often as a reminder to be kind to those you meet along the road, even if they do not keep the same pace that you set, or choose a different path than the one you would. (Much love to Jesse Coffey for saving this for me!)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You kneel on cushions, droning endless strings of rote syllables, emotionless,
Hearing only the sound of your own voice, and not the message in the words you chant.
And you call yourself pious.

I dance and sing out joyfully to my creator in thanksgiving for the wind and the rain,
Rejoicing at the miracle of each rising sun, and each breath that brings me life.
And you call me heathen.

You place your dollar in the plate, grudgingly, not caring where it is to go,
Yet being careful to record it for the accountant to mark . . .
And you call yourself charitable.

I cry out for the sick, and the old, and for those who have no voice, that they are in need of that dollar you care so little for, yet refuse to offer . . .
And you call me a bleeding heart.

You measure your worth by your portfolio, and you hold your mirror against others in judgment, dismissing those who do not conform to your standard.
And you call yourself successful.

I live day to day, awash in the smiles of children, reveling in muddy hugs and kisses, watching each bloom and grow into his own beautiful soul.
And you call me unmotivated.

You look on me and scoff at the bright colors I wear, and the length of my hair,
You ruefully tell me I am a failure, a burden on society, an assumption born of prejudice.
And you call yourself educated.

I look on you and mourn the life you have squandered for the sake of your pride,
I offer my hand in friendship, and you turn your back, laughing at my impudence.
And you call me ignorant.

You sit, surrounded by the muted tones and elegant vestments of your station,
Alone with only the indifference of the plunder of your corporate pillaging . . .
And you call me . . .

And I answer . . .

misty-spec

2009-07-30T18:38:00.001-07:00

misty-spec, originally uploaded by Lorrieann.

I took this photograph a couple of days ago while on a hike up Old Speck in Grafton Notch State Park in Maine.

It has been a very wet summer, so the woods are exceptionally green and moist. When the sun does finally shine, everything is in a misty haze.

This shot is the last difficult portion of the trail, just below the summit. The photo does not do justice to how steep and daunting that portion of trail was, but it sure was pretty.

I used an Olympus SP-550UZ, set on a night exposure. It made for an interesting effect.

Flickr

2009-07-30T18:37:00.001-07:00

This is a test post from , a fancy photo sharing thing.

Book Covers I've Designed

2009-06-02T11:30:00.001-07:00

Happy Everything Day!

2009-05-30T20:10:00.001-07:00

I hereby decree that from this day forth, the 29th day of the month of May shall be known as: Everything Day!

Everything important in my life seems to happen on this day.

May 29, 1939: My mom's birthday.   She is 70 this year and is not the least bit happy about that. She still thinks of herself in her 40's I think. But that's cool, she can do that. She can still run circles around me with a dust mop (and sometimes does, literally).

Mom always gets upset because she thinks she gets forgotten on her birthday - especially milestone birthdays. For example, she was was miffed that I was the one who got the cake on her 40th birthday, 30 years ago because ---

May 29, 1979: I graduated from high school.   Yup 30 years. Good lord where the hell did those years go? Anyway I remember it like it was yesterday. My sister baked me a cake that was shaped like a piano.

It was very selfish of me to have my high school graduation fall on mom's 40th birthday.

Thee years later, I was planning my wedding. Toby and I had originally chosen April 24, but there were some complications with that date, and we had to reschedule. Mom volunteered to help us find another place and date, and it absolutely could not be any later than Memorial Day because, (gasp) my gown had long sleeves, and it just wasn't done that a June bride wore long sleeves.   So guess what day she managed to secure for us?

May 29, 1982: 27 years ago today, I got married. I got a cake that day too. You can also imagine that I was a bit distracted with my own event to remember to bake a cake for mom. I did arrange for the DJ to sing her a happy birthday song -- which had to be worked into his schedule of obligatory wedding dances.

Every May 29, since, I have celebrated an anniversary. Can I be forgiven for thinking of that day as my anniversary first, and mom's birthday second?   I never forget to send flowers afterall.

There is another fun fact about this day.

Those of you who have my book "By Right of Will" go ahead and open up to the first page, and check out the date. Yup, May 29, 1588. Mom was tickled that I picked that date as the birthday of my main character.   But there's a secret to it. You see, I found my character while doing research into my own genealogy. There really was a William Fylbrigge and his birthday really was May 29. I changed the year to suit my story -- just don't tell mom.

So, Happy Birthday Mom!

Happy Birthday Will!

Happy Anniversary Lorrie and Toby!

Happy 30th Graduation Anniversary Lorrie!

And Happy Everything Day to all of you.

In Defense of Black Flies!

2009-05-26T17:29:00.001-07:00

The unofficial state bird of Maine (NH and VT too): The Black Fly.

Oh
how I loathe them. They bite like a shovel and draw blood instantly.
They bite through clothes, and bugspray and buzz around your face when
you're trying not to fall off a mountain. They form clouds around your
head, that you can not help but inhale, and they burrow into your
ears.

So why defend them?

Simple; they're part of the natural order of things.

Oh
believe me, I'd like to not have to deal with them, but I simply cannot
defend the use of spraying to deplete them. The spray is bad for other
animals for one thing, and it smells bad. There is another more
bio-friendly way to deal with them that only attacks the larvae, that
the state is using, but I don't like that either.

You simply cannot remove an entire species from the food chain just because they are annoying to human beings.

If
the annoyed tourists yell loud enough, and the state complies, then
these silly people will wonder why the fish population is down, when
all the flies are gone because they starved. They'll panic and try
force stocking more fish which where they don't belong, or blaming it
on the birds eating too many. . . in short, it would just mess up the
balance of everything by trying to cater to one small part of the
chain.

The flies are a bane to any hiker's existence, but all
we have to do is wear a net, or OFF or something and we're just fine.
We don't need to destroy them all. Or if we really cannot stand them
even with these precautions, the we can simply stay out of the woods
for the three or four weeks each year that they are active. Silly
people think they own the planet.

Anyway, here are some
pictures from today's hike. We chose to go up old Monadnock again, on
our yearly pilgrimage to the most trod upon mountain in America. It
was perfect weather for hiking too. (Alas the flies liked it as well),
and the view was top notch.

I'm very tired, so I'm just going to post the pictures. :) (see if you can spot the flies) Enjoy:

For more see the FaceBook Gallery. (No flies )

Just when I thought it was Safe to Go Into the Tub...

2009-05-25T18:22:00.001-07:00

The cat has discovered the joy of lurking between the shower liner and the outer shower curtain. I didn't see her hunched on the edge of the tub, tucked up close to the wall as I pulled the curtain for my shower. I didn't notice the tip of her fuzzy tail whipping back and forth as she peeked around the small gap near the wall, biding her time, waiting for the perfect moment to attack.

There I was, in my most vulnerable state, enjoying a nice hot shower, my hair and face covered in suds, when suddenly, I was dancing with a wet cat. She pounced on blob of shampoo, landing squarely on my foot.

I jumped and yelled, "What the hell?!" squinting through the suds that had now fallen into my eyes. I saw the blur at my feet as she hopped around the tub, trying to find the way out. I danced around trying to avoid stepping on her or slipping.

She ran around my feet, circling like a motorcycle daredevil in a giant barrel, climbing the side of the tub a little higher each time, but still unable to find her escape. I reached for the shower head, trying to divert it away from her as best I could, when the spout came off in my hand. Suddenly, the gentle jungle spray I was enjoying became a fire hose that hit me square in the face. I jumped back, zigging at the last second to avoid the crazy cat, who was now on her forty-third lap around the tub. My right foot slid west and my left slid east and it took only a nano-second for my ass to go south.

I missed the cat when I landed, but startled her enough that she stopped running. She had found the one spot in the tub that the fire hose seemed to avoid and was just sitting there, tail curled around her feet, little head cocked to one side, watching me as I struggled to get back on my feet.

I managed to get my feet under me, and stood up enough to get my balance. I turned off the water, reattached the shower head and looked down at the cat, who was still sitting there licking water off her paw. I pulled the shower curtain aside and told her she could go now.

She looked up at me, looked at the open curtain, and went back to licking her paw. After a second she looked back at me and meowed as if to say, "So, turn it back on, I need to rinse you know."

I picked her up and put her out for the tub. I was still covered in soap and did need to rinse and was not willing to do the cat dance again. I restarted the water, and kept my eye on the curtain this time. All was well.

When I pulled back the curtain, a terrible realization descended on me. You see, when I went into the bathroom originally, I closed the door -- of course. The cat was not in there when I did so. She has learned to open the door and that is how she'd found her way to visit me. The shower is directly across from the door. The bathroom is situated in such a way, that when the door is open, there is a clear view of the street through a living room door window, to the shower.

The UPS man smiled, tipped his hat and hurried away.

Tomorrow, I may sell tickets.

Beginning in June 2009

2009-05-25T18:16:00.001-07:00

I will be moving my Xanga blog to this space.

Redamntion: Continued

2009-03-20T18:23:00.000-07:00

Work in Progress: Redamntion by Lorrieann Russell

~ * ~

The afternoon had turned chilly, even though the sun was still bright in a perfect sky. Logan pulled the zipper up on his jacket and tucked his hands in the pockets. He wished he’d thought to bring his gloves; he knew how quickly the temperature could change once autumn got a foothold on New England. The breeze was not all together unpleasant however, blowing the stench of the traffic away from him as he crossed square toward the far end of the marketplace.

Autumn always brought crowds to Boston. Tourists wanting to walk the Freedom Trail, and snap pictures of the historic buildings, bunched around markers and maps, pointing out the landmarks around them. Tour guides led groups, patiently pretending that no one had ever before asked them if they could “pahk their cahs at Hahvahd Yaaaahd.”

“Why would you wish to do that?” Logan interjected merrily, startling the young man who had just asked the guide the obligatory question.

“Huh? You know…that’s how they talk, here,” he replied with a smirk. “Everyone knows that.” His own accent was decidedly southern.

“Oh? Who?” Logan asked. “Who speaks that way, I’m sure I’ve never heard it.”

“You know, the locals. Y’all must not been here long.”

“Long enough to know that a car parked in Harvard Yard would most assuredly be towed. So to answer your query, the answer would be no. We do not park there. Good day.” Logan smiled and walked away, leaving the young man red faced amid a chorus of snickers from the rest of the group.

His amusement soon faded as he hurried through the bustling square. A wave of melancholy settled on him as he glanced around at the businesses that had sprung up in the venerated old square. Where once stood open air markets bursting with produce and seafood, goods brought on ships and where tradesman sold their wares, now stood shops bearing names like Starbucks, Borders and Pier One. He hurried by the windows emblazoned with imports and designer clothing, not giving so much as half a glance to the merchandise on display. He quickened his pace until he reached the far end of the market, and turned into a dark and narrow alley, to find the one shop he had come to loyally, every October the 12^th for as long as he could recall; Todd’s Odds.

He pushed the antique door open. The jingle of an old brass bell announced his arrival. Instantly his mood changed as he breathed in the aged and musty smell of the ancient merchandise. Stacks upon stacks of books lined the narrow shop, closing in on all sides. One had to know what he wanted very precisely at Todd’s as it did not lend itself to casual browsing. The books seemed to be arranged mostly by size rather than subject, or author, with the proprietor’s personal favorites obvious by their lack of dust and prominence in the window.

“Todd? Toddy? Are you back there?” Logan called. “It’s me, Logan.”

A shuffling sound and a slight thud, followed by what sounded like an avalanche came from the back room, behind an faded and worn calico curtain. Logan waited a moment, resisting the instinct to rush to Todd’s assistance. After another thud–a crate of some sort hitting the floor–a voice called out, “Logan? Is that Logan? Is it October already?”

The curtain was shoved aside revealing the gnome-like smile of old Todd Franklin, owner and proprietor of Todd’s Odds. His bright eyes widened behind his gold spectacles and he thrust his hand toward Logan. “Come in, come in! It’s good to see you my boy, come, come. Tell me about your year.”

Logan chuckled, grasping Todd’s age-withered hand. He casually pulled a long strand of cobweb off the old man’s glasses, then pulled him close for a hug. “Oh Toddy, what am I to do with you. Still determined to bury yourself in your own stacks are you? When are you going to hire an assistant?”

“Assistant?” Todd scoffed, waving his hand. “When I’m old, and not until then. Uh . . . did you bring any . . .”

Logan reached into the pocket of his jacket and retrieved a silver flask adorned with a red velvet ribbon, and presented it to the old man. “Would I forget?”

Todd’s chubby cheeks lit up in a smile as he took the flask, and went about burrowing under the counter, presumably looking for the two goblets he’d stashed there a year ago, the last time Logan had been there. Logan took off his jacket and draped it on the bell hook on the door, and as was the custom, locked the door and turned the sign to “Closed.”

Todd had since found the goblets and after blowing the dust from them, was filling each with an ample amount of the amber liquid that came from the flask.

Once filled, Logan took his cup and held it up. “Here’s to the way it was. . .”

“And the way it is . . . ” Todd continued.

“And the way it ever shall be,” they said together, clinking the goblets and drinking the contents in one gulp.

“So,” Todd began after a moment, “what will this year be?”

“The last year,” Logan replied quietly, looking into his empty goblet.

“You say that every year, son.”

“A man can hope.”

“A man surely can,” the old man said quietly patting Logan’s hand.

Logan half smiled. “You say that every year, too.”

“I suppose I do. Now, what text will you be teaching from this year? Homer? Plato?” Todd set his cup down and wandered to one the precariously stacked book shelves. “Ah, how about the entire collection of Zane Grey?”

“Zane Grey?” Logan laughed.

“Ah, it was a long shot. I could use the space they’re taking up. Was worth a shot.”

“No, Todd, I’m not even certain you’ll have what I require this time.”

Todd looked over the rim of his glasses, raising a brow. “That’s doubtful. Unless of course you’re looking for something published more recently then 1953.”

“No, I’m sure it’s a bit older than that.”

“Name it.”

Logan drew a long breath, then said quietly, “The First Emanation.”

“Are you certain?” Todd whispered, taking a step closer to Logan.

“It’s the last year, my friend. I’m certain of it this time.”

Todd hesitated only a moment then pushed the calico curtain aside and disappeared into his back room. After another round of shuffling and soft crashes, he emerged, holding a small wooden box no bigger than a matchbook in his hand. “Are you certain?”

Logan nodded.

Todd sighed, and with a trembling hand, gave the box to Logan. “I won’t see you again, will I?”

“No,” Logan answered, almost silently. “Thank you, my friend.” He retrieved his jacket from the bell and put it on, then tucked the little box protectively into the breast pocket. “You know, there’s always hope.”

“Of what?” Todd asked.

“I could be wrong.”

He stepped back into the crisp air of the marketplace, and hurried down the alley not wanting to look back. He knew Todd was standing at the window watching him go, and he knew that by tomorrow, no trace of Todd’s Odds would remain at Faneuil Marketplace.

To be continued . . .

Work in Progress: Redamntion by Lorrieann Russell

2009-03-09T08:34:00.000-07:00

“Where to?”

“Faneuil Market, please. At North Street.”

“You got it.” The cabdriver flipped the meter without so much as a backward glance as he pulled away from the curb. “Oh geez,” he grumbled as a group of conservatory students crowded the crosswalk in front of him, seemingly unconcerned with clearing the street before the light changed. Two young men, each toting instrument cases the size of sarcophagi stopped mid way across, looking up at the tall buildings around them. The cabby gave the horn a loud blast and stuck his head out the window. “Yeah they’re called buildings! Youse can see ‘em from the curb too!” The students gave him an ingenuous smile and hurried across the street.

“Conservatory kids,” the driver said with a chuckle, glancing into the rearview mirror. “They got more dollars than sense if ya know what I mean.” He turned his attention back to his driving. “I only yell to keep ‘em movin’, ya know? Not every cabby in Boston gives a damn. Run ‘em over as soon as honk, but I figure, they’s someone’s kid, ya know? I got kids, so I know how that would be, ya know? Mine don’t go to no fancy music conservatory, but I they do ok. You got kids?”

“Hmm? I’m sorry, what did you ask?”

“Kids–you got any?”

A slow smile crossed the passenger’s face as he glanced out the window. “Thousands. None my own. All of them, my children.”

The cabby looked at him through the mirror, one brow raised. “Eh?”

“I’m a teacher.”

“Oh, now I get ya. I had a feeling you did somethin’ callin’ for brains–Hey! Bonehead! There’s a reason the little man has an X on him!—you look the type.”

“There’s really no need to worry about the pedestrians. I’m in no hurry.”

The cabby grinned. “Yeah? Good, the meter goes on time, not miles, ya know what I mean?”

The passenger smiled. “Take your time.”

“Your dime.”

“So,” the man said after the light had changed. “How many do you have?”

“Eh?” the cabby asked, looking through the mirror.

“Children. You said–”

“Green means GO on my planet! Oh kids, I have two. Teenagers, boy and girl. Twins. Eighteen next month. Though I swear I put on forty years of gray hair raisin’ ‘em.”

“I’m sure. They can be a challenge.”

“They’re good kids,” the cabby said abruptly. “I ain’t so afraid of them getting’ in trouble as I am them gettin’ in, you know—trouble.” The tires screeched as the car came to a sudden stop. “Damned T buses think they own the street. The lights count for you too!”

“What sort of trouble do you worry about? Drugs? Alcohol?”

“Naaah, they’re good kids. I taught them to stay away from that shit. See I don’t make no big deal about a beer now and then, so they don’t go out sneaking it. And as far as drugs, they seen enough of what it can do . . . and they get that. No I worry about the other guy you know? More worried about what they’ll have to live with out there in the real world once they get out ya know?”

“Ah, I understand. The real world. Away from the hallowed ivy walls of the school.”

“They got ivy at BHS?”

“Metaphor.”

“English right? You teach English.” The cabby turned toward the square. “Probably know real good grammar. High School?”

“No, history. At Standish Preparatory. It’s out near–”

“Standish?” The cabby let out a high whistle. “Out on Gibbons Island?”

“Yes, that’s right. You’ve heard of it?”

“My girl wanted to go. She’s got the brains and the grades for it too, but it’s. . . a little out of my reach if you get me. Nice place if you’re a . . .” he let the sentence hang, and turned the cab onto Congress street. “North Street up a head.”

“I take it you’ve visited Standish.”

“Yeah, I took the kids out on the ferry a couple of summers ago . . . no offence, mister, but that place didn’t exactly fill me with a warm fuzzy glow. I think every brick in the place must have been a million years old. Makes this place look brand new,” he said gesturing toward the old market buildings as he turned onto North Street. “The headmaster said it used to be some sort of loony bin.”

“Asylum. Yes, two-hundred years ago.”

“Yeah. And it’s probably haunted by dead loonies.” He glanced in the mirror. “You ever seen a ghost?”

“No. I don’t believe in ghosts.”

“No? I sure do.”

The passenger smiled. “Good. Keep believing. We need more believers in the world.”

“If you say so.” He pulled the cab to the curb, and flipped the meter off. “Well, here’s your stop. Fourteen-fifty.”

The man handed the cabby a twenty. “Keep the change, and thank you for the ride.”

“What did you say?”

“I said, keep the change.”

The cabby smiled. “No, I meant . . . you’re welcome. I don’t hear a lot of thank yous. Hope to drive you again.”

The man leaned toward the driver’s window before walking away, slipping a card out of his breast pocket. “There are scholarships available. Give me a call. My name is Logan. My number is on the card. I’d be happy to see what could be done for your daughter. I promise, if there are any dead loonies lurking about, they are all very well behaved.”

The cabby took the card, staring at the man’s face, then down to the card, then back to the man, a slow smile brightening his face. “Thank you!” he tucked the card in his pocket. “And be careful crossing the street. The cabbies in this town are nuts–I’m goin’! Keep your shirt on!—thanks again, Mr. Logan!” With a honk and squeal the cab disappeared into a herd of other similarly colored taxi cabs that crowded the square.

To be continued . . .

Red Sky in the Morning

2009-03-02T08:24:00.001-08:00

It didn't seem at all like the best of situations, but they were
determined to get out to Gibbon's Head before the sun came up. Jack
checked his equipment, tapping lightly on the display of his electronic
barometer, shaking his head.

"What's wrong?" Donna asked.

"This thing can't be right. It says there's nothing out there."

"Nothing? As in weather nothing, or nothing nothing?"

"Nothing. No clouds, no atmospheric pressure, no. . . anything." He shrugged and tossed the thing into his rucksack.

"So why take it? Look up there, does that big black swirl to the west really seem like 'nothing'?"

"I'm taking it so you have proof that we set out in a storm by accident." He
chuckled nervously, looking toward the west. "You know, you can say you
were going on instruments and didn't see the lightning. That way you
can claim my life insurance."

"That's not funny, Jack." She grabbed the binoculars and took a closer look at the western sky. "It's moving fast. And it's low. I've never seen that color at dawn. It's
practically purple."

"Good thing we're headed east then. It's pretty over there. Nice and red."

She turned to him in surprise. "Jack, you ass, that's a red sky in the morning!"

"So?"

"Duh, red sky in the morning? Sailor take warning? We're nuts. Can't we wait another day?"

"The boat's ready now, Donna. We only have three days before we have to fly home. It's today or never."

"It's getting windy. Check that damned thing again. You probably hit a reset on it or something."

He pulled the little electronic weather station from the rucksack with a
sigh, and flicked on the power. "There happy? It says. . . "

"What?"

"Well . . . it didn't say that before." He tapped on some dials. "Uh, nothing."

"Again with the nothing! Can I remind you that I don't have any life insurance, and you'll be screwed when I drown?"

His look was near comical. "You don't?"

"Not a cent."

"I thought. . . never mind. Come on, let's get going. We can be out to the island before the storm."

"What? Are you crazy? I'm not getting in that damned boat! The sky is getting blacker by the minute!"

"Not according to this." He tossed the weather station to her.

The display flickered into life, showing a little icon of a smiling sunshine. "Fair weather?"

"See? All is well."

"That's not what it said a minute ago and you know it."

He smiled down at his hands and looked up at her from under his tousled
hair. It was that 'I'm too cute to be in trouble' look that he knew
would disarm her. It did. "It's our only opportunity to see the
island. We'll get there, dig around the caves for a little while. . ."

"What about getting back here, Jack. Did you forget that part?"

"I packed fruit bars."

"Jack!"

"And a tent, and provisions for three days if we need it." He smiled again. "See? Everything is under control."

"I hate camping."

"The sleeping bag is for two."

"Is it . . . soft?"

"Like a rabbit."

He traced his hand on her cheek and smiled that cute smile again. "It's going to be fine."

THREE MONTHS LATER

". . . in closing I would like to remind the jury that my client was
unaware of the approaching storm. It was not a case of. . . intentional
negligence at all. The decision to venture out was made on good faith
based on the faulty equipment manufactured by the defendant. Therefore
I believe full damages should be rewarded."

There is a pause in the courtroom as the judge considers the testimony. The jury is
weary, having listened to hours of arguments from the zealous lawyers defending the manufacturer and the impassioned rebuttals from the plaintiff. The judge gives his instructions and sends them to deliberate. Two of the jurors are holding tissues to their faces. Women. The council for the plaintiff counted on there being sympathetic women on the jury. Women who could be moved by the sorrow of losing a loved one in such a dramatic way. Women who could empathize with a poor decision based on love.

It only takes a hour and they are back in the court room.

"Have you reached your decision? "

"We have, Your Honor. We find in favor of the plaintiff in the amount of five million dollars."

The court is dismissed, and all file out. The lawyer takes the plaintiff
aside. "That was touch and go for a while, congratulations."

"Thanks."

"Well, this judgement on top of the life insurance should set you up for quite a while."

A slow innocent smile crossed the plaintiff's face. "She had no insurance."

"No?"

"Not a cent. Thanks again, you've been a tremendous help."