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Charles Dickens and copyright law.

Charles Dickens is famous as a Victorian storyteller par excellence. Through his novels he campaigned for social justice and educational reform (Oliver Twist, Nicholas Nickleby to name just two); created memorable male characters (David Copperfield, Pip in Great Expectations, and Scrooge in The Christmas Carol); but wasn’t so hot on portraying realistic women (Little Dorrit).

His works were very popular, with readers waiting impatiently for each installment, and family groups gathering round the hearth whilst the new episode was read out loud (no telly in those days). But, despite personally campaigning through his literature for better education for all, his books were primarily bought by the educated middle classes – they were too expensive for poorer people.

This left a gap in the market for unscrupulous jobbing writers who tapped into the widespread wish to read Dickens. For a fraction of the selling price, they would churn out pastiches of the originals – Oliver Twiss, Nickelas Nickleberry etc. By all accounts, these rip-offs were dreadful. But they were affordable, and they got the working classes reading in their thousands.

Edward Lloyd, an enterprising (and soon very rich) publisher, at one time had around a dozen writers working for him on Dickens-like stories – often with the final installment coming out before Dickens had written his.

Understandably, Dickens became exasperated by this abuse of his efforts and in 1837 he took Lloyd to court in an attempt to ban the publication of The Penny Pickwick. He failed because the judge pronounced that the rip-off was so dreadful no-one would be fooled into thinking it was The Pickwick Papers by the great man himself. However the case was a significant step on the way to the creation of copyright law in the UK.

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Beware of ‘writing fancy.’

Beware of ‘writing fancy.’ This is the advice of Benjamin Dreyer in his book Dreyer’s English: An Utterly Correct Guide to Clarity and Style. Some writers and grammarians would argue that there is no such thing as an ‘utterly correct’ way of writing; words and grammar evolve, and so long as your reader can understand clearly what you have written in the way you intended, it is correct enough.

But Dreyer is the chief copy editor of the American publisher, Random House, so his advice may carry more weight than the writers of other style guides – especially if you want to get published by Random House.

Perhaps surprisingly, Dryer approves of Twitter. For him “It’s brought a punchy smartness to people’s writing.” (I’ll buy into this, and justify my growing addiction to Twitter as a means of honing my prose, not putting off doing any ‘real’ writing.) He is wary of political correctness, but can live with ‘they’ instead of ‘he / her,’ though believes that ‘ze’ is never going to catch on.

He advises newbie writers against ‘writing fancy’ as you can end up “tying yourself in all sorts of grammatical knots,” which he and other copy editors would have to unpick if your novel – against the odds – found its way onto their desks. And he advises against what he calls ‘throat clearers’ – words like ‘very,’ ‘rather,’ ‘really,’ ‘infact.’ Take them out, he says, and the sentence is stronger.

He also writes a lot about danglers,* whilst admitting that many proof-readers, copy editors, let alone readers and writers, don’t spot them. So maybe we don’t need to worry too much about letting them slip into our writing then?

*If you really want to know what a dangler (or dangling participle) is, it is when the first part of the sentence does not match with the second. For example, in the sentence ‘Walking through the field, the cow lowered its head and mooed, and the girl decided to turn back.’ Grammatically, it is the cow that is walking in this sentence, but few readers would understand it as other than the girl. Hence, the cow mooing etc is the dangler in this sentence.

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Writing Fiction – encouragement from the best.

If you want to improve your fiction writing, there are plenty of guide books out there to help you. So many, in fact, that you could spend all your available time reading them and never get round to putting pen to paper yourself.

I don’t think that two of my favourite novelists read such books. If they did, they certainly didn’t mention it. But both, in their own way, managed to include words of encouragement for other authors into their manuscripts. It was a craft they were both truly proud of, and recognised the hard work that goes into writing good fiction. Here’s Jane Austen addressing fellow writers in Northanger Abbey.

Let us not desert one another; we are an injured body. Although our productions have afforded more extensive and unaffected pleasure than those of any other literary corporation in the world, no species of composition has been so much decried. From pride, ignorance, or fashion, our foes are almost so many as our readers. …

“And what are you reading Miss –?” “Oh, it is only a novel,” replies the young lady; while she lays down her book with affected indifference, or momentary shame. …

Or, in short, only some work in which the greatest powers of the mind are displayed, in which the most thorough knowledge human nature, the happiest delineation of its varieties, the liveliest effusions of wit and humour are conveyed to the world in the best chosen language.

And here is George Eliot, in Adam Bede, proffering her thoughts on fiction writing.

Ignore prototypes of good, evil, beauty, ugliness and describe real humans: flawed yet admirable. Falsehood is so easy, truth so difficult. The pencil is conscious of a delightful fallacy in drawing a griffin – the longer the claws, and the larger the wings, the better.

But that marvellous facility, which we mistook for genius is apt to forsake us when we want to draw a real, unexaggerated lion.

[Its} a very hard thing to say the exact truth, even about your own immediate feelings – much harder than to say something fine about them which is NOT the exact truth.

Both saw writing novels as a noble cause. Demanding, hard to get right, but something to be proud of, not embarrassed about. None of your ‘Oh, it’s only a novel’ false modesty for them!

And now from the sublime to the ridiculous (Stop it Margaret, stop being so diffident!) here are the links to my books and social media

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A poem for the morning after the night before.

Writers in English love playing about with words, often with humour and to take a dig at the more po-faced or traditionalist among us. I am sure it is not just an English speaking and writing phenomenon, but my language skills are so limited that I can’t put it to the test.

I’ve been sorting through the last of my late mother’s papers recently, and came across some documents she had kept that had been saved by my father who had died nearly twenty years earlier. He was a great one for press cuttings – mostly about his swimming club and my brothers’ prowess in pool or on the running track, but also articles and letters to the editor, or poems, which had amused him. One I felt particularly apt for a Sunday morning blog.

A reader had written in to The Times, maybe fifty years ago, to see if anyone knew the last two lines of an inebriate’s take on the well know nursery rhyme Twinkle, twinkle little star, that started with the words Starkle Starkle little twink.

Sure enough, the following week another reader had come up with the verse. So, if you’re feeling a little worse for wear this morning, here is the poem for you:

Starkle, Starkle little twink

Who the Hell you are I think

I’m not under what you call

The alcho-fluence of inco-hol.

I’m just a little slort of sheep

I’m not drunk like thinkle peep

I don’t know who me yet

But the drunker I stand here

The longer I get

Just give me one more drink to fill my cup

‘Cause I got all day sober to Sunday up.

That’s it for this week. If you are sober (or drunk) enough, you may want to follow these links to my books and social media. There is always at least one story or anthology that is free to download.

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Meet Author Robert Hoppensteadt

I meet a lot of interesting people on this blog, who have come to writing along very different routes. Robert says he sobered up when he was thirty five and really started thinking about writing again then.  It had been an old dream that got lost in the chaos.  Before that he had a lot of different jobs.  Once he got it together he established a very lucrative professional career and found that he did not have what it takes to devote the time to writing a novel and also handle the demands of a stressful and responsible job. He did take some time off and self-published a novel in 1990s when print on demand was in its infancy, but after that he found poetry to be great outlet and something he could handle.  He wrote some pretty decent poems and got published over the years.  He has just started writing novels again after retiring early for that purpose.

What is the title of your latest book?   It is titled The Shelter.  It is a thriller with a bit of romance that is set in Nome,  Alaska. It takes a look at what could happen if one of the many pathogens coming back into the world as a result of melting permafrost is deadly to humans.  Here is the blurb from the cover:   In the half-light of an Alaskan summer night Matt Tulugak pulls his truck off a gravel road and gets out to relieve himself.  Looking out over the tundra, he sees a brown gash where permafrost has melted and sloughed off a low hillock.  A bony claw reaches out of the mud.  He shivers in the light breeze, notices the crescent moon hanging low in the sky, starts to walk.  As he approaches the claw it resolves into five huge mammoth tusks arranged in a circle.  Within the circle a human skull, half buried and yellow with age, looks through empty eye sockets into a world that is about to change forever.

What are the most challenging aspects of being a writer? And the most rewarding? The most challenging for me is the loneliness of the task, it is kind of an inherent contradiction that we create and write pretty much in solitude but we want the finished story to be read and find a life of its own among many.  The most rewarding is when I have completed something I can be proud of and it is read and enjoyed by others.

What is your top tip for an aspiring writer?  I have only gotten one novel published so far that was not self-published so I am still aspiring myself.  Keep at it and work hard, write every day.  And when you write do it because you have something you really want to say or create, not just because you want to be “a writer” in some abstract sense.  Also when the time comes to send your work out to be judged, don’t let rejection get you down. Every rejection is just a step closer to getting the only reply that matters.  Make sure what you do send out is professional and fits what is being asked for, take some time to learn what formatting is expected and make sure the work is as perfect as it can be.    I used to think that if something was written well enough it doesn’t matter how it is presented.  That was naïve.

What are you working on at the moment?  I am reworking a novel I did some time ago and also writing a new novel that is semi-autobiographical.  I have lived an interesting life and want to use those experiences to create a good story.

What do you like to read?  I read a lot of good but forgettable thrillers.  I also like reading the ancient writers – Caesar, Cicero, Seutonius, Herodotus, Tacitus, Homer etc. – and I like pretty much anything that is well written and not too slow.  I read Huckleberry Finn every few years, I like historical fiction like Edward Rutherford and Collen McCullough. I like horror especially from folks like Dean Koontz who always have something positive in their stories, fantasy in the vein of Tolkien.  I don’t enjoy grim and depressing.  As a kid I burned through all of the Edgar Rice Burroughs novels and still pick one of those up from time to time.

Where can readers find you? My author page link at Amazon is https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B07R3CFZC9 

You can also follow me on Twitter @RHoppensteadt and my FB author page is https://www.facebook.com/RHoppensteadtauthor/

Meet Author David W. Thompson

David W. Thompson is married, and the proud grandfather of twelve. He loves fishing, hiking and kayaking (well, pretty much everything outdoors). Indoors he enjoys woodcarving (and has even won an award or two) and makes his own fruit wines. He attended classes at the University of Maryland University Campus, mostly in Nuremberg, Germany, but also in Georgia US, during his stint with the US Army. He graduated shortly after his Expiration of Term of Service release. He’s been writing for some time (mostly short stories), but became more serious about it once he retired from a management position at Boeing in 2013.

What is the title of your latest book? The latest is Sons and Brothers and it’s the third book in the Legends of the Family Dyer trilogy. Although it can be read as stand-alone, readers will have an enhanced understanding of the characters if they’ve followed Moll’s family from the beginning. In Sons and Brothers, after losing past battles to the Dyer family, Laris has one last chance to complete Lilith’s demonic hit.  Disguising his possession as insanity, he intends to win this war …  Two cousins reunite the family at a hunting camp in the Potomac Highlands. Their three friends help oppose the ancient evil: Anna–a hesitant Native American spiritualist, Lenore–a teenager just discovering her shape-shifting abilities, and Bridget–a “regular” teenage girl with too much to lose…and plenty to gain. The “hero triumvirate”, with the help of Anna’s spirit guide, embark on a life and death challenge to save their friends from the encroaching darkness. 

Along with this latest release from Solstice Publishing, I have another book that’s to be released in early September from The History Press titled Haunted Southern Maryland. It’s an eclectic blending of history and fiction… well some would argue the fiction descriptor as the tales include personal and historical hauntings and speculates on the reason and timeframe of the hauntings.                                                                                                                                                                            What are the most challenging aspects of being a writer? And the most rewarding? The hardest part is when I’m editing and find a section that I consider some of my finest story-telling, but recognize that it doesn’t move the story along so have to cut it out. It’s almost like losing a friend.               The most rewarding? Hmm, the idea of leaving a piece of yourself behind for future generations…an immortality of sorts? That’s pretty cool. Then there’s personal satisfaction of a job well done of course, and having readers’ recognize your efforts. What could bebetter? Some of my favourite responses?“I’m so glad the author wrote this book.” “This book will stay with me forever.” I thought about this book for weeks after I finished it.” “Not only a great read, but an important one.”These provide the impetus to move on, continue improving my craft…maybe I’m doing something right and improving at least a few lives…                                                                                                                 

What is your top tip for an aspiring writer? Find a good editor who shares your vision and write, not necessarily what you know, but what you love. That makes all the research enjoyable. And keep writing!

What are you working on at the moment?  I’m well into an anthology of short stories, all of which could be called dark fiction, even though some have happy endings! I hope to have a story related to the major holidays…with a different slant on them of course!

What do you like to read?  Everything- including cereal boxes. LOL If I had to limit myself however, it would be the same as what I write: horror, magical realism in the fantasy genre, historical fiction and dark fiction in general. Dystopian fiction has also received a lot of my reading attention of late. It’s only when we’re a bit scared that we really feel alive!

Where can readers find you?

Amazon Link https://www.amazon.com/David-W.-Thompson/e/B076L9CF3W/   

Twitter @Thompson_DavidW  

Facebook https://www.facebook.com/AuthorOfParanormal/ 

Website https://www.dthompsonwrites.com/

And finally,  here’s an extract from Sons and Brothers

Part I

Chapter One

Night descended on the mountains, thick as molasses and corrupting all it touched. The full moon floated above the tree-line, bloated as roadkill left in the sun. If he stretched, he might snatch it from its perch. It emitted little light, a scarred pumpkin with its jack o’ lantern face mocking his torment. Barren branches were fleshless fingers grasping to ensnare the jeep, and rip out his soul…

St. Mary’s County, Maryland. September, 1990

Brodie Caine

The trotline cord glided through the johnboat’s roller system. The stains of dredged mud and deep-water slime gave testament to many trips here. The trolling motor was locked at an angle to maintain the boat’s course, compensating for the incoming tide’s pull.

He felt the jerk on the line, gentle at first as the creature took hold, then a stout pull as it latched on to his offering. He peered through the murky depths and saw the creature’s mouth open and close, savoring its victim’s flesh.

As if sensing danger, the sea dweller flailed one claw from side to side in warning, prepared to defend its right to the captured prey. Its smaller claw and saber-tipped legs skewered the exposed meat and fat, unwilling to share. As it was pulled toward the surface, greed trumped caution, and the predator became the prey. He readied his net as the ghostly crab floated closer to the surface until…

With a flip of his wrist, he moved his net under and up. The large blue crab broke the surface in a clacking frenzy of legs and claws. He noticed the long thin apron and smiled, then reached out to squeeze its carapace.

“Good, no more sooks or paper shells.” He hoisted the crab over a bushel basket and flipped the net over, dumping his latest catch in with two dozen other large bodied ‘jimmies’—adult #1 male crabs. He pulled the chicken neck off the trotline’s slip knot and rolled the line into a bucket for storage. It would be his last run this year. The nip in the air signaled the changing season and the crab run was slowing anyway—even if they were fatter. Maybe his mother would make them some crab cakes for dinner…

He stowed the rolled trotline behind his seat, pulled the trolling motor prop out of the water and reached down for his paddle. There was time to explore before his mother came home. He dipped the paddle, breaking the water’s surface with a moist whisper, no more than a wet kiss. It reminded him of Uncle Jim’s visits. His tobacco juice spit made the same sound hitting the porch floor in front of their house trailer.

Just south of where he ran his trotline, a small creek dumped its waters into the bay. It was a famous creek—at least by local standards. His best buddy, Mike Cusic, claimed it was a haunted stretch of water, cursed by a vengeful witch because of some atrocity committed by colonial settlers. Mike said it happened like a thousand years ago, yet strange things still happened there and on the surrounding property. Ghostly wisps of fog that followed unnerved hikers, boats flipped upside down by unseen obstacles, and even a few dozen car wrecks on the nearby state road over the years.

He turned the bow of the johnboat into the creek and wondered what it must’ve been like then—years ago when the country was still new and raw. This stretch of the creek looked just as it must have then. Invasive phragmites reeds covered banks once populated by wild rice and cattails, but otherwise…giant maples and sycamores, hundreds of years old, stretched their branches toward him in a welcoming embrace. And the people then? Were they so different? Perhaps they caught crabs from this same stretch of water and feasted that night on food earned by the sweat of their brow. Sustenance drawn fresh from the sea and land. Independent—leaning on no one, a man’s value based on the strength of his back and his husbandry of the land—not an unearned birthright.

He sucked in a great draught of salty air, stretched and slid down to the floor of the johnboat, resting his head on the abandoned seat. The push of the tide reversed the water’s flow and pulled his small craft deeper into the creek and its surrounding woods. His mind drifted to that other time and the mist of a dream shrouded his eyes.

The marshy banks gave way to open woods [A1] and beyond, he saw a small field or large garden. A30-ish man and a woman his age worked the ground between the rows of what looked to be very anemic tobacco plants. Their hoes moved up and down tending the scrawny thin leaved plants—thwack, thwack, thwack. They worked with the tenacity and rhythm of machines, only stopping to wipe the sweat from their eyes. On this warm late summer day, the man was dressed in long sleeves, pants with suspenders, and heavy work boots. The woman wore a bonnet and a dress that bunched up at her ankles—although she worked in her bare feet.

Did he drift up to a Mennonite farm or was it a historical reenactment the county sponsored for tourists? He grabbed a branch to pull his johnboat to the bank while he observed.

Although in clear view, the workers (or performers) feigned ignorance of his presence. Bent at the waist, the cadence of their hoes increased, creating a beat not unlike tribal drums. The man stood to full height and twisted back and forth to work a kink from his back. He shielded his eyes and stared in Brodie’s direction.

“Zachary? Are you being careful down there?”

A splash to his right and he turned to see a dark-haired boy, no more than five years old, sitting at the creek’s edge. He would’ve sworn the lad wasn’t there moments before. The child was dressed like the adults in the field and slapped at the water beetles scurrying over the water’s surface.

“I’m careful, Uncle.” The boy raised his eyes and his mouth flapped open.

“Sorry,” Brodie said, “I didn’t see you either. Did I scare you?”

“No, but you’re bigger than I thought you’d be, Mister.”

“Huh? What do you mean…?” but the boy’s attention was already back to the water. He slid his hand in the creek and pulled it out with a splash. He ran toward him, his right hand cupped in front of him.

“Look what I caught, Brodie.” He opened his fist to display a tadpole. The immature frog’s vestigial legs dragged it across the boy’s palm. “This is gonna be a baby frog. You ever seen one before?”

He nodded and leaned over the johnboat, holding the boy’s wrist steady to admire the prize. “What’s your name, buddy? Do we know each other from somewhere?”

The boy shook his head and jerked his hand away.

“What’s wrong, little man? You look like you’ve seen a ghost or…”

The woman from the field was suddenly there and snatched the boy from the water, stood him on the bank and pointed to the field. “Go home, now.”

“It’s okay, ma’am. He was just showing me…”

The woman grabbed the bow of the johnboat and swung it around against the current as if it was weightless. “You don’t belong here, Brodie. This isn’t your time.”

“Huh? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“These new lands and waters are bountiful, but blood is thicker. Do you not find it so?”

“What in the hell are you talking about, lady?”

Her eyes bored into his. “Stay out of the mountains, Brodie. Only evil waits for you there.” With that, she gave the boat a herculean shove that propelled the vessel sideways downstream. It slammed into a submerged widow-maker log and flipped.

He woke coughing up water from his lungs. Standing in the waist-deep creek, he wiped his eyes. The johnboat was floating away—already at the first bend and he raced to catch up with it. Trotline cord drifted behind the boat and he gathered it up as he reached the boat. He wasn’t as lucky retrieving the crabs. The hard-won dinner was gone, but his paddle and crab net floated just ahead. The expensive trolling motor battery was also gone.

God, what a crazy dream. It had to be a dream, yet he couldn’t help looking back for reassurance. Upstream no opening in the woods indicated a field, no one stood on the banks—and he looked…really looked. He heard a distant thwack, thwack, thwack… Hoes slapping the dirt? He tuned his ears towards the sound. The awkward flight of a pileated woodpecker provided a triumph of sanity.

“Sweet Jesus, I sure need this trip to the mountains.”

Chapter Two

Hampshire County, West Virginia

Anna Hirsch

She never imagined a single knock at the door could upend her life. The knocking indicated some urgency, and she rushed from the shower, donning her robe as she descended the stairs.

 Flashing red and blue lights filtered through the cigarette stained curtains over the foyer windows. Oh no, Mom…? But no, her mother was sprawled out on the couch. Her snores echoed through the small house like pigs rooting in a garden, sleeping off whatever she’d put in her system this time.

“Hampshire County Sheriff. Open up or we’re coming in.”

“I’m coming.” She turned the corner towards the door and loose threads from the well-worn carpet snagged her toe.

“Ouch, ouch, ouch.”

Another rap at the door “Ma’am, is everything all right in there?”

“Yes, I’m coming.” She limped to the door and threw it open.

“Miss Hirsch, is it?”

“I’m Anna Hirsch.”

“Ma’am, is your mother at home?”

“No…I mean yes, but she’s sleeping.” She nodded toward the living room. “What’s this about, Officer?”

“I’m Deputy Stiles, Miss. I have a warrant for the arrest of Madeline Hirsch. Please step aside.” The deputy didn’t wait for her to comply, but pushed past her to the living room. Clumps of red clay mud fell from his boots marking every step. A second deputy moved past her, nodded an apology and joined his companion. They bound her mother’s wrists together with tie wraps.

“Madeline Hirsch, you are under arrest for the murder of John Clarke.” The second deputy pulled a card from his shirt pocket and read her Miranda rights. “Do you understand your rights as they’ve been read to you?”

“What? No…no I don’t understand. Oh, I get it. Did my friends send you here for my birthday next week? You are lookers, I’ll give you that.” Her mother smiled and winked at the deputies. She offered them no resistance… until they led her from the room.

“Wait, no wait…what’s going on? Where are you taking me?”

“Ma’am, I repeat, you are under arrest and charged with murder.”

“Anna, call your grandfather. Tell Mika we need his help.”

“I will. Stop, you’re hurting her. Mom, stand up and walk. We’ll get this straightened out.”

Phone calls to the sheriff’s office provided little information. The following morning, Mika’s lawyer called to fill her in.

“The sheriff’s office claims your mother drove into Martinsburg last evening. That she was trying to get money for drugs and…this isn’t very pleasant, Miss Hirsch, but your grandfather said to tell you the truth…”

“Please do…”

“Well, apparently, she’d tried to turn a trick. The potential john ended up concussed in an alley behind the liquor store. There was a bourbon bottle covered with his blood beside him and your mother’s fingerprints were all over it. His wallet was taken and it was found in your mother’s vehicle last night.”

A cornucopia of emotions consumed her: concern, betrayal, the pain of desertion, and yes—guilt. Could she have helped her somehow? Was she too wrapped up in her own drama to see her mother’s need?

The next phone call she received was from Social Services. They deposited her at her grandfather’s cabin that night. Lovestown, West Virginia, was her new home.

* * * *

She closed her eyes and let the spray from the shower soak her hair and wash away the remnants of tears from her face. The water pressure was stronger than at her mother’s house. She felt her eyes well up and she allowed herself a moment of self-pity. It was too much to deal with, even for someone accustomed to the pains of betrayal: her mother, Mr. Simmons, and Garren. Dear God, even Garren.

She shook her head to clear her mind and bit her upper lip to brace herself against the world. The hot water quit before she finished, but she didn’t have the luxury of time today anyway. She rushed, not in anticipation of the new day, but in a hurry to put it behind her. Stepping from the shower, she felt for the towel rod.

“Damn, forgot the towel.” Water dripped from her raven’s hair (Garren’s description) and formed a small puddle on the tiled floor. Shivering, she hugged her arms around her chest and dashed to the closet, snatched a towel, and vigorously patted dry. She tossed the towel to the floor and pushed it about with her foot to mop up the puddles. Her grandfather needed bathroom rugs.

The morning marked a new beginning in a short life full of new beginnings, none pleasant. Her existence remained in constant flux since her father walked out of their lives two years before. It seemed to her that the dust from the moving vans had barely settled in Martinsville, and now her mother’s adventures left her homeless—a virtual orphan. Her grandfather welcomed her into his home with the full sanction of the state, and of his heart. The one constant in her life, he had the stubbornness common to a man of his years, and the wisdom that old age is often given credit for, even if undeserved.

The thought brought a smile to her lips that transformed her eyes. She wiped the fog from the bathroom mirror, and flipped back her hair. Heavy and wet, it swished and slapped the small of her back. Feeling as shallow as the girls she silently mocked at her former school, she stared at her blurred reflection.

Although less than a quarter Native American, her skin was nearly the same tone as her grandfather’s. It was a source of great pride to her, a tie to her past and to ancestors she held in high regard—an admitted albeit clandestine vanity. Her skin reflected who she was but was also a banner celebrating non-conformance. A flag setting her apart in a world that paid token homage to what it secretly abhorred—diversity. She blushed, stuck out her tongue at her reflection, and smiled. At the knock on the door, she pulled the towel tightly around herself.

“Anna, are you nearly done?”

“Almost. Washing the sleep from my eyes.”

“Don’t want to be late on your first day. Hustle up.”

Great, another new day in another new school, but maybe it would turn out better this time. As she dressed, she allowed her mind to wander to kayaking the South Branch River with Garren—experiencing it in a way most people missed. The gentle pull of their paddles drawing them around each bend to absorb every new vista. Dragonflies used their hands and feet for landing pads as they performed their mating dance. Majestic raptors soared toward the mountain peaks, and in the span of a single breath were gone. Blue herons clumsily walked the banks on stilt-like legs, but when alarmed, displayed their grace in flight. The memories were so intense; she could smell the sweetness of the water, and even stare into the depths of Garren’s blue eyes. She knew she’d miss those times together…that she’d committed the ultimate blunder from the look in his eyes, and the stiffness of his body. She’d forfeited a friendship she treasured more than any other.

She released the memory before a half-formed tear could fall, and finished brushing her hair. As she pulled on her bra, she felt the pinch of her birthmarks, the three raised parallel lines imprinted under her left breast. Probably need a larger cup size, she thought, but not something she’d talk to her grandfather about. She finished dressing in black jeans and a matching blouse. An antler amulet completed her trademark uniform.

Her mind drifted off to Garren again. He said she shouldn’t let the xenophobic fools get under her skin, her coppery colored skin. That her differences were what made her special. He said people might see her for who she was then, and not the caricature of her they’d created in their minds. It would be nice to fit in somewhere, with someone. But she knew people would see what they wanted to—no matter what she did.

Before her faux pas, he’d told her to put Mr. Simmons in his place, knee him where his momma never kissed him, or even punch him in the jaw! It was all easy for him to say. He’d never known prejudice…never seen the smirks on faces of a majority unlike himself…never been the focus of a dozen sets of eyes from a hostile clique. Still he was her Garren…or had been.

But she was no hero. No warrior against injustice. No, she’d stalked from the room wet eyed, and timid as a rabbit.

“Anna!”           

Chapter Three

Hampshire County, WV

Garren Doyle

The crosshairs moved over his intended prey, then steadied as he squeezed the hair trigger. The sharp crack of the .243 caliber rifle shattered the stillness of the morning.

“Ha, clean kill!” He smiled. The rifle’s echo bounced from valley to hilltop and back again, heard mostly by the animals living in those hills. The blast from a firearm was not an unusual sound here. In fact, it was a sound common on any given weekend in the rural Appalachians. The immediate fear it might cause among closeted city dwellers was not felt here. It was certainly of no import to any of his neighbors, furred or otherwise. He felt the weight of the rifle in his hands, admired the artistry of wood mated to metal and knew the significance.

His whoop of joy created an acoustical double exposure as it merged with the last weak echoes of the rifle’s shot. It felt childish getting so excited over a target, but when your talents are few, you celebrate what you do have. Shooting was the one thing he excelled at.

He drew in the smell of burnt gunpowder, savoring its acrid flavor. Autumn in the mountains…how could anyone live anywhere else? The trees displayed vibrant oranges, reds, and yellows in tones never created on any artist’s palette. The colors danced and came alive in the breeze.

“Garren? You doing okay?” his mother yelled from the back porch of their cabin.

“Great, Mom. Three targets, three bullseyes, can’t beat that.”

He ran to the house, targets in hand. As he approached the back porch, his mother placed a half-peeled apple and her paring knife on the table. She pulled her blonde hair out of her eyes and looked at, or rather through him. He knew where her mind went when that faraway look entered her eyes. How had he grown up so fast? Just yesterday, Adam was killed in the car wreck. Just yesterday, she’d endured birth pains. Just yesterday, he was potty trained, started school, had his first crush… Now her only son would join the men in deer camp for a week.

“Earth to Mom…?” He waved his hand in front of her indigo blue eyes. Eyes matching his own.

“Your father would be proud.” Diana took the targets from his outstretched hand. “It looks like you’re a pretty fair shot.”

“Don’t forget your promise.”

“I keep my promises, young man. Assuming your Uncle Jim promises to keep you safe, that is. Sixteen does seem young to be up there with a barely civilized pack of men though. Are you sure you don’t want to wait until next year?”

He felt his jaw drop, then saw she was biting back a grin.

“Do you think he would?”

“He who? Uncle Jim?”

“Dad. Would he be proud of me, you think?”

“Of course he would. I wish he could see you now…but then, I guess he does…”

He wondered what his father would think. In fact, he wondered about the man period. Was he glad when his mother got pregnant with him? Did he want a child? He’d heard the gossip—whispers from people not quite in earshot. Snippets of conversation suggesting his father’s accident maybe wasn’t an accident at all. Maybe Adam Doyle couldn’t handle the pressures of fatherhood. Sometimes he questioned the story himself, and then he’d feel like a traitor to his father’s memory for allowing the thought to come to fruition.

For a change, his mention of his father brought a smile to his mother’s lips. Often he came home to find her crying for no reason, usually with a framed picture of his father in her lap, repeating over and over, “Why Adam, why?”

He was worthless to help when melancholy overtook her. Sometimes she’d remain in the dumps for several days after her tears dried. She weathered a lot by herself, and when she needed him most, he couldn’t help. He felt useless, ineffectual, and immature. There was nothing worse than being unable to help someone you love, to have to stand by while they suffered. He grabbed the crucifix hanging at his chest. Holding it brought him comfort, a tie to a father he never knew. His mother said Adam was never without it and she passed it to him after one of her crying marathons.

The worst part about his mother’s pain was that it was entirely his fault. He was like a deer tick: sucking the life from her, and leaving nothing of value in return. He was the reason she worked so hard, and why she never had any boyfriends. After all, everyone talked about Diana’s beauty. He admitted it was true, even if she was his mother.

“Earth to Garren, now who’s spacing out?”

“Sorry, just daydreaming about the hunt. Will you be all right while I’m gone?”

“You had to grow up too fast, didn’t you, Garren? I think this poor decrepit old woman can look after herself for one week. I’ll be fine. I’ll never forget the first week your father and I hunted that mountain together. I never felt more alive.”

“Come with us then. Show us a thing or two,” he suggested.

“Not this year. You check it out, and do your male bonding thing. If you see a lot of deer and bring home some venison, maybe I’ll go next year and show you how it’s really done.”

He smiled and hugged her. This hunt would be the best week in the history of man. He turned, and headed inside to clean his rifle.

“Oh, hey Garren? Your Uncle Jim said he worked out a way for your cousin Brodie to go to camp too! Aunt Lily couldn’t afford the money the men put up for the cook, so Jim set Brodie up as cook’s helper so he can get in some hunting too. I’m sure Mika could use the help too.”

His mother’s eyes darkened as they always did when she spoke of her sister Lily, or Lily’s son Brodie for that matter. He knew there was bad blood between them, but it wasn’t something his mother cared to share.

His Aunt Lily called last May to see if Brodie could stay with them during the last month of school. Lily said her job required her to go on 30 days of travel. He’d heard their phone conversation, or at least his mother’s end of it.

“Since when are grocery store clerks required to go on travel? Um hmm…um hmm.

“You can be straight with me, Lily. Did you get another DWI? Um hmmm…sure, right—whatever you say. But yeah, Brodie can stay with us. None of it’s his fault after all.”

He wondered if that side of the family were always the black sheep. He had little in common with his cousin. They didn’t like the same video games or TV shows, and where Brodie was, trouble was sure to follow.

Brodie said his mother trusted him for the length of his leash, so maybe he was proving her right. Or maybe some people were just born bad…all he knew was if Brodie was around, he was at the heart of any mischief… or was blamed for the same.

They did find one interest in common: the outdoors. Still, he wasn’t very close with his cousin and he wasn’t sad when Brodie went home after school ended for the summer. But by mid-summer, they were forced to be bunkmates again.

Again he heard his mother and aunt arguing on the phone, his mother’s phone left on speaker as she bounced around the kitchen fixing dinner.

“Diana, the two boys hardly know each other.”

“They just spent the last month of the school year together.”

“Yes but they were in different schools. How much time together did they have with homework and all? And Brodie was in Hampshire High and Garren was in that fancy hoity-toity private school…”

“Don’t you dare, Lily…”

“Sorry. That was uncalled for. But hey, just for the week? I know Brodie would love to show Garren off to his friends and take him crabbing. And I’d love to see my nephew. What do you say?”

Finally, Diana agreed that a week in the trailer park wouldn’t scar her child for life.

* * * *


 [A1]Either: a …. wood

Or: (no a) woods

Plain – or Plane – Sailing?

Last month there was an article in The Times titled Turning a boat into artwork isn’t plain sailing. This prompted a curt letter to the editor from a retired merchant naval captain who said that the term was plane sailing not plain sailing. Plane sailing, he explained was ‘a simple method of sailing short distances, assuming the earth is flat.’

He’s right that this is the correct definition of plane sailing – I looked it up. But what, therefore, does plain sailing mean? I turned back a page in the dictionary and discovered that the most commonly understood meaning of plain sailing these days is ‘smooth or easy progress.’ It also means ‘sailing in a body of water that is unobstructed.’

The Times is a daily newspaper, not a nautical magazine, so I think their heading, conveying a lack of smooth progress, is perfectly acceptable. But to avoid getting into choppy waters and risking a fleet of irate sailors tacking towards my front door, cutlasses at the ready, I may play safe, choose to avoid any nautical reference, and just say that ‘turning a boat into an artwork isn’t easy.’

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