I stared blankly at the large screen, its words flashing directly above my head. Even the ambience of normal airport noise couldn’t distract me from gawking, nor could common decency intervene to close my gaping hole of a mouth. I blinked four times to clear my vision, hoping to be jolted from this inconvenient day-mare. Nope, it didn’t work. The stupid thing still read “Flight 221 to Heathrow— Cancelled.”
“You have got to be kidding me!” I scream-whined out of frustration. “Grr….” There were several older, very obviously American tourist ladies congregating nearby, all donned in matching Campbell plaid vests, white shirts with lace cravats and some kind of touristy kilt-like skirt for women—again in Campbell plaid—looking at me as if I had been raised in a barnyard. Well, I did just growl out of frustration, I’ll give ’em that, but I was not decked out in a medium-weight wool. In July. In New York. I smiled apologetically (because they looked so cheerful and silly), and waved, ensuring them I was not about to attack. They turned slowly back to their maps and itineraries, though by their wary glances it seemed likely they were still not quite sure if I was harmless or not. Right about then I felt like I had been reared in a barn and not given any coping skills with which to manage this crisis, rather than the unremarkable, pleasant upbringing that l experienced in actuality. It must’ve been the heat and that promotion to Account Manager, effective immediately, that was getting to me. “Okay, let’s not freak out, Maisie. You can totally deal with this minor setback. This has happened to you before and it got sorted out rather easily. Piece of cake.” I tugged at my suit to straighten it, pivoted on my heel, and, with confidence, stomped straight to the ticket counter–then back again when I realized I had forgotten my trusty carry-on bag, which was packed with such impressive efficiency that I didn’t need a suitcase (not that l’m bragging very much). I was very proud of my ability to travel lightly, even with my camera equipment and occasional costumes I usually only required one additional checked bag. I smiled smugly to myself as I hoisted the strap over my shoulder and proceeded to the ticket counter for real this time.
The skill of packing efficiently didn’t arrive overnight, that’s for sure. I had acquired a lot of practice improving upon my technique as an assistant photographer and costume historian who traveled extensively, photographing period costumes for magazines, books, private collectors and any other organization that was willing to pay the big bucks to my employer, renowned worldwide. Talk about an awesome job–and now that I’d gotten the promotion I’d strived for three years to achieve, I felt even more enthusiastic about the future…and the past.
So now began the true test. With the promotion came complete responsibility for this plumb new assignment in England that we’d bid on and won. In addition to having another person to help on assignments–the flighty but surprisingly efficient Julie, who wouldn’t be catching up with me for three more days, the promotion meant I was placed in charge of the whole job, start to finish. So, sorry for being frazzled, but I didn’t want to blow it before even leaving the U.S.
I was traveling to Bath (or “Baaath” as the English call it), to a small costume museum that, in a few weeks, was having a grand opening for the public to come in and view the collection. I was hired, or rather my employer was hired, and I was sent, to catalogue each piece before being displayed and to verify the years and styles of certain pieces that seemed to stump everyone else. I questioned my boss about the authenticity of a historic costume museum just opening now, in the 21st century, but he assured me that most of the pieces were acquired through private collectors over decades, if not centuries. It seems that the owners of the museum, an esteemed, pedigreed family of the area, had finally acquired a large enough collection to open it to the public, which was their intention all along. In fact, I was anticipating the initial meeting of these seemingly benevolent folks at the museum very much. The problem was that it was scheduled for 10 a.m. local time and so…
Damn it if this flight was going to be cancelled on me now!
I had a crucial meeting to attend to, and I was nothing if not punctual.
I shook off my slight frown along with my thoughts and stared at the wisp of a girl in front of me as she barely cleared the top of the ticket counter. I wondered if she was old enough to be employed. She wore an expectant, annoyed expression, as if she had said something brilliant and was waiting for me to respond.
I almost had to look down on her; at five foot eight, I was nearly towering over the poor thing. “Hi, how are you? Yeah, my flight’s been cancelled and I need to get to England. ASAP.”
“Ticket, please,” she demanded in a surprisingly deep monotone. I handed it over dutifully. Do as you’re told and no one gets hurt, Maisie. “Flight 440 leaves in an hour for Gatwick. That’s all I have.” She looked so bored. I began to think they weren’t paying her enough to even be civil, or that perhaps she hadn’t yet been taught manners in kindergarten.
“Okay then, Sunshine, give it to me.” Two hours later I was on my way to jolly, old England. Notice I said two hours later; it seems Sunshine was a bit off on her time estimates, after all. As I nuzzled peacefully down in my seat, I sighed once and thought of the exciting journey ahead before I settled down into one of my favorite pastimes—sleeping. I passed the seven hours delightfully dozing.
I wrote this story a long time ago and have not developed it further. It was another book idea just like last week’s story. I’ve tweaked it so that it can appear along with this picture that instantly reminded me of my story. Thanks for giving my story a home, Kevin!
Edit: all of the installments of the story have been published. Before you read The Traveler, read Prequels I-IV. Then read The Traveler, then the Sequel. I will put the links below. It will make more sense if you do it that way, as these were Chapters 1-6 of a book I haven’t finished.
Now read The Traveler, the story you in right now. It starts below.
After reading the story below, you are ready to read The Traveler sequel here
And that is where the story ends – for now. Thanks everyone for reading and supporting my almost-book. 🫶
✨
As I stepped off the curb, I wondered why I had agreed to repair the gowns, and then, why I didn’t just travel the four blocks to my hotel. While I was trying to avoid tripping over my feet, I looked to the left for vehicles coming toward me. Problem is, I was in England.
Stepping out into traffic and looking the wrong way, well, I didn’t see the black blur that was suddenly next to me—on me — is a more apt description.
I lay in the road with people milling around me for several minutes before I came to. A sharp, rich, English-accented, male voice bellowed, “Doctor! We need a doctor at once!” My eyes shot open in alarm when I realized he was most likely calling the doctor for me. I saw blurry figures peering down at me, with one leaning over, precariously close to toppling. Confused, I closed my eyes again and wondered with a goofy smile if every man in Heaven spoke with a British accent. Heaven would be just fine in my book, if so. Suddenly sleepy, my eyes stayed lazily shut as I gave into the drowsy, light feeling.
“Madam! No! Do not shut your eyes! You must keep them open or you might never open them again!” A crisp, rich voice ordered stiffly. Who is this guy? His piercing voice is disrupting my nighty-night time, I thought as I tried snuggling into my blankets. I reached for them, but when I did, I felt no blankets, no cozy warmth. No covers? Why don’t I have any sheets on my bed?! I cracked one eye open to survey.
“Eeks! I’m lying in the middle of the freaking road!” I screeched as I bolted and sat upright, immediately regretting that sudden move, as the searing pain in my right arm caused the nausea to rise in my stomach in a flash and I froze to avoid vomiting.
“Madam, do not move!” It was The Voice again.
“Oww, my arm really hurts,” I croaked out after the nausea had passed. I squinted my blurry eyes in the direction of the guy with the cool voice, but I didn’t see anyone there.
“Clear the way, the physician is coming through,” Mr. Voice ordered the onlookers. His authority seemed to do the trick. As I surveyed my bum arm, I heard the bustle of the crowd as they parted. Wow, this guy must have pull in some major quantities.
“Oww,” I hissed at the pain and decided to leave my arm alone. My head hurt, too, but with my left hand I couldn’t find any gashes on my face or head —that was a good thing. Maybe I have a concussion. “I so don’t need a concussion while in England. My insurance will not cover this,” I mumbled to myself. Feeling less nauseous, I tried to crawl-unnoticed-to the my bag that I had with me when I was hit. My sight was still a bit fuzzy, but Mr. Voice could see me, apparently.
“And where are you going?” he asked with mild interest. I stopped mid-crawl and smiled up at the blurry face sheepishly.
“Over here to check on my bag?” I offered helpfully.
“No, you most certainly are not. The doctor is here to examine you for bodily harm following your accident,” he answered simply. He placed his hand on my shoulder gently but firmly, to let me know I was not moving another inch.
“Okay, whatever.” I shrugged and glanced up at the face with the somehow familiar voice. He was so close now that I could make out his features with ease.
“It’s you!” And it was him-Nicholas Langdon, Royal Pain in the Ass, from the museum. Same chocolate brown eyes, same dark brown hair, same hot bod, same voice… It all made sense now.
“Nick Langdon.” I narrowed my left eye and gave him the once over. Okay, the thrice over.
He blinked three times. “Pardon me, madam?” He asked quietly with large, disbelieving chocolate candy coin eyes. “I am quite certain we have never met before.” He studied me for a few seconds. “How do you know my name?” he asked with thinly veiled interest. He had the nerve to sound ruffled!
“Ha! That’s a good one, Nick. Not twenty minutes ago you gave me orders not to destroy the gowns!” I rolled my eyes and studied him closely, my vision finally focusing enough to scan my immediate surroundings, which, at present consisted of one handsome but irritating Langdon and one older man with a sadistic streak who carried a black physician’s bag.
“Ouch! That hurts…doctor.” I said suspiciously as I narrowed my eyes at the dude carrying the bag.
“Sorry, dear. Please do stop moving,” he pleaded with an exasperated sigh.
“Right. Say, Nick…what’s with the get-ups you two are wearing?” I nodded first to him and then in the direction of the doctor. He didn’t answer me immediately, rather, he looked at me blankly for several seconds. I looked him over closely. Somehow he and the doc had gotten their hands on some darn good Victorian costumes. If he swiped those from the museum and he’s yelling at me for repairing two gowns, l’ll deck him. I fumed to myself. Still, it was a gorgeous outfit. I tried not to gawk.
All topped off with a top hat, naturally. Nice, very nice, indeed.
The jerk looked dashing. The doctor was similarly outfitted but not nearly as scrumptious.
“Excuse me, Madam, but I don’t know of what you are speaking. Perhaps you are out of sorts now you have been struck by the carriage-“
“Carriage? Carriage?”
“Yes. Carriage.”
“Is that what you people call them?” I snorted.
We looked at each other as if neither one of us spoke the other’s language.
“Yes, ma’am, it is,” he said slowly so I could follow. “As I was saying, perhaps you are out of sorts since your…er…accident.”
“Don’t get condescending with me, Langdon,” I pointed at him and frowned at the doctor who forced me to look up and down, side to side, following his gloved finger.
“What is your name, madam?” The doctor asked warmly.
“Maisie Reynolds.”
“Miss Reynolds, can you tell me today’s date, with the year included, if you please?” The doctor winked conspiratorially at Langdon, as if he were on the precipice of curing me. Knowing the date was not going to help fix my arm. And even if I had a concussion, I wasn’t suffering from amnesia. I wished someone would call an ambulance for goodness sake.
“It’s August 12th, ’05.” I answered drolly. Duh.
“Ah, ha! There is the problem, my dear!” The doctor exclaimed.
“It’s August 12th, yes, but the year isn’t ’05, it’s 1904.”
Langdon said smugly, apparently overjoyed that he could break this news to me.
I did a double-take right there on the ground. And then I laughed and laughed. I wiped my eyes as the tears streamed down.
“Nick you really got me with this, I’ll hand it to you. 1904.
Carriages. Top hats and Morning suits. What a hoot! And look, you even got Doc here to participate in your theatrics. And that woman over there…look at her gown! Isn’t it fabulous—” My voice trailed off.
I glanced around me as quickly as I could with a pounding headache and noticed then that the entire street was authentically 1904-ish.
There were old cars, cobbled streets, finely dressed ladies and gentlemen mingling with the poorest, grimiest-looking of the poor. There were cozy storefronts, an open market, and a very real stench of coal.
“Amazing, just amazing. Nick, this is one hell of a recreation.
Is this all for the grand opening?” I looked up at him with wide eyes, completely convinced he was a genius – a sexist pig genius.
Nick shared a look of concern with the doctor who was rummaging through his black bag for something to wrap my elbow with.
“Er-” Nick waffled.
“What?” I felt a sense of foreboding all of the sudden, like I had entered the Twilight Zone.
Nick crouched down and took my left hand gently. His eyes were mesmerizing and so kind. Okay, I thought, now I know I have a concussion.
“Mrs. Reynolds-“
I shook my head. “No. Not ‘Mrs., “Miss. Doc was right the first time when he addressed me as ‘Miss. Mrs. Reynolds is my mother.”
Nick gasped slightly. “And you travel alone, without a chaperone?”
I scrunched my face up in confusion. “Huh? Why would ! need a chaperone? I’m thirty, for God’s sake!”
“I see…” A look of amusement passed over his face, but just as quickly, Nick put his business face back on. “Miss Reynolds, I am Nicholas Langdon—”
“YEAH, I knoooow… What is going on Langdon?” I frowned at his latest Captain Obvious act; he could do so much better.
“Ahh, I do not know how you know my name, as it is quite apparent by your manner of speech and dress that you are not from London nor from England, and you must have only arrived here very recently judging from this unusual bag which you carry.” He pointed to my bag as it lay in the muddy puddles of the cobblestone street. How’d they get the streets from tar to cobblestone that quicky?
“Great. So we’ve gone from Captain Obvious to Sherlock Holmes,” I said dryly. “And you’re the one with memory loss if you don’t remember me at all, Nick.”
He jerked his hand away. “I am called Cole by my friends.”
He buffed an already pristine-looking button on his coat. “As I was saying, you have suffered a head injury of some kind-” They nodded in agreement, over eagerly, I might add. “—As a result of the carriage impacting you as you attempted to navigate the street here.” He gestured with his big hat head toward the street I was currently residing on. The doctor finished his examination and declared me “confused.” I rolled my eyes as I sat there contemplating the obvious decline in the state of health care.
He knelt down to my level again, bringing those eyes back in full view. Be still my racing heart! “You need rest. You will feel better tomorrow, the doctor has assured me. He could find nothing wrong with you—”
“Yeah, I guess he couldn’t out here in the middle of the street instead of in a hospital with diagnostic tests and modern equipment…”
Nick sighed. “Where are you staying? Please allow me to escort you there,” he said with genuine chivalry. Hmm… I think I like this 1904 Nick much better. Can we keep him after the grand opening has ended?
But it was all an illusion-some kind of cruel game. It slowly, fully registered that Nick Langdon was beyond mean and nasty. He was leading me to believe I was going crazy. An elaborate hoax was underway to trip me into insanity, and all because he didn’t trust in my abilities. His sisters told me the whole story of how furious he was when his father chose to go with my employer rather than a British company. So this was his attempt at forcing me off of the assignment; he assumed he could convince his father to accept the bid from the other company once he had proven me unstable, and my employer incompetent. Well, I had news for Langdon-I wasn’t going anywhere but back to my hotel room to rest up for tomorrow’s work.
I shook my head. “No, I don’t need your assistance, Cole. I can find my way back to my hotel unaided, thank you. I’m sure I’ll feel better tomorrow, and I fully expect to be at work.”
“Work?” His luxurious eyes were as wide as half-dollars.
“Oh, come on now. Enough with the act-you know exactly what I’m talking about!” I stood slowly, picked up my bags with my good arm and took a deep breath. I looked Nick/Cole over one last time to fully appreciate his fine masculinity dressed up in an early 20th century day suit once more; that is, before this hoax was revealed. Such a shame it would all be over when the ruse was lifted. I sighed and turned to go, but I didn’t get far.
Cole grabbed my arm gently and turned me to face him.
“You know, madam, it is not safe to… work…the streets…do you need money? I can help you to find a respectable home to lodge in, I’m sure…” he whispered. His eyes and lips so close to my face mesmerized me for a time, so that I didn’t register what he said-at first.
“What?! You think I’m a prostitute?” This had to be the worst insult he had slung at me yet. And I made quite a scene about it, too. For all his attempts at discretion, I was yelling at the top of my lungs. “That’s right, when I’m not working ninety hours a week as a Costume Historian and Photographer, I’m a street walker! Is that what you truly believe about me?” People were stopping and staring by this point and Cole shared conspiratorial looks with Doc before gently nudging me toward what I assumed was his car. I plopped down hard on the seat and he gracefully sat across from me. “I’m sorry, Miss Reynolds, I misunderstood your words a moment ago. Forgive me. Please allow me to escort you to your dwellings.”
He looked so damned sincere and I was tired of arguing with him. Plus, my arm and head hurt. “OK, fine. It’s only four blocks from here.” He told the driver where to go and we were off. I was certain the scenery would change back to modern day once we reached my hotel and that cool Cole would morph back into nasty Nick. We jiggled and bumbled along in the car, with an awkward silence between us. I felt my expression of awe turn into a frown as we reached the end of the third block and there was no change in scenery. To be honest, I was more than a little concerned for my mental state.
“Umm, Cole? This…this is my hotel here,” I lied. I took a quick, desperate survey of the street and saw a quaint establishment with vacancies. The rising panic in my gut made me want to bolt out of the car and run as far as I could, to anywhere that would lead me back to 2005.
Cole peered up at the two-story building just ahead on the right and called for his man to stop the carriage. “Are you certain this is the correct place?” He sounded concerned, but it looked fine to me. Besides, I had to remind myself, this is all an illusion, anyway.
“Miss Reynolds, this establishment doesn’t seem proper somehow. Why don’t you let me arrange a lodging for you-” Cole grimaced up at the shutters, that, upon closer inspection, were in obvious need of repair. The one on the left looked as if it would fall at any second and crush both of us flat like pancakes. The front door was a tattered, peeling shade of faded cobalt blue and the ground floor window was so grimy I couldn’t see through it. “Uhhh-” I hesitated. Even in make-believe land I did NOT want to lodge there.
Cole nodded and seemed to understand my reticence immediately. He called to his driver at once and we drove off. “I cannot allow you to stay here. We will call on someone whom I think will have plenty of space for you to stay until you decide otherwise.” Chivalrous Cole was a welcome relief and soothed me a bit, although the fact that the scenery did not change from 1905 to 2005 at all in the course of driving to his friend’s house was worrisome. About ten minutes into the uncomfortably silent journey, and after much thoughtful deliberation with myself, I decided that I would go with the flow and accept it all as a reality.
If I did have a concussion, there wasn’t anything I could do about it, anyway. Maybe I’d have to wait until the swelling in my brain went down and I suddenly snapped out of it. Or maybe it was all a dream and I’d wake up at any minute. Regardless, I couldn’t think about it anymore. I was in 1904 and I would savor the experience as if it were real, until it was not real.
And, if I were truly dancing gaily around in the fields of madness, then, hey, being crazy was looking as promising as the huge stone mansion we were approaching after twenty-five minutes of bumping along in the car, both of us ignoring the amazing zing in the air when our knees bumped as we rolled to a halt.
The following “spicy” story is my response to Kevin’s No Theme Thursday 2/8/24 challenge . Thanks for the amazing, inspirational art, Kevin!
Art by Kevin
Ibiza, Spain.
I walked out to the sea’s edge, dressed in my borrowed costume, the frilly hem wet from the small waves crashing along the shore. The light was perfect. I could hear the party revelers behind me, enjoying the return of their famous son, if only for a few weeks. I knew he was back there, waiting, probably watching me as I danced, and my heart filled with joy and contentment. I closed my eyes and continued to twirl, enveloped by the scent of the sensual, beckoning night-blooming flowers, the sounds of faint music and twinkling laughter, the whispers of lovers floating on a zephyr, and the assurance of an equally sublime day to follow this. They were all palpably present, and they were magical.
✨
The next evening…
We dance in the Square, under the twinkling strands of coiled lights that run from the store fronts across the way to our old world, charming hotel behind us, crisscrossing back again, forming a cozy, shimmering roof over our heads. The tiny white lights cast a warm glow onto the bright white sidewalk beneath our feet, the latter of which have no agenda other than to move with each other, and to the live music being performed in the distance. Older people stroll by, glance and smile at us, knowing him, of course, and wondering about me, the curvy, auburn-haired vixen with an American accent. He’s not a very good slow dancer, nor am I, and our height difference is appallingly noticeable, but when we dance, we laugh, and when we laugh, well…we love. And so it is: I love to dance with him.
We sway with the music as I feel him take my hand and turn my palm face up, anticipation showing itself as shivers up my spine. His head down, hair falling into his face, his smoldering eyes holding mine as he lands his sensual mouth in the center of my palm. His lips linger there for several seconds, so I feel the full effect of his kiss; I draw in a quick breath of surprise. Every nerve ending I have a screaming out to him, “Me! Me! Me! Kiss me next!” He must hear them, for his lips then travel to my wrist, where he opens his mouth slightly, and I feel the tiniest tip of his tongue dart onto my pulse point. “Oh, my,” I mutter as I breathe in another rush of air. He smiles against my flesh, I can feel his teeth on my arm as he does. He nips the skin on the inside of my arm so gently, it feels like a child’s tentative touch. By the time he reaches the inside of my elbow, I have had three shivers cascade up and down my back and have weak legs that threaten to give way. “Max…” I breathe as I stare, dumbfounded, at the top of his shiny mink-colored head, darker still in the night. His hair smells like that wonderfully fragrant shampoo I bought yesterday, and it makes me want to bury my face in it. “Shh…” he orders me and continues on his determined way. “You are trying to make me turn into a puddle of piddle, aren’t you?” He smiles again, this time against my neck, before attempting to produce what feels as if it would be the biggest love mark in the world (we’re talking Guinness Book of World Records). “Don’t make semi-permanent marks on me, Maximillian,” I warn him sternly. Then I whimper.
My voice fails me, but my thoughts rail against my skull rapidly. “You’re funny,” I manage to giggle, before he cups his broad hands around my face, and landed a decisive, almost possessive kiss on my mouth. It is rare that he kisses me this way; usually it’s not unless he hasn’t seen me in a while, or if he’s about to leave me for a while. My mind reels. I don’t know where he learned any of this, but I definitely approve. I think.
I notice now that he’s got full, dark lips in the muted light, swollen from kissing me so hard, shining with the remnants of my lip gloss. His eyes are expectant, and maybe a bit satisfied with himself, no doubt because he can see the look at my eyes.
“You like?”
I nod slightly, but nothing more
“Do you want me to do it again?”
I nod again, weakly.
He reaches for my other arm, but I stop him.
“No. You can do whatever it is you’ve just done, and yes, please, but not here. Surely you must realize the effect your mouth has on me. “
He smugly grins. “Maybe I do.”
I lean up on my tippy toes and run my hand through his hair to move it away from his ear. “Let’s go into the hotel now, Max. I really want to go now, don’t you?” I whisper in the nape of his neck. He nods and laughs once, suddenly going quiet.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he replies.
We make the short journey to the hotel then climb the stairs rather than take the elevator up to our floor. I feel a warm hand sweep under my dress to my calf. I continue to climb the stairs quickly, almost tripping.
“Wait.”
“What?” I turn, alarmed by the severe tone of his voice. When I look at him, his eyes are blue, and piercing into mine. “Oh, Maximillian, please don’t look at me like that – not here.”
“Go to the roof,” he says and moves closer, staring into me with those eyes.
“Go to the roof,” he repeats, this time with more authority.
“But I thought we were going inside.”
“First, let’s go to the roof,” he says gently, and I glance at his full lips and messy hair, and I walk myself right on up to the roof. I’m such a sucker.
“So now what?” I ask gently as I cross my arms over my chest to shield myself from the chilliness. It’s windy on the roof and I don’t want to be here. I throw a glance to the twinkling lights below, and to the stars above, and despite a 1000 watt desire to be snuggled in 600 thread count sheets with a 200 pound man, the view really is quite lovely. Alongside me is my own modern pirate, dark and brooding, and for the love of God (who/what/where), if He’s in attendance, is directly across the street shaking his head at us. And why can’t Max control the amount of testosterone he’s sending out?
Max moves closer and reaches out to touch my face; his hand is shaking, which I find peculiar. Just beyond him, I see the cathedral, illuminated by a spotlight aimed at the blue lead glass.
“Max, no.”
“Why?” He mumbles into my neck as I shut my eyes tightly to block out the church, as much as to savor his mouth on my skin.
“God is watching.” I feel silly as soon as I say it, and I expect him to laugh, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t say anything for several seconds, he just keeps tracing the side of my face with his finger.
“God watches us always, whatever we do,” he tells me, like I need schooling.
“Yes, I realize that, but – maybe He doesn’t want to see us out here, on the roof, getting our freak on,” I attempt to explain.
“Why not?” he asks, now tracing my lips with his finger.
“Do you love me?” he asks bluntly.
“Yes. Like I love summertime and sleeping and books and dark chocolate.”
He snickers. “And I love you like I love ice cream, PlayStation, and tennis.” I have to smile at his childlike simplicity; to be ranked among those items must mean good things for my standing.
He leans against the stone wall and takes a deep breath. “Do you want to know what I think?” He asks me casually.
“Yes, I do.” I’m still studying him closely, wondering what he will say next. I never know.
“Well, I think love is God and God is love. That building is only one symbol for God; there are many others,” he says softly as he nods in the direction of the church. “The sea is God, the sky – when I am with you like this, or when you are in my arms, I feel God in these moments also, because my heart is full of love for you. Is that wrong or bad?” He asks it, but he is sure of his beliefs, so it is really only for my sake.
I understand now. My limbs feel weak, I need to lie down and my heart wants to dart out of my chest, but I get it. “You brought me here, to make love on the roof, to show the universe what our love is like; to share what we have, because you’re sure love cannot be wrong, even though there are obstacles we must overcome, yes?”
“Yes, in a way, that is part of it.” I guess I still don’t have it precisely right, and it seems like he wants to keep his reasons to himself. That’s all right; I think I understand enough. He reaches for me; I nestle into him, feeling like a child learning a lesson I should’ve already known.
“And also to share with my family who have died and my ancestors who came to this island long ago.”
“Pirates?” I ask as I rest my cheek against his chest, feeling the smooth, heated cotton scented with love. (Love is also the blazing heat of a man and his scent, and the effect of it on a woman who is under his spell.)
“Maybe” he teases. “And maybe your ancestral people are here too, or they come to visit you sometimes.” I feel his hand brush my hair and hear his voice vibrating in his chest as he talks; it transports me back to times long ago, leaning on my father’s chest, listening to his voice rumble, feeling the gradual pull of sleep tug at my tiny eyelids. It happens even now as I’m associating that memory with the present.
“Max, do you want them all to see? I mean, some things are private.”
“But it is love between us, and all the people who have come before have done what we do. It is nothing new. Besides, they see us anyway, if we are on this roof, in bed, or sitting at dinner with everyone else.”
“I kind of hope they shut their eyes at certain times.” He laughs quietly and squeezes me tighter.
“Maybe they do, but God does not.” He turns my face to his. “Are you ready to go to bed now, or do you want to talk more?” He searches my eyes and I want to get lost in his. Well, his everything.
“Yes, I want to go now.” As he takes my hand and leads me to the stairwell, I steal a glance at the blue lead window, some 50 feet away. At that moment, the spotlights flicker out and jolt back on almost immediately.
“Max. God just winked at me.” He gave me one of my own looks of exasperation executed very well, and we giggled all the way to the bed.
✨
This was a scene that came to me as an inkling of a sequel to my first novel, Love Match, tweaked a bit for this challenge. The second book has not yet come to fruition, but I hope you enjoyed this snippet.
My perfect day, from start to finish, was the day I received the first batch of my book in the mail. A close second was doing book signings. The process of writing a novel took much longer than one day, of course, and it wasn’t perfect, but the feeling of handling a solid book that contained words I strung together, was unlike any other feeling previously or since. I could think of other ways to spend a perfect day, but none as profound as this for me, as a lover of words.
I started writing this book in 2003, and the idea formed over a fairly short span of time. I have been a tennis fan since the age of 15, and I am not going to tell you how many years ago that was, but it was approximately 102 years prior to 2003.
When I write, I see images. I see the scene playing out between the characters, where they are, what they’re wearing, their facial expressions, if the air is still or breezy, hot or chilly, and I see it start to finish just as a film or on a real in my brain.
The novel started with a small seed of an idea that turned into an image in my brain. The scene was the end of the book. I hand wrote most of this book in a black, hardbound canvas covered book that was probably meant to be a journal. I have journaled my whole life and I have written my whole life as well, although not for public consumption.
So the image that I saw in my head of the scene, playing out of the end of the novel, I wrote at a feverous pitch, on the first page of my black bound book. I then had to form character names, settings, and all the good stuff that goes along with novel writing. Which I had never done before. I bought books, I researched how to outline, but basically I winged it. I wrote the novel in about three months. The scenes played in my mind, and I was able to extricate the best out of the story that I could. I edited and re-edited the novel. I pitched my manuscript to agents and publishing houses for a full year of my life. I had some interest but never any yeses. Frustrated and emotional as I was, I refused to accept defeat. I decided to self publish. Back in 2005, when I finally got past trying to find a publisher and an agent, self publishing wasn’t as acceptable as it is these days. Nor was it as accessible. It was, however, much more affordable. I chose to use lulu.com, which probably was due to the fact that that was one of the only self publishing houses available at the time. Uploading the novel was a fairly simple process. I chose the cover, the font type, the color of the font, and the cover is from stock image. Formatting the pages was a bit difficult and the first print proof of the book was too many pages, too large of a font, not the right cover, not the right title or font – not the right anything.
So, I went back to the drawing board and finessed it into what it is now. I paid extra for the international ability to sell on Amazon, and once I received the first shipment of books myself, I couldn’t believe that I had done this. I had a book with an ISBN and it was registered at the Library of Congress and it was available for sale on websites. I held this bound grouping of words in my hands, and it came out of my brain. It was surreal.
Because I did not have an agent I had to hustle my own promotions. I held book signings at local bookstores, I made sure all local bookstores had copies of my book from the warehouse, I promoted it as much as I could through word-of-mouth and through online sales. Shortly after I wrote the book and launched it, I switched careers that involved a lot of training, and the creative part of my brain went dormant. I am still in the career that I switched to all these years later, but I have recently found joy in writing again. I owe it to a muse I found in the most peculiar place. I lost my muse long ago, so to find another one in a weird place, and completely unexpectedly was a shock and a joy. So thank you muse, and I will see you at the park in 2033. Until then, I’m pondering ideas for a second book, but I have no solid kernels on which to build yet. For now I continue with daily prompts, poetry and short stories, about some of my favorite things, which include Paris, cats, dogs, pigeons on the lamb, and Sometimes relationships.
For those of you who have considered writing a novel, or working on a novel, or have finished a novel, what are your experiences with the process? For example, I started at the end and worked my way back to the beginning. I worked pen and paper. I edited my own book with the pages looking like a murder scene had taken place. There was so much red pen. I didn’t tell anyone I was writing a book until I was done the book. I felt like it would be breaking a spell I was under. For me when I write I get in a zone. Does anyone else experience that? What are your experiences as you are writing whether you are working on a novel or another piece? Please comment below!
*I originally posted links to my book on a separate page on WordPress, but it has disappeared. I don’t think WordPress likes tennis.*
The song I thought of today is Unwritten, by Natasha Bedingfield.
I am unwritten Can’t read my mind I’m undefined I’m just beginning The pen’s in my hand Ending unplanned
Staring at the blank page before you Open up the dirty window Let the sun illuminate the words that you could not find
Reaching for something in the distance So close you can almost taste it Release your inhibitions Feel the rain on your skin No one else can feel it for you Only you can let it in No one else, no one else Can speak the words on your lips Drench yourself in words unspoken Live your life with arms wide open Today is where your book begins The rest is still unwritten
Oh, oh, oh
I break tradition Sometimes my tries are outside the lines We’ve been conditioned to not make mistakes But I can’t live that way
Staring at the blank page before you Open up the dirty window Let the sun illuminate the words that you could not find
Reaching for something in the distance So close you can almost taste it Release your inhibitions Feel the rain on your skin No one else can feel it for you Only you can let it in No one else, no one else Can speak the words on your lips Drench yourself in words unspoken Live your life with arms wide open Today is where your book begins
Feel the rain on your skin No one else can feel it for you Only you can let it in No one else, no one else Can speak the words on your lips Drench yourself in words unspoken Live your life with arms wide open Today is where your book begins The rest is still unwritten
Staring at the blank page before you Open up the dirty window Let the sun illuminate the words that you could not find
Reaching for something in the distance So close you can almost taste it Release your inhibitions Feel the rain on your skin No one else can feel it for you Only you can let it in No one else, no one else Can speak the words on your lips Drench yourself in words unspoken Live your life with arms wide open Today is where your book begins
Feel the rain on your skin No one else can feel it for you Only you can let it in No one else, no one else Can speak the words on your lips Drench yourself in words unspoken Live your life with arms wide open Today is where your book begins The rest is still unwritten The rest is still unwritten The rest is still unwritten
Bliss. It’s what I would call the feeling I had from the moment I woke, that day we went to that small town, walking up and down the street, looking for the shop that wasn’t there. The wind swept us both like a wide, cold broom aimed high, and we cursed about the damned map. Bliss told me to wear the flowing red top I bought in the kids’ department at Kohl’s because I needed to feel the freedom in the flowing. As we drove around trying to find the miniature golf course, Bliss told me I was on an adventure, that it was time, my old nemesis anxiety would not come knocking that day. Bliss knew.
Bliss led us to play both courses that day. With tempered excitement novelty brings, we curiously looked ahead at the direction of each hole, the layout of the greens, discussing and preparing exactly how to make the shot under par. It worked for me. It didn’t work for you. But you weren’t bothered by it; you had Bliss, too. I eagerly kept score as we made rules for what happens when your ball flies out of the green into the water two holes over (do-over, from the tee), and I blissfully juggled my purse, the scorecard and that little pencil over 41 holes of golf.
Then there was the moment, which passed, just as time did those two weeks, far too quickly. The sun was shining through the tree canopy above, an early spring sun, peeking in and out of the clouds, as we played each hole and I continued to win, my Bliss increasing. It was among these tree shadows where my brain’s camera takes a still and it leaves me at a cliffhanger. You stand in front of me, the sun peeking down on your red-blond hair, in this deserted, tree-covered miniature golf course, smirking at me as you do, sunglasses hiding your eyes, but I can see them when I close mine. We are close, close enough for me to see my own smirk in your glasses. Bliss tells me to kiss you, and I think in that moment, you were expecting it.
A kiss lands. Just to the left of your mouth.
“That’s for losing,” I said cheerfully, trying to evoke Bliss about what I’d done, but feeling as if I’d plotted the wrong point on the map, instantly realizing I should have aimed for the lips and may have missed my chance forever. “Good,” you said with unusual inflection, still smirking, seemingly expecting something else, something more.
When we embraced earlier in the week, soon after you had arrived, Bliss was with me then, and I said quietly, “I’m so glad you’re here.” I meant something else, something more. When you replied just as quietly, “Me, too,” Bliss wants me to believe you meant something else too, something more.
“Why do you keep looking at the time?” my colleague asked with squinted, suspicious eyes.
I thought about it for a minute before I answered, knowing how bizarre my answer might seem. I continued typing as I pondered my response. “I’m supposed to meet a guy at the park today,” I replied as nonchalantly as possible.
“Oh, really,” she replied, suddenly interested and rolled her chair up to mine. “Do tell.”
“There’s not much to tell. I received a text about ten years ago and it’s stuck with me. The guy thought he was texting someone else. Once he realized I wasn’t the intended recipient, we continued texting with playful banter. It was fun. He was fun, and smart. Also really quick-witted. You know how that hooks me every time. He said we should meet at the park on September 27, 2033. As a joke, of course. But then I started to think about it – and I’ve had ten years to think about it. What if it’s like, some kind of serendipitous experience or cinematic romcom situation?”
She sat there, staring at me blankly. “You’re saying you received a text ten years ago from a guy you don’t know, and you are going to meet him at a park today? Because he said to show up at the park on September 27, 2033? I have questions. What if he’s a stalker? Or a creep? Or 78 years old? Or 17 years old? What if it’s a catfish? And let’s say it’s not: it’s been ten years. Don’t you think he’ll have forgotten your text exchange by now? And since it was said in jest, he’s not going to show up, even if he recalls. Finally, how will you know who this guy is when you see him at the park?”
I shrugged off the first thousand questions. “I won’t,” was my response to the final one.
Her face scrunched. “This is clearly a joke. If you didn’t exchange photos, and haven’t texted since that one mistaken identity thing in 2023, then no, this is not happening. Like, at all.”
I turned back to my screen and continued typing. “I’m going to the park at lunch, sitting on the bench, and I will see if there are any guys loitering around looking at me.”
She ran her hand down her face in a sweeping motion of clearing out the annoyance that was me. I was not dissuaded. “What you are describing is a normal occurrence at the park. Do you know how many random guys loiter around and look at us every day as we walk through?”
I kept typing, keeping my eyes on the screen. ‘Yes, I know, but those are weird guys.”
“What separates this guy from those guys?”
“This guy told me to meet him at the park today.”
She sighed heavily. “I sure hope you have your Suspicious Persons binder up to date before you head out on this bad chick flick adventure of yours, because there are so many ways this can go south. You don’t know who you’re looking for, you don’t know what his intentions are, AND it’s been ten years since this occurred. He may not even show up, and I hope for your sake he doesn’t.”
The sky started taking on a strange darkness as we sat there, our cubicles next to the large window. She kept talking, mostly telling me not to do it, with me mostly thinking about what I could grab for lunch to take to the park. When I defiantly told her I was going, regardless of her lecturing, she waved me off dramatically. “Do what you want, but I’m going to send the police in an hour, and you know I mean it.”
I headed out at around 11:45. I stopped by the sandwich shop at the corner, ordered a croissant – because Paris is always a good idea. I could pretend that this was a Parisian park, and the guy would show up in a raspberry beret, the kind you buy from a secondhand store.
I took off my shoes and walked my way through the soft grass to the bench where I could see everyone in the park. There were kids playing nearby, giggling. There was an older woman sitting on the nearby bench. She smiled and nodded, and I returned her kind acknowledgment. So far, no weird guys had appeared, and no normal guys, either. The sky continued to darken, and I recalled the text exchange from ten years prior. “That’s right, there is a solar eclipse today,” I whispered to myself as a squirrel stared at my croissant, tiny arms pulled up to its chest.
I’d been at the park about fifteen minutes when my phone rang. It was my coworker. “What is happening? Are you insane? Are you safe?” She was bordering on hysteria.
“I’m fine. I’m sitting here talking to a squirrel actually. I’m eating my lunch, and if he doesn’t show up, I’ll just—”
It was at that moment I felt a light tap on my shoulder. “Gotta go,” I said slowly, and ended the call. With a deep breath, I turned slowly toward the direction of the tap. I looked up and I felt a wry smile form. My smile was returned to me tenfold. The sun was blocked out, but not by the eclipse.
“It's Amy,” I said. 