September 27, 2063

April 20, 2024April 28, 2024 Amy24 Comments

(Edit 4/20/24: I accidentally moved this to drafts and had to move it back to published. It’s not a new piece. If it’s new to you, that’s great. Thanks for reading.)

This is my response to beginningatlast9.com No Theme Thursday Challenge 3/7/24

Thanks again for the art inspiration, Kevin!

💫

Was it really 30 years ago

When we met on this bench?

We talked of squirrels

And raspberry berets

(the kind you’d find in a secondhand store)

Her smile lit up the sky

As the eclipse overtook the sun

I couldn’t believe my eyes

I couldn’t look away

From her

(Not the eclipse)

I would give anything

To go back to September 27, 2033

Before everything went—

💫

“Went what, Ethan?” she asked. I looked up with a crooked smile. “Are you writing out loud again?” She was standing there glowing, the sun all around her head, her expression open and teasing. She was the solar eclipse, she always has been, since September 27, 2033.

“Hey, Kiddo,” I said.

Like this? Read September 27, 2033 to see how it started.

chick lit · daily prompt · favorite author · fiction · Humor · Jane Austen · Love · prose · Women’s literature · Writing · Zora Neale Hurston

Only One?

April 8, 2024April 11, 2024 Amy26 Comments

Daily writing prompt

What book could you read over and over again?

View all responses

It isn’t possible for me to answer this question with just one book, so I’m going to list them all. There may be a few that I have forgotten, but these are the ones I have in my bookcase.

Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston. This is my favorite novel. Ever. It was required reading in American literature class, and I’m so pleased to have been introduced to this amazing wordsmith Ms. Hurston.

The Outlander series by Diana Gabaldon.

Any and all titles by Bill Bryson.

The Buenos Aires Broken Hearts Club by Jessica Morrison. This is a fantastic novel. I’m not sure if it’s still in print, and I don’t believe the author ever published another novel, which upsets me to this day.

The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafon.

I, Elizabeth by Rosalind Miles.

The General’s Mistress by Jo Graham.

The next three novels are a series by author Diana Norman. Sadly, she has passed away and there will be no more novels in the series. The first book is A Catch of Consequence, followed by Taking Liberties, and last but not least is The Sparks Fly Upward. This author also wrote under the pen name Ariana Franklin. I was today years old when I found that out, so I am excited and will try to get my hands on the novels she wrote under that name.

The next one is the first book in the “Undead” series by Mary Janice Davidson. I thought the first book was the best: “Undead and Unwed.”

Next up is author Katie McAllister (a pen name), with Men in Kilts and Improper English being my favorite titles from her.

Jane Austen – the whole catalogue.

Tess of the d’Urbervilles by Thomas Hardy.

Villette by Charlotte Brontë.

Sons and Lovers by DH Lawrence.

Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles by Margaret George.

Forever Amber, by Kathleen Winsor (this is a particular favorite of mine, though it is rather sordid, especially for the time period in which it was written.)

And the last one is Absalom! Absalom! by William Faulkner. Just kidding. I despise this book. I had to write a paper on it and I hated every second of it. I don’t particularly like Faulkner nor his writing style, and that’s being polite. Faulkner perfected the run-on sentence, and that’s being polite.

That’s my list. What are some novels that you can’t get enough of and read over and over again? Let me know in the comments!

fantasy · fashion · fiction · French Fashion

Claire from Outlander

April 7, 2024April 6, 2024 Amy35 Comments

Daily writing prompt

If you could be a character from a book or film, who would you be? Why?

View all responses

From the book and from the TV series. Why? If you have to ask me why, you don’t know Claire.

Claire is smart, stubborn, tough, headstrong and she travels through centuries. She gets to wear Parisian fashion in the 1700s. Shout out to the costume designers and all of the seamstresses that have worked on all of the seasons, and especially Season Two. Your work is amazing, and I want to be you when I grow up.

I’ve dried my tears of admiration so I can truly view this marvelous, dusty blue creation

Ah hem – pardon the fashion geek moment, I just had to indulge.

Back to Claire:

She has two husbands, which, if I’m being honest, is not something that I would want. (She’s not a polygamist, because the husbands are not in the same century, so it’s OK. They do get jealous of one another however, which I find comical.) Anyway, she’s an herbalist and a healer in the 1700s, and she’s a nurse who becomes a surgeon in the 1900s. She’s a tough broad. She gets herself and her husband Jamie into a fair amount of trouble by bringing her 1900s ideals back to the 1700s. An English woman ordering Scottish Highlanders around, cursing at them to the point they become silent and a wee bit frightened? Priceless.

Claire isn’t simply a tough broad, she’s also loving and kind. She isn’t afraid to speak her mind, though, whether it’s words filled with vinegar or words dripping with honey. Claire speaks the language of sarcasm, so sometimes the vinegar and honey is mixed, and we end up with a vinaigrette.

A friend of mine once told me I reminded her of Claire and vice versa. That’s probably one of the best compliments I’ve ever received in my life.

Speaking of my life, I occasionally live it vicariously through Claire Beauchamp Randall Fraser, my favorite heroine.

All images property of their respective owners

fiction · prose · Short story · Women’s literature · Writing

The Ice Queen

Featured Amy65 Comments

Perhaps – no – most assuredly, it is I who placed myself in this position. I do not speak of ruling the queendom. No. That is my birthright. That you don’t see a throne next to mine is my doing.

When I was born a girl I was expected to marry. And marry well. From the age of four, suitors were brought to me. Old men! Can you imagine? Vows were to be exchanged for titles given. Oddly, every single one of these suitors was deemed not fit by my father, or fate took them another direction. Some in not so pleasant directions.

When I was twenty years old and started refusing suitors, my father would not speak to me for three months. It was quite possibly the downfall of his health. You can blame that on me too, if you wish.

When I was twenty years old, there was a new stable lad employed to work with our finest horses – mine included. The lad was my age, and while he showed proper deference to me, he also showed me friendship, which no other servant had the courage to do. He would prepare my horse and sometimes we would have long discussions about life. Ha! What do two twenty-year-old children know about life? He treated me as a person, not as a queen-in-waiting. He did not let me get away with much. My attitude is often times haughty. I make no apologies for it. I am Queen and at that time I was queen-in-training. I must be strong at all times. I must not and will not entertain fools.

But when I was around him, I did not feel like a queen-in-training, and it was rather difficult to act haughty. I felt like who I imagined I always should feel like as a child, when I dreamt of having another life. A simple life, a life raising chickens and cattle and having a husband, friend and lover in one person, someone who could understand me, and would want to try. And children. We would have three children. They would laugh and play in the grass, their cheeks rosy from exertion, their tiny legs traveling as fast as they could to catch the chickens, and we would delight in the sight. My husband and I.

I began having the same fantastical daydreams when I was around this lad, not just when I was alone. I watched when he would interact with others, and I had people observe him when I could not. He never raised his voice in anger to anyone. He was as calm as the river on a late summer evening. The aura around him was yellow, just like the sunset on that late summer eve. His hair was flaxen and soft, I just knew it. I wished to touch it, but I dared not. It would be most improper, and dangerous for him. His eyes were dark blue and smiling. Always smiling. They twinkled with mischief more than not. When we were near the horses and I could freely be myself, I never felt more alive.

Shortly after I turned twenty-one, for several days I did not see the stable lad. My concern was that he had become ill. I was mistaken and quite pleased to see him when he returned. My ladies-in-waiting helped me into my favorite dress: the light blue silk. It was far simpler than anything I would wear for official business, but it was perfect for talking with the stable lad. I made my way to the barn and saw him brushing the horses. I could feel my face light up as if the sun itself were grazing my skin. I greeted the lad and asked him if he was well. He said he was quite well. He had very recently exchanged wedding vows. That was why he was not at the stables.

This was the first time I had to use the Ice Queen façade. And I was yet to be Queen. I congratulated him and quickly made an excuse to part company. The façade wouldn’t hold much longer, and I could not bear to be seen as the soft creature underneath. As soon as I turned away, I could feel my countenance change into one of grief and broken-heartedness. My eyes shed tears even as I told them not to. He called out to me, but I wouldn’t turn around. I could not bear it.

I spent the rest of the day and night alone in my chambers. No one was permitted. Of course by now you must’ve guessed: I was in love with the lad. He had never once mentioned he was betrothed, and if he had, what could I have done with that information? I was meant to marry above him. Millions of my tears would not have changed anything. But knowing he was married made the realization that he could never be married to me more pronounced. I wished I were his wife. I wondered what she looked like. I never asked anything about her, even though I saw the lad often at the stables. We talked and joked after my initial heartbreak had healed a bit, but there was this thing in between us now, a barrier. I didn’t want it there, but a wife is hard to remove. A queen-in-waiting impossible to get out of. The situation was ill-fated.

I became Queen at twenty-five, just as the stable lad became a father for the first time. My father‘s efforts to find me a suitable match were unsuccessful. I decided no one was good enough and I held to that belief. I disappointed my father and I did it intentionally.

When I was thirty, his second child was born. I saw him still, at the stables, and we spoke as we always had. We never spoke of his wife or of his children. It is not that I didn’t care, it is because I cared too much. To know about his life would reopen wounds that were almost – but not quite – scars.

I have recently learned that his wife has run off with a wealthy man. The children are grown, the lad now a man of my own age. You may be asking yourself, Dear Reader, “What now will the Ice Queen do? She never married. She rules the queendom fairly, but suffers no fools. She surrounds herself with birds and other creatures, including her beloved horses, and she is old enough to make her own decisions regarding her own queendom and her own person.”

Let me tell you then. I am sure you want to know. And even if you don’t, I am going to tell you, because I am Queen.

One crisp morning, I walked alone to the stables. I found my lad filing the horses’ hooves. His expression was forlorn, as one would expect. He looked up at me with teary eyes that made the blue stand out even more. He was much older, we both were now. I could not stop myself from crying with him. He hunched over, embarrassed by his tears and apologized. He did not curtsy, and I was glad for it. I took his hand and held it between my own two hands. We had never touched in this way before. Yes, Reader, it was still not appropriate. But I am Queen, and I rule the queendom.

What do you think happened next, Dear Reader?

I will tell you. Not because I am Queen, but because I am a woman. And I know you want to know. But let’s keep it between us.

In the next moment, I saw yellow, like the sunset on a summer eve, I felt soft hair under my hands, and a gentle touch on my cheek. Right before I closed my eyes, I saw dark blue, like the blue of gently rolling river waves with a strong current underneath that cannot be seen, only felt.

{This is my submission for No Theme Thursday (3/21/24) – thanks once again for the art inspiration, Kevin!}

chick lit · daily prompt · fiction · poetry · tennis · Women’s literature · Writing

That I’m a Talented Writer

March 18, 2024March 18, 2024 Amy45 Comments

Daily writing prompt

What was the best compliment you’ve received?

View all responses

From the first time it was said to the present, I am truly humbled and appreciative. There is no greater feeling than releasing what lives in your mind and heart to the outside world, and having people identify, relate and enjoy it. Even if it’s not feel-good reading material – perhaps especially then: when the subject matter is dark and from deep within, yet people absorb, reflect and are sometimes without words – stunned, overwhelmed. It is a risky venture to share one’s work. It can be met with unfavorable comments. There is a level of vulnerability that one must accept as a writer. In the beginning it was very difficult to be vulnerable, to risk being not enough, and to accept criticism as well as praise. I appreciate everyone who reads my words, regardless of their opinion of them. But for the ones who do enjoy reading my words, and for those who do identify with them, it buoys my soul. There is no greater compliment.

Thanks, everyone. I appreciate you all.

* featured photo is of me holding the author’s proof of the first version of my book. I made many changes and from those changes became what the novel is now. But, boy was I so proud to have that book in my hands.*

chick lit · fantasy · fate · fiction · Writing

Outlander

March 13, 2024May 6, 2024 Amy14 Comments

Daily writing prompt

What movies or TV series have you watched more than 5 times?

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Outlander is a romance/fantasy series on the Starz cable network and app with a huge dose of history, war, nursing, medicine, herbology, intense relationships, family drama – the list goes on. It’s not strictly fantasy, and it’s not strictly chick flick material – it’s packed with substance, great acting, intricately woven storylines, and an overall captivating experience.

I read the novels in college and waited 142 years for the rights to be optioned. Starz began production in 2013. I was elated. But I was also a little apprehensive, because I had read all of the books to date, and I was worried that the actors chosen for the roles would not match up with the characters I had envisioned in my mind. Turns out, I had nothing to worry about, as the casting has been superb in the series.

Claire, our heroine, portrayed by the super-talented Catriona Balfe, an Irish actress.

If you haven’t read the novels, I would recommend doing the hard work first: read the books before watching the TV series. Everything is more in the novels. Each book is close to 1,000 pages long. There’s much more substance in the books and a great deal more character development. The reason for that is the material has to be truncated to fit into an approximately 47 minute episode each week. And the seasons are short – it varies, but right now we’re in Droughtlander, waiting for the second half of Season Seven to resume. And when I say waiting, I mean waiting for up to a year and a half. But enough about Droughtlander. It’s a sore subject.

I feel sorry for people who only know that the TV series exists and who don’t – or won’t – read the books.

Jamie, our leading male, portrayed by the wonderful Scottish actor, Sam Heughan. He’s either just said, or is about to say, “Je Suis Prest” – Clan Fraser’s motto. I know this because this is one of my favorite scenes.

Sidebar: for anyone who adores costume history as much as I do (and believe me, I do, it was my minor in college), the costumes in this are exquisite. The costumes in Season Two are especially jaw-droppingly beautiful, as the show takes place mostly in France. Please don’t get me started on French fashion. I will blabber on for hours.

My rec: start with the novels, then watch the series. I’ve watched (and read) Outlander *way* more than five times. And they’re worth it.

The books and TV series get: ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

fiction · prose · Short story · The Traveler · Writing

Nicholas

March 2, 2024May 6, 2024 Amy20 Comments

This is my response to Kevin‘s No Theme Thursday Challenge, 2/29/24 Edition

Thanks for the art inspiration once again, Kevin.

💫

I’ve been up and down these streets, The fine leather of my boots ruined.

For what? For whom?

Who is this brash American with her strange clothing and even stranger claims that she knows me?

I left her with Mrs. Grant right after we dined. It was no more than half past six. She was going on about frogs in her shoes, but I saw neither frogs nor shoes. What That Woman calls shoes, I have never seen in my life. She’s strange, almost barbaric. The aggravating American accent, the bombastic strength of mind and loose of lip! And her frustrating beguiling face. Pleasant and full of freedom. With a little fear. She frustrates me so!

Enough of that. The storm began at 6:45, as I had just left the drive of Mrs. Grant’s establishment. There was a loud clap of thunder. And then I heard Mrs. Grant screaming, “She is gone, Nicky, she is gone!”

Alarmed, I ran back to the establishment and met Mrs. Grant as she was running toward me. The raindrops began and quickly became torrential. We made our way inside, where Mrs. Grant could hardly get out her words. “She is gone Nicky, she simply…disappeared!” It pained me to see Mrs. Grant in such a state. I rested a hand on her shoulder and asked her to explain. But I already knew who she meant. She said Miss Reynolds went up to lie down, and that was the last she had seen of her.

Lightning struck. Maybe once, maybe twice. Mrs. Grant heard a scream from Miss Reynolds’ room. She ran up as quickly as she could, only to find the room vacated. Miss Reynolds was nowhere to be found. Milton checked the entire property, as did I, several times. I assured Mrs. Grant that I would find Miss Reynolds, that perhaps she had gone down to the place where she had fallen in the road. Perhaps she thought she left something behind there. And as the doctor assessed, Miss Reynolds had suffered a concussion, and may be confused. Perhaps she was not thinking coherently, and would try to go back to that place in the middle of the night. In a severe thunderstorm. This American unnerves me so! Alas, I must find her.

I walked the streets again and again. Searching. She is not here. My whole self is drenched and the storm continues. My stomach in knots. My countenance forlorn. As I continue walking, I start to wonder, Was she just a wish? The storm lights up the night, and there is a figure up ahead. Is it her? Is it my gypsy?

💫

This piece is a blend of three things: Nicholas from my Traveler series; Gypsy, the song by Fleetwood Mac; and a smidge of American Woman, the Lenny Kravitz version. (Yes, I know American Woman is an anti-war song, but I like to use it in this context sometimes. Ok, all of the time.)

Gypsy

Song by Fleetwood Mac

So I’m back to the velvet underground
Back to the floor that I love
To a room with some lace and paper flowers
Back to the gypsy that I was
To the gypsy that I was

And it all comes down to you
Well, you know that it does and
Lightning strikes maybe once, maybe twice
Oh and it lights up the night
And you see your gypsy
You see your gypsy

To the gypsy
That remains
Her face says freedom
With a little fear
I have no fear
Have only love
And if I was a child
And the child was enough
Enough for me to love
Enough to love

She is dancing away from you now
She was just a wish
She was just a wish
And her memory is all that is left for you now
You see your gypsy, oh
You see your gypsy

Ooh ooh, ohh, ohh-oh

Lightning strikes
Maybe once, maybe twice
And it all comes down to you
Ooh oh, and it all comes down to you
Lightning strikes
Maybe once, maybe twice
And (oh) it all comes down to you
I still see your (your) bright eyes, bright eyes
(And it all comes down to you)

Source: LyricFind

Songwriters: Stevie Nicks

Gypsy lyrics © Kobalt Music Publishing Ltd.

💫

American Woman

American woman
Stay away from me
American woman
Mama, let me be

Don’t come hangin’ ’round my door
I don’t wanna see your face no more
I got more important things to do
Than spend my time growin’ old with you

Now woman, stay away
American woman, listen what I say

American woman
Get away from me
American woman
Mama, let me be

Don’t come knockin’ ’round my door
I don’t wanna see your shadow no more
Colored lights can hypnotize
Sparkle someone else’s eyes

Now woman, get away
American woman, listen what I say

American woman
I said, get away
American woman
Listen what I say

Don’t come hangin’ ’round my door
Don’t want to see your face no more
I don’t need your war machines
I don’t need your ghetto scenes
Colored lights can hypnotize
Sparkle someone else’s eyes

Now woman, get away
American woman, listen what I say

American woman
Stay away from me
American woman
Mama, let me be

I gotta go, I gotta get away
Babe, I gotta go, I wanna fly away
I’m gonna leave you, woman
I’m gonna leave you, woman
I’m gonna leave you, woman
I’m gonna leave you, woman

Bye-bye, bye-bye
Bye-bye, bye-bye
(American woman) You’re no good for me and I’m no good for you
(American woman) I look you right straight in the eye
I tell you what I’m gonna do
(American woman) I’m gonna leave you woman, you know I gotta go
(American woman) I’m gonna leave you woman, I gotta go
(American woman) I gotta go
I gotta go, American woman
Yeah

Source: Musixmatch

Songwriters: Burton Cummings / Garry Peterson / Randall Bachman / M.j. Kale

American Woman lyrics © Shillelagh Music, Shillelagh America Music.

💫

chick lit · fiction · Humor · The Traveler · Writing

The Traveler – Sequel

March 1, 2024March 2, 2024 Amy27 Comments

Read The Traveler either for the first time, or to refresh your memory before reading this. Reading the sequel won’t make much sense unless you start there and return here.

✨

Mrs. Grant!” Cole exclaimed, leaping from the carriage just as a rotund blonde woman of about 40 years of age bounded from the huge, wooden double doors of the white stone house. She toddled to the carriage, holding onto her straw bonnet all the way.

“Nicky!” the blonde woman squealed, her voice far more high-pitched than her rotund figure would have indicated. They met on the gravel driveway in a very affectionate embrace. I was disgusted and surprised by my jealousy-tinged gut reaction at the sight. I clucked at my reaction and rolled my eyes.

“Ah, ha!” I yelled loudly from my perch in the carriage. “You said your friends call you Cole!” I crossed my arms over my chest and narrowed my left eye. “Why did your blonde friend here call you Nicky? Stop this charade right now, Langdon! It’s not funny anymore.”

“Oof, Nicky, you’ve got yourself a wild one there!” Mrs. Grant said with a snort of laughter.

He sighed and whispered something I couldn’t decipher, no matter how far I leaned in their direction. He threw me a look of exasperation. “Yes, and since Mrs. Grant is my aunt, she can call me whatever she wishes. She prefers the name Nicky, sorry to say.” Mrs. Grant swatted at Nick’s shoulder and he ducked out of the way, giggling.

“Oh,” I said quietly to myself, settling back into my seat. His time-travel charade remained intact and my confusion was growing. But that wave of jealousy was gone.

“Miss Reynolds, you may exit the carriage,” Nick waved to me.

“It’s Maisie, and don’t order me around, Langdon,” I snipped.

I hopped down, landing softly in the gravel, my 21st century attire not only looking very out of place, but very soiled from the day’s events. Mrs. Grant tried her best not to stare at my disheveled hair and clothes, nor at my bag. I saw her mouth “Langdon?” to Nick, as if she were questioning my mental state. You’re not the only one who thinks l’m crazy, lady. All three of us here, and the doc back in town, are of that mindset.

We walked through the huge wooden doors into an impressively large yet cozy foyer, under foot was a white marble floor and on the walls, a relaxing robin’s egg blue paint. I hadn’t seen plaster walls for years, and wondered for the third time in about as many minutes if the ability to see detail this richly meant that I was able to dream vividly, or if I was indeed supplanted into 1904. Shaking off the thought as quickly as it came, I looked around. There was not an air of grandiosity of the room, which was a bit odd for such a high ceiling and majestic outward appearance.

The place was comfortable, spacious and had a pleasant, cheerful, almost playful vibe. A spindly, tall man of about fifty came up to me nodded once and bowed ever so slightly, reaching for my carryon and garment bag. I handed them over cautiously, not sure where they would end up, but making a mental note to be sure to have them when I left. Langdon was not going to accuse me of losing his museum’s property! My eye landed on a statue perched on the mahogany side table next to me: a winking elephant. I snorted slightly at the sight, Nick turning his head discreetly in my direction at the sound. I rolled my eyes and looked away, turning my attention to the painted portraits hanging on the far wall leading into a narrower hallway. “Who are all of these children?” I asked as my eyes scanned portrait after portrait. Nick and Mrs. Grant were whispering about me (again), and my voice cutting across the room and echoing off of the floor seemed to startle them. “Are these children yours, Mrs. Grant?” I asked, waving my hand vaguely in the direction of the wall of portraits, bewildered. l turned to stare at her with wide eyes, taking stock of her appearance, wondering how she’d birthed over twenty-five children. She was large and quite sturdy-looking, but not old enough to have produced so many kids.

“Heavens no, my dear!” she exclaimed and hurried over to me. “At least not in the usual sense,” she added, confusing me further. Langdon did his best to try and hide a smirk, but I saw it.

He cleared his throat and sauntered over to us. “Mrs. Grant runs an orphanage here, Miss—”

“Maisie,” I reminded him drolly. “What’s with your short-term memory problem? I’m the one who hit her head, not you.”

“Maisie. Right. Mrs. Grant takes in children whose parents are not able to raise them, due to this reason or that.” He seemed uncomfortable, shifting his weight from one pristine black boot to the other, his sentence cut short when it should have contained more information – more revealing, juicy information. His hair fell into his right eye as he glanced to the floor, inspecting his pristine boots for invisible scuffs or scrapes, perhaps.

“Like, if their mothers are unwed young ladies or if their parents have died, or something equally as scandalous?” I bluntly asked, letting my curious eyes slide from the portraits to his downcast, immeasurably attractive face. I thought I’d test the waters; see if he was really going to conform to proper manners of the day. It was 1904, was it not?

Langdon’s mouth twitched ever so slightly, threatening to smile. He held it in well, though, and before he could speak, Mrs. Grant piped up, “I see you speak your mind, Miss Maisie! Good, good…good indeed! Yes!” she exclaimed excitedly, something secretive in her expression. “The orphans who come to me are special cases…”

“Special cases?” I implored, interested.

“Special cases,” Langdon piped up. “The orphans Mrs. Grant accepts into her home are juvenile delinquents who have been deemed incorrigible by their guardians and, in most cases, the rest of society.” He smiled warmly into my eyes, inviting me in, if I was willing. I wasn’t.

“Oh…” I frowned slightly. “That’s very admirable of you, Mrs. Grant,” I declared, squinting my eyes as I pondered what Langdon was getting at. “So Langdon, you brought me to stay here, in an orphanage filled with juvenile delinquents who have been cast out.”

He shrugged his shoulders casually. “I thought you could teach them a thing or two about behavior.” His dark eyes twinkled with mischief.

“You’re saying I could teach them about good behavior?” I said brightly, playing along.

“Now, I didn’t say that, did I? Milton!” Langdon suddenly bellowed for the servant, causing me to jerk my head back and open my eyes widely.

“Yes, sir?” Milton dutifully appeared from the shadows.

“Good man! Mrs. Grant has told me of the new Egyptian pieces she has acquired for the children’s history lesson. Would you show me to them, please? You know how I fancy history.”

The two men left and I stood staring after them. Damn that wily man. He’s as annoying in 1904 as he is in 2005.

Mrs. Grant stuttered and moved closer to me, frowning slightly at the sight of my clothing, perhaps attempting to distract me from wanting to chase after Langdon and smack him for insulting me. “Perhaps, Miss Maisie, you would care to change your attire? You must be quite uncomfortable following your… long journey.” I had no idea what Langdon had told her regarding my “long journey,” nor was I presently wishing to ask.

I glanced down to my crumb, coffee, dirt and sweat covered ensemble, embarrassed. “Oh…well, yes, that would be lovely.” I half-smiled and accepted Mrs. Grant’s warm grin with ease.

“Milton has placed your belongings in a guest room on the second floor, I believe. Milton!”

“Yes, ma’am!” Milton appeared again, without Langdon.

Poor Milton; he could have really used a pair of roller skates. I smiled to myself imagining the tall man on wheels.

“Have you put Miss Maisie’s belongings in the Pink Room?”

“Yes, ma’am!”

“Capital!” she exclaimed and clapped. I watched her with fascination. I hadn’t heard that word used in that way since the last time I watched ‘Pride and Prejudice.’ Oooo…maybe I’ll see Colin Firth here! Oh wait… he’s not real…well, he’s real, but he’s not here, he’s in 2005…drats!

Disturbed by the increasing speed by which 2005 seemed to be deserting me, I linked my arm through Mrs. Grant’s and distracted my troubled mind by thinking instead of Langdon in his tight breeches and pristine boots. Insufferable man.

“It’s pink…it’s definitely pink…” I noted, when Mrs. Grant inquired of my opinion. I gnawed at my bottom lip and scanned the room. In fact, the only items in the room that were not pink were my bag and me and Mrs.Grant. Milton had laid the bag on the floor right next to the door, as if he had been in a hurry, or had been frightened of the bag. Or maybe he had been frightened of all of this pink.

I wandered about the room, peeking in drawers, surveying the place, and the view out of my window. My mouth curved into an involuntary smile when I saw Langdon, under a large oak tree, hopping about on his shiny-booted feet, apparently mortally wounded by a very vicious-looking wooden sword a small boy of about eight years old had impaled him with.

Mrs. Grant came to stand beside me, letting out a soft cluck of air. “He’s good with the children. He’ll spend hours playing with them, engaging their minds and their spirits, and ask nothing in return.”

“Is that so?” I asked, a different side to Langdon suddenly revealed, a side that I admitted to myself I’d like to see more of.

But which Langdon was this? What year was I in? Was this all a delusion? I put my hand to the glass of the window and felt it cool to my touch, smelled Mrs. Grant’s lavender perfume alongside me, mixed with the fragrance of the pink roses to my left, on the tall dresser. It all seemed so real…even the way Langdon peered up to the window, startled to see us standing there. Even the way his glossy brown hair flopped into his eye and he smiled a bit bashfully, realizing we had been watching him.

“I am not his aunt, you know,” Mrs. Grant said suddenly, breaking the spell.

“No?” I asked, my heart suddenly pounding within my chest.

I thought for sure she could see it beating.

She shook her head, frowning a bit. “No, I am not his aunt.

I am his nanny. His aunt was a dreadful woman…” Mrs. Grant’s frown spread to all of her features, her eyes clouding over in remembrance.

“Mrs. Grant, Langdon is nearly thirty. He still requires a nanny?” I was being witty, or I was attempting to be witty; Mrs. Grant was still lost in thought, and I doubted she’d heard me.

“Of course not, dear!” she giggled. “I was employed as his nanny until he grew too old to need me any longer. And then his aunt died…” We were both watching Langdon at play. By now, he had been definitively killed, lying prone on the grass, allowing me a fine view of a fine view.

“Does Langdon, erm…Nick have any siblings?” I thought of

Penny and Sam and felt a tug at my heart.

Mrs. Grant chuckled and rapped at the window before flinging it open. “Hey there, Davy Jones, mind your manners with Mr. Langdon! Say you’re appreciative to him for allowing you to murder him so violently, if you please!”

I stifled a chortle and pursed my lips. “Davy Jones?” I asked, trying to remain straight-faced. I could go either way with this; Davy Jones as in the singer from the Monkees, or Davy Jones as in the bizarre euphemism for death: Davy Jones’s locker.

“What? Oh, yes,” she answered, distractedly, keeping close watch on Davy Jones. He did in fact bow to Langdon, who was still lying on the grass, though he had rolled over and was fending off some kind of large, hairy animal. Langdon’s face broke out in a dimpled grin when the dog (?) swiped its long tongue across his forehead. “Yes, that’s our newest charge, David Jones. He’s ten years old, but small for his age.” She sighed with resignation or something like it. “His father died last year leaving him as man of the house, and his mother was ill-fit to care for him; she left him alone most nights to…well, to do what she did to earn money. In the end, it was not enough. Young Davy took to stealing to feed himself.”

“How did he end up here?” I wondered.

“Ahh. Well…one evening, he tried to pickpocket Nicky.”

“Get out! Really?”

“Oh yes…and Nicky, being the generous, forgiving man that he is, instead of having him dealt with by the police, arranged with the boy’s mother that he should come here to live.”

My eyebrow had shot up and stayed there upon hearing Mrs. Grant say generous and forgiving, and have those words be linked to Langdon. I had not thought he was capable of either, whether in 1904 or in 2005.

I frowned as I watched the boy, now practically riding the dog (?), nothing of his past life evident in his play. My eyes shifted to Langdon, who was casually sprawled out under the tree, spinning a blade of grass between his well-shaped thumb and index finger. My eyes traveled from his hands to his face, only to realize he was watching me as intently as I was watching him. And from underneath his brows, as was I. From my vantage point upstairs, far away, brave, and out of immediate danger, I held his sultry brown eyes until the wind and Davy Jones’s laughter diverted them.

“So tell me about these siblings, Mrs. Grant,” I said a few moments later, as I was preparing to undress. “Is there…running water in the house?” I asked meekly, somewhat embarrassed by not only the soiled clothing I wore, but by the question. I didn’t want her to think I was totally fooled by their 1804 ruse, but then again, I was leaning towards thinking there wasn’t a ruse. Either way, I needed a shower.

Mrs. Grant’s blue eyes suddenly expanded widely, appearing very much like marbles about to roll out of her head. “Do you hear rushing water, Miss Maisie? Oh, heavens! Not that leak in the roof again! Mil-ton!” She had run out of the room at breakneck speed, leaving me no chance to call after her and explain. I bit my bottom lip in thought, my dilemma no closer to being solved.

I took a deep, frustrated breath; the action was cleansing but did not set my mind at ease. I hastily undressed, tossing my dirty clothes into a heap on the floor and sat heavily on the bed: comfortable, but lumpy. Not like my mattress at home, that’s for sure. I frowned at the pink covering on the bed. The tiny rosebuds were meticulously hand sewn. I peered closely at my surroundings; not one item in the room was what could be labeled “modern.”

“What’s that movie with Jim Carrey? The one where hes been put into his own world and he doesn’t know it…crap! What is the name of that movie!” I had begun talking to myself as I dropped the gown over my head, Mrs. Grant having disappeared from sight and no running water in my immediate future; desperation and jet lag had set in. I was putting the finishing touches on the day dress ensemble that I had brought along in the bag. The buttonhole was still a mess – you’d think in a hallucination the buttonhole would have been fixed, but no.

“The Truman Show!” I yelled to no one in particular, reaching around to affix the button within the tattered buttonhole.

Out of my immediate field of vision, but very definitely a blur on the outer edge of my sight, a green blob leapt past my doorway, followed by another larger, somewhat fatter green blob that landed directly in front of my doorway. I stood stark still, waiting, watching. “Ribbit!” said the fatter green blob to me as I raised an eyebrow at it. I moved closer to my new guest, wondering how he’d arrived, and who else he’d brought with him besides the guy who’d already taken off before him.

“Hello there,” I said after a few moments of studying the reflection of the crouching small boy in the large mirror hanging in the hallway. “You didn’t know I could see you there, did you? Your frogs went that way,” I pointed down the hall. His stifled, ornery giggles turned to wide-eyed wonderment as he saw me in the mirror. He shuffled to his feet, his large green eyes blinking under his dark brown, shaggy bangs. His head shook slowly.

“I didn’t think so. Hello, my name is Maisie. What’s yours?” extended my hand and he stared at it.

“My name is James, ma’am,” he replied courteously, his attention suddenly diverted.

“My frogs!” he exclaimed.

✨ Apologies for the cliffhanger folks, but this is where the story ends. For now. Please let me know in the comments if you want the story to continue! It was intended to be a novel at the outset. What does everyone think of that idea? Please let me know your thoughts in the comments! ✨

The Traveler is here

The Traveler – Prequel I is here

The Traveler – Prequel II is here

The Traveler – Prequel III is here

The Traveler – Prequel IV is here

chick lit · fiction · Humor · The Traveler · Women’s literature · Writing

The Traveler – Prequel IV

February 27, 2024February 28, 2024 Amy17 Comments

I was the donkey at the party with the tail about to be pinned to its ass, the piñata that was going to be whacked, the—you get the idea. It was going to be uncomfortable, that much I knew, but what I didn’t know was from which direction the jab would come and if I could escape without losing much blood.

I noticed three other people in the room as I walked through the glass-paned French doors, all female and none too happy with me, it seemed. The oldest of the women was a pretty lady, in the way that older English women are: no wrinkles, no sun spots and very fair with full cheeks even though the rest of their bodies are slim. She had her blonde hair styled into a bob and sprayed stiff with hair spray (to combat the rain here, I supposed) and her clothes were well-tailored, of course.

The other two looked as if they had been shipped over from an American mall just today and would say, “Hi! Like, did you see this new lip gloss that I just now bought? Oh. My. God. It is sooo pretty!” any second. Pretty girls, with curly brown hair and loads of energy that barely contained itself in those cushy leather chairs.

Each of their eyes landed on me just as I had gotten through scanning them and the spacious, state of the art conference room we were in.

“Hullo!” Penelope piped up. (It was no “Hi!” but it was close and said with as much exuberance as any American kid I knew.)

They all leapt out of their chairs and bounded over, even Lady Langdon, in her own dignified sort of leaping manner, who, lagging behind her daughters considerably, made her way over.

“I’m so sorry l’m late. Please accept my sincere apologies. I was… detained. Out front. By him.” I shot Earl the Black Pearl a look of contempt as I pointed at him over my shoulder. While he glared at me as if he were bored by the very sound of my voice, his sisters looked at each other with raised brows and faint amusement. Lady Priscilla simply smiled and changed the subject to something along the lines of “How was your flight?” Translation: “I am changing the subject at once to avoid this uncomfortable feeling i have now because my son is clearly a jackass.” (OK, so that was my translation, but I was sure I wasn’t far off from her meaning.)

Nick handled the introductions and I jumped right into the speech I had prepared. You do realize, however, that this speech was written with the intention that I be able to recite it all at once, smoothly, in about fifteen minutes and then get straight into setting up the job? Sure, it sounds like a reasonable expectation, but no one told that to the jerk in the front row who asked me a completely unrelated question just as I was making an important point.

“Do you require any batteries for your camera?”

“No. And actually, I was commenting that your collection seems to be quite impressive and has many pieces from the Regency era, which happens to be my favorite to study.”

“Don’t you just love Jane Austen?” Penelope piped up.

“Yes, Penelope, I do! She was a fantastic writer and timeless in her observations.” I smiled and winked at her.

“So, as I was saying, the main reason we want to set everything up in here is for logistical—“

“Do you really admire Jane Austen?” His voice was so…venomous, that I couldn’t ignore him, nor could I slap him in front of his mother, however much my fingers twitched to do so. I did snap my pencil in half, however.

“Yes,” I ground out through clenched teeth.

“Why? I find her sexist, boring and clannish.” He leaned back in his chair expecting an argument from the looks of it.

I felt my mouth gape open and hang there like a fly catcher.

“Are you allergic to shutting up? Or do you have a touch of diarrhea of the mouth?” I hastily shuffled my papers and mumbled to myself under my breath, “Ha! He calls Jane Austen sexist, boring and clannish…I can’t think of three more apt words to describe him in the English language…” Then, just as quickly as I had began my mumbled tirade, I stopped, fearing I would be sent home on the next flight by Lady Priscilla in a matter of minutes, if I didn’t. Say goodbye to your new promotion, and your job, Maisie…

Instead of the ripping of a new one I thought I’d get from Lady P., what I heard and saw were three females stifling laughs while one pig-headed male turned all shades of red and stared daggers through me until I’d finished talking. But–oh-so-thankfully–he did keep his mouth shut and l yanked my self-assurance back to front and center using my bad attitude as an impetus.

“Any questions?” I asked cheerfully as I zipped my bag closed.

“No? OK, then I have one: may I see the collection now?” To say I was anxious to see what they held would be an understatement. My fingers tickled to don those gloves and lovingly caress the priceless capsules of history. I couldn’t wait to see each piece, touch it, imagine what the person’s life was like who wore such an elaborate costume. Only the richest of the rich preserved their clothing through time; everyone else wore and recycled their clothing until it was in tattered rags. Poor me, to be forced to handle fine silks, cottons and wools in some of the most skilled handiwork ever. I sighed happily from the burden.

“Of course, Maisie! Let’s get started right now, in fact.

Nicholas, would you please unlock the door to the storage area?” Priscilla (as she directed me to call her after I floundered over ‘Mrs. Lady’ and ‘Your Royal Errrr’…) asked Nick as we all made our way down the large hallway and down a flight of steps.

Nick nodded and jogged ahead of us to get the keys. I kept one eye on Priscilla and the other on Nick’s shapely backside. Sue me for having eyes that work too well sometimes. And what a nice sight it was.

“Whew! It’s cold in here!” I said out loud to distract myself from looking at him too long.

“Yes, it is. It’s temperature and humidity controlled to protect the clothing,” Captain Obvious announced as he flipped on all the lights.

“I know, I am familiar with the field in which I work. I was simply making an observation.” I scanned the room and saw racks and racks of covered garments. It felt like Christmas.

“Oh,” he said as if I had dejected him out of the room, right onto his ass.

“Sorry Nick, I didn’t mean to snap, it’s just that I’m really tired from my journey.” Priscilla and the girls went off to investigate why one of the racks was slightly crooked; I heard their clipped feminine voices echo as they walked away. I turned to Nick. I did feel guilty for being snippy, and I was about ready to apologize for everything nasty I had said since I arrived. I studied his actions as he waited for his mother to get out of hearing range; only when she had gone far enough, did he walk slowly up to me, lean down into my face and make me think he was going to kiss me. My heart started to race from seeing his nicely shaped mouth up close and I backed away with a frown that was soon to be paired with a roundhouse kick if he didn’t quit it. He chuckled, I guess due to my expression, and backed off.

“What are you doing?” I whispered loudly. I turned to walk away and I heard him say my name softly. I hesitated only because of the tone of his voice. It was intriguing.

“What?”I rolled my eyes as I waited.

Stupid man, he leaned into my face again! “Hey! I told you—” I swatted him away.

“Maisie, I think it’s important that I tell you this with discretion,” he whispered softly, his rich eyes looking deeply into mine. I felt my toes go numb.

“Wh, wh, what?” I stuttered uncoolly.

“Maisie…” he hushed, his breath tickling my face.

“Yes?” I breathed. He brushed his thumb along my face, sending chills up my arms. (Check: toes were still numb.)

“You have a piece of food stuck to your face. Looks like scone…saving it for later?” He opened my hand and placed the yummy treat I had overlooked into my palm. I cursed myself silently for doing a hasty job of checking for crumbs in the rearview mirror. Nick bowed to me as he elegantly backed away, flashed me a blinding smile and winked as he called to his mom, “Mum, I can fix that rack, if you wish.”

Prequel I is here

Prequel II is here

Prequel III is here

And where it all started (sort of) The Traveler is here

Image credit: Kevin at thebeginningatlast9.Wordpress.com

chick lit · fiction · Humor · The Traveler · Women’s literature · Writing

The Traveler – Prequel III

February 24, 2024February 26, 2024 Amy44 Comments

“You’re squinting. Shouldn’t you have worn sunglasses on a sunny day like today?” I raised my arm to shield my eyes to view this joker more clearly.

“Thanks for that, Captain Obvious. I left them at home, mistakenly believing the sun doesn’t shine here.” He was tall, that much I gathered, though I still couldn’t make out his features, and he was decked out in jeans and a t-shirt with thousands of tiny spots of paint on them. I hoped this meant he was a worker in the museum, not that this shirt was actually his idea of fashion.

“That’s a rather stereotypical belief, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know, maybe.” I shrugged.

“Anyway, it doesn’t much matter unless I can’t purchase any sunglasses here,” I snipped. I took a deep breath and let it out loudly and slowly. It had to be 9:50 already. No time for banter with a doofus.

He moved smoothly down three steps, ending up at ground level and looking me square in my eyes, even though I stood on the first step and was 5’10” with those heels on. Well. Nosy he may be, bordering on rude even, but I almost forgot about all of it when I looked at him.

Mr. Rude Painter Guy was tall, I was right about that. Mid-twenties, I would guess, and he had the uncanny ability to cause the next snide remark I had lined up to halt on my tongue, just by being. His wavy, dark brown hair nearly glowed red in the bright morning sun and his eyes were like rich chocolate with a touch of cayenne. He had a smattering of freckles on the bridge of his straight, olive-colored nose, the sight of which erased the slight frown that had formed on my face. His cheekbones were disgustingly high and angular (yeah, I was jealous) and his lips were wide and voluptuous (again, jealous). I stood there perfectly still, staring blankly at him. My name had eluded me at present.

“Ahem.” He cleared his throat and did this thing with his eyes that made my left knee buckle slightly.

“Can I help you?” I asked stiffly, as if I had developed amnesia and had made myself a proprietor of the establishment.

“Pardon me?” He seemed confused and that vaguely bugged me.

“What?” I scrunched my nose at him.

“What?” Now he was confused and sounded so.

“What? What?” I couldn’t help ribbing him solely for amusement.

He was standing close enough that I heard him growl. “You were the one committing trespassing moments ago. My question to you was, ‘May I help you?’ as you proceeded up these steps here.” He pointed down as if I had no clue I was perched on steps.

“So?” I turned to continue up the stairs and shrugged him off. “I’m going up here now. Buh-bye.”

“I can’t allow you to do that.” He grabbed my arm to stop me.

“Excuse me!” I yanked my arm away and glared at him. “And why can’t you allow me to do that?”

“I don’t know who you are, for one, and for another, I doubt the Langdons would have any business with you.”

Mr. Rude Painter Guy has not only a biting tongue, but a superiority complex. Impressive. “I have an appointment that started, like—“ I glanced to my watch. “It started five minutes ago!

I’d love to chat with you, but I have to run.” He grabbed me again before I could out-maneuver him.

“Who are you?” his eyes narrowed at me and became nasty, ugly, most definitely bitter chocolate.

“What’s it to you?”

He growled. I found the sound perversely erotic, and wrinkled my nose at this self-awareness.

“Fine. I see I am not going to make my meeting anytime soon if I don’t tell you. My name is Maisie Reynolds, and if you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting with Mr. Langdon that I am already late for—thanks to you.” I yanked my arm away for the last time and marched up the stairs, relieved to feel the breeze cool me.

“Maisie Reynolds? You’re Maisie Reynolds?”

“Yessss, for thirty years now. And you are…?” I stopped at the door and leaned my head against it for balance when his probable identity first flashed in my mind. I spoke into the door and pleaded with it to hold me up, just as he opened his mouth.

“I’m Nick Langdon, Maisie Reynolds. Now allow me to escort you to your meeting with Mr. Langdon. Oh…that’s right, I will be taking my father’s place this morning, as he had an emergency to attend to. I was venturing out to meet you when I came upon you breaking and entering.” He had the nerve to smirk and cough to cover his laugh.

“Just entering, not breaking. The stupid thing is already broken, Nick Langdon. And I heard you cover your laugh just now, and I know you knew who I was the whole time, so just stuff any further comments up your lovely arse, please.”

He was polite enough to allow me to enter the building first, and in utter silence, save my loudly clicking heels, led me down the hollow hall. I had the strangest sensation he was leering at my butt.

Read The Traveler – Prequel I here

Read The Traveler – Prequel II here

Read The Traveler – where it all started

image credit: Kevin at thebeginningatlast9.wordpress.com