Last year I was kicking around a serial idea with Rob Goldstein, Who did the beautiful illustrations for Hullaba Lulu. I envisioned a steampunk satire of The Scarlet Pimpernel. My heroine is Fiona Finch, the Pink Pimpernel. Her story is one of foppish frivolity, sarcasm, and a load of alliteration. She’s a cutie with curls and dresses all and only in pink. Secretly she’s still all pink, but she’s also so much more, just as was the Scarlet Pimpernel, but with steampunk gadgets galore — and still more pink. Now you know Fiona. That’s part of the background for this bit of nonsense.
Recently, Staci Troilo was saying how life could be too bizarre for fiction. I hope her trip to Bizarro World wasn’t as bad as mine — but she’s right. Staci had the common sense to keep her personal strangeness out of her stories. Me on the other hand, I have about as much common sense as Lulu.
Lulu in the train’s automat… with cheeseburgers that were used as cash
I swear I’m getting to the point. Bear with me.
I’ve had my own Bizarro World with an unbelievable comic book villain, Creepy Crying Guy, across the street. When I said “No,” he stood on my porch bawling. I’ll save you descriptions of his admission of trying to manipulate me and the disgusting leer that accompanied those words before he went back to bawling half a second later. Oh, sorry… I guess I told you after all. Yes, yes, I’m getting to the point.
Well thank heavens for good friends who could make me laugh about it. This vignette was inspired by whimsical remarks from Renita and Rob. Renita remarked that in her experience old ladies with machetes are enough to scare anybody. Then Rob took her joke a step farther… So I made characters from the Fiona-verse into alter egos for Rob and me. Now, to the “point.”
Fiona Fights Back
The Pink Pimpernel Sees Red
Fiona Finch as imagined by Rob Goldstein
A hansom cab clattered down a lane in Victorian Era San Francisco. Fiona Finch sat in the light of her window. The noise distracted her. The pink ruffled sleeve of her gown fell against the machete as she fingered the hilt. She went back to her task, intently turning the pages of Darwin’s The Origin of the Species.
“He’s not in here,” Fiona grumbled.
Straight black hair fell to cover his face as a man in black tailed tuxedo placed the tea tray on the table beside the single pink lace glove. He silently raised an eyebrow, as any attentive butler might.
The “butler” was Fiona’s adopted brother, Steele. However, he was no servant. He simply enjoyed wearing the costume and the excuse it gave him to make snide remarks. He also seemed to think buttling allowed him to boss her around. A fact of which he openly reminded Fiona whenever she complained that he shouldn’t act like a butler.
“Really, Steele, don’t be such a prude. Wearing gloves inside, in the summer, with no guests in the house? Why no matter how darling they are, it’s absurd. Besides, I couldn’t turn the pages,” Fiona defended.
Fiona picked up the teacup with her delicately gloved hand and used the silver spoon to stir it with the brazenly bare hand.
Steele, by Rob Goldstein
“I told you that I would thrash him the next time he comes to the door,” Steele reminded his sister.
“I don’t want you to batty-fang anyone, Steele. Imagine the trouble that thrashing could cause. Besides, he only comes when you are away. Plus, he stands there blubbering like a baby when I reject him. He’s sure to use that trick if the police inspectors come, and he’d make you the villain,” Fiona added, returning to Darwin’s controversial tome.
“I suppose your souvenir from our voyage to Madrid would cause less of a collie shangle? I believe his species is human. I doubt you’ll find anything useful in that book,” Steele told her. “Although I do have an idea.”
She glanced at the ghoul who watched her from his own window on the other side of the street.
Pasja at Pixaby
“What good does leering from his window do him? Is he hoping for a glimpse of my cupid’s kettledrums?” Fiona complained.
“Damfino,” Steele replied.
Steele picked up the crystal pot of red currant jam and moved toward the parlor door.
“What, pray tell, are you doing brother dear?” Fiona queried. “Where are you going with the jam? I wasn’t finished!”
A moment later Steele returned, carrying a long white nightgown. It was covered with the crimson contents of the jam jar.
“At least you didn’t ruin my pink nightdress,” Fiona muttered. “What are you on about now?”
“I know you favor pink, but white is so much more dramatic,” Steele began. “Maybe our neighbor’s diligence in watching you should be rewarded with a good look at you in your nightie.”
“What? Don’t be absurd!” Fiona replied aghast.
“Red currant jam, red as blood and running down the front of this prim white gown. Imagine the ghoul’s face if you answered wearing this, and holding the machete!” Steele explained with a purely wicked grin.
Fiona pranking the creep, as imagined by Rob Goldstein
This is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.
No part of this work may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.
All images are either the property of the author or provided by free sources, unless stated otherwise.
Electric guitars on a highway sign marks the crossroads where legend claims musician Robert Johnson sold his soul to the Devil for the ability to play the blues. (Wikimedia)
It’s almost here! Brother Love — an all new “interactive,” three things, pantser serial. The story is driven by random things left by readers.
The idea for this story started nearly a year ago. It is partly inspired by a Neil Diamond song that has always caught my imagination. I didn’t have time to write a new serial back then, but it now it’s coming up! I enjoy Diamond’s description of how the song came to be in this video, preceding the song.
Many of you are familiar with my “three things” way of writing serials. don’t know what the story is going to do until I look at the “things” supplied by readers — that’s how it’s “interactive.”
I can tell you that the setting is rural Mississippi in the late 1950s to early 60s. I’m collaborating with blogger Dan Antion. He sends me photos to fuel my imagination. Dan and you readers send my random “things” that drive the story.
Along with the song “Brother Love’s Traveling Salvation Show,” another inspiration is the blues legend of the devil at the crossroads and Robert Johnson.
This is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.
No part of this work may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.
All images are either the property of the author or provided by free sources, unless stated otherwise.
Lulu’s clumsiness sends the train to 1 million years BC. Art by Rob Goldstein
It’s finally time! I’ve been promising you a short story with illustrations by Rob Goldstein. Lulu, Gramps, and Valentino are joined by a couple of unexpected characters in this one episode story. I call it “One Million Years B-Lulu.” It’s a little riff on “One Million Years BC,” which featured Raquel Welsh. Don’t ask me why that particular scenario popped into my head. I’ve told you that I’m just not wired right. The three random things Rob gave me to drive the story are velociraptor, stone axe, and capacitors.
Rob is featuring the story as a guest post today at Sue Vincent‘s blog, so I hope you’ll click over and visit them. I’m posting it here as well. Without further ado…
All aboard!
One Million Years B-Lulu
Lulu, Gramps, and Valentino in the control room of the diesel-punk train. Art by Rob Goldstein
Soft clicking noises took on a familiar rhythm. I looked over at the blue-gold angel-bot as he worked at a control station of Valentino’s amazing train. The bot started humming to match the beat of his clicks and whirrs. The sound reminded me of a music box.
Most of the train’s angel-bots were gold. This clockwork creature was the only blue hued one. Of all the bots, he was the savviest to the workings of the mysterious train. I had named him Moon, after the song “Cuban Moon,” because of the subtle Spanish accent of his deep voice. That’s the tune he hummed.
I loved to dance, so I did a few steps of the Brazilian Samba to his humming. One turn caused me to bump into a table. Exotic, futuristic looking instruments wobbled dangerously. Fortunately, nothing fell ― that time. I admit that I’m known for my clumsiness. They didn’t sing “Don’t Bring Lulu” when they talked about me for nothin’.
Lulu by Rob Goldstein
“Lulu, how many times have I told you ― don’t touch anything,” Valentino complained as he walked into the control room.
I stopped dancing. Moon gave me a sheepish look, as if he felt partly responsible. Valentino raised one eyebrow suspiciously at the angel-bot’s reaction.
“Don’t mind him, Moon. He’s just grumpy because those pointy-toed dog kennels hurt his feet,” I told my clockwork friend. “Go ahead and hum.”
The enigmatic Valentino looked from me to the bot in surprise.
“You’ve taught him to hum? I wasn’t aware that they could,” Valentino commented.
An odd device I hadn’t noticed sat on one of the train’s control tables. It resembled an hourglass, but rather than sand, it contained a gooey glowing substance. Fascinated, I extended one finger toward the slowly moving molten goo.
“Lulu, don’t touch anything,” Gramps spoke by rote as he strode into the room.
“Especially not the time delineator!” Valentino added.
Valentino and the angel-bots. Art by Rob Goldstein
Startled, I jerked my finger back so hard that the feather in my headband wobbled and the fringe of my short skirt swayed. I wasn’t expecting my grandfather.
“Ah! Sir. Good. I have finished the adjustments to your pocket watch,” Moon called to Gramps from across the room.
The angel-bot extended his mechanical arm to twice its usual length to hand me the pocket watch, since I was closest to my grandfather. I was in a playful mood, so I decided to toss it to Gramps, rather than walk around the control tables and across the room to hand the timepiece to him.
I drew back my arm to make the toss. The watch went into the air, rotating as it flew. When my arm came back down, I knocked over the goo-filled hourglass thingy Valentino called the time delineator.
The glass cracked. In midair, a drop of glowing goo splashed against the engraved pocket-watch my grandfather cherished. It had been a gift from my late grandmother.
Abruptly I felt like a heavy weight sat on my head. My feet tingled like they were asleep. My stomach was up where my throat was supposed to be. Plus, I felt like I had sneezed ― but in reverse.
The pocket-watch slowed until time really did stand still. The glow of the goo grew until it became spherical, surrounding the pocket-watch. Abruptly, both disappeared in a sphere of sparks.
When I opened my eyes after the inverse sneeze, everything around me looked like a Slavador Dali painting. Then the world went black.
***
Lulu’s clumsiness sent the diesel-punk train to 1 million years BC. Art by Rob Goldstein
I’m not sure how much time passed, but as consciousness returned to my aching head, I realized that I was face down on the ground. And I do mean ground. It wasn’t the floor of the control room against my face.
Warm breath snuffled against my face, sniffing. My nose wrinkled. The sniffer had bad breath. I cracked open one peeper for a discrete look, and found a human eye locked on mine. He grunted and sniffed some more. When his nose headed where it had no business going, I scrambled backward.
“Hey! Watch it!” I exclaimed. “I’m not some easy biscuit. Mind your manners.”
The train sat all catawampus nearby. Amid the enormous leaves of strange plants, it looked as out of place as a wallflower at a speakeasy.
I sprawled on rocky terrain with scraggly bushes and gnarled trees. Behind me was the mouth of a cave. Leaning curiously over me was the smelly, fur clad man who woke me with his sniffing.
I remembered the goo-filled hourglass falling. I gulped. Hard.
Art by Rob Goldstein
A rapid rhythm of clicks and whirrs emanated from Moon, the angel-bot. Valentino’s head was down. He murmured in low worried tones as the angel-bot clicked.
Gramps stooped to pick up his sunglasses. He blew the dust off them and tucked the spectacles into the breast pocket inside his jacket. Reflexively he reached to the watch pocket of his vest. He patted the empty pocket.
His pocket-watch was gone.
“Bushwa!” he muttered, though he looked heartbroken.
I gasped as fire singed my eyebrows. The caveman waved a flaming stick, jabbing it toward my bobbed hair.
“Yes, her hair is the color of fire,” Valentino spoke in placating tones that one might use with a frightened animal.
The smelly sniffer appeared to take Valentino’s word for it that the fiery hue was normal for my hair, however unusual it must have been to him.
“Lulu!” Gramps hissed in a cautionary way, and I knew he thought the caveman was dangerous.
Laying my hand against my chest, I spoke slowly.
“I’m Lulu. Who are you?” I pointed to him as I asked.
“Loana. Fair one,” his gravelly voice pronounced and reached toward my bubs.
Lulu meets Tumac. Art by Rob Goldstein
“Hey! Watch yourself. I’m a nice girl,” I cautioned him as I jumped backward.
Valentino snorted and I shot him a glare.
“No,” I continued from three feet away. “Lulu. I’m Lu-lu.”
He nodded and clapped his hand against his chest.
“Tumac. Tumac strong! Tumac be Lulu’s daddy,” he added with a leer.
“Where did you learn that language,” Valentino raised an eyebrow and asked suspiciously.
“Nupondi,” Tumac replied. “Nupondi look like you,” he added with a sweeping motion that indicated Valentino head to toe.
“Someone dressed like me?” Valentino asked, though Tumac clearly didn’t understand the words.
Gramps had a worried expression on his face.
“Nupondi come back when he smells grub.”
Tumac motioned toward a fire-pit where a large carcass of something roasted on a spit. I didn’t know what it was, but the aroma made my stomach growl. The cave man chortled at the sound. He gave me a companionable shove toward the fire and I stumbled. Tumac really was strong, that was no boast.
What’s Cookin’? by Rob Goldstein
Soon I held the biggest crispy drumstick I had ever seen. Juice ran down my arm as I hungrily sunk my teeth into it.
“Where does she get her appetite?” Valentino asked my grandfather in a tone that combined revulsion and stunned admiration.
My grand father shrugged. He had been more interested in poking around in the bushes, looking for his pocket-watch than eating. However, when Tumac acted offended that he wouldn’t eat, Gramps finally sat down at the fire.
“It really isn’t bad,” Gramps commented and pointedly made a yummy sound to gratify Tumac. “I wonder what it is.”
“V’locy. Mama v’locy,” Tumac mumbled around a mouthful. “Find eggs too. Big breakfast at sunup.”
Near the entrance of a cave I spotted the clutch of eggs. Each one was about the size of a pigskin football. I couldn’t imagine what kind of chicken could lay eggs so big.
“V’locy?” Valentino repeated and his face blanched. “Velociraptor?” he exclaimed. “Lulu, leave those eggs alone. Even a hatchling could be deadly.”
“Oh, don’t give me that phonus balonus!” I told him and inspected the eggs.
The bushes rustled. Tumac sniffed the air. Gramps quickly grabbed the burning stick the caveman had waved around earlier. He held it defensively.
Gramps by Rob Goldstein
The caveman didn’t seem concerned. He grunted and muttered “Nupondi.”
Gramps jabbed the flaming stick toward the bushes.
“Horsefeathers! Have a care or you’ll set the whole place on fire!” an unexpectedly familiar voice protested.
“Tom?” I exclaimed as he nonchalantly tucked something into his pocket. “Tom Driberg! You were on the lamb from those hooligans. So, this is where you wound up?”
Tom had betrayed us all, particularly my pal Rose. We weren’t the only ones he quatched. It turned out he had been a spy for both the Americans and the Russians.
That small motion of his hand to his pocket didn’t escape my notice. Gramps squinted. He had seen it too. Tom was being a little too smooth, even for Tom. He gave a guilty glance at Gramps. Tom looked like a man who knew he had been caught.
“Well, Lulu. Aren’t you just the cat’s particulars,” Tom said, stepping toward me.
Suddenly, Tom grabbed me and a surprisingly sharp stone axe was pressed against my throat.
“Give me that pocket-watch, Driberg,” Gramps demanded. “It’s meaningless to you.”
“Quite the contrary old man,” Tom replied with a smirk. “There aren’t any capacitors here. Your beloved watch isn’t special just because it came from your wife, you know. It can be modified to work as a time delineator, and I can finally go home!”
Tom’s sentence ended with an oof! Tumac snuck up behind him and grabbed both of us, lifting us off the ground. I heard Tom make a strangled noise and he dropped the axe. With a hefty toss, Tumac sent Tom and me tumbling.
I saw the pocket-watch fall. In the same instant I heard a shrill cry from above.
“Your sheba has found you,” Tumac chortled at Tom.
Pterodactyl swoops & gets Tom as Gramps retrieves his pocket watch. Art by Rob Goldstein
Huge wings darkened the sky. Dust and ashes from the fire-pit clouded the air as gusts buffeted us. Gramps put on his sunglasses as if they were goggles.
Blinking, I gaped speechlessly. A pterodactyl settled to the ground.
Sunlight glinted off the pocket-watch. The dinosaur’s eyes darted to the watch.
“Sheba like shiny,” Tumac muttered to Tom. “Maybe she take it, not you.”
“What?” I couldn’t help asking, even it that circumstance.
“The damn dyno. I was there when she hatched. She imprinted on me. Thinks I’m her chick or something,” Tom said as he cowered behind Valentino.
“You realize it’s not a bird, don’t you?” Valentino told him, as if that mattered at such a time.
Abruptly, Gramps darted and grabbed his watch. The pterodactyl screeched. Her sharp beak jutted dangerously toward him.
The sun flashed off his spectacles. The dinosaur tilted her head as Gramps spoke.
“There, there now. You don’t want this. It’s not good to eat,” my grandfather cajoled.
The pterodactyl took another huge step toward him. Surprised, I realized she saw her reflection in his sunglasses. I whispered the fact to Gramps. He slowly removed the shades and held them toward her.
“Careful,” Valentino cautioned. “She could take your entire arm if she grabs the spectacles.”
Then a fierce look glinted in Valentino’s eyes. I had always thought he had a ruthless streak, hidden under all that smoldering brooding.
Valentino by Rob Goldstein
Valentino reached behind himself, where Tom cowered. He grabbed the spy’s arm and shoved him into the open.
“This is what you really want, isn’t it,” Valentino called to the pterodactyl.
The dinosaur made a pained noise, followed by a series of croaks that sounded like a mother chastising her offspring. Tom ran as fast as he could.
With a blast of air that knocked me to the ground, the pterodactyl flapped her wings and took flight. In a moment she had Tom in her clutches. She flew with him toward a rocky outcropping.
Tumac laughed so hard that he rolled on the ground.
I stood gobsmacked.
“She take Nupondi to nest. She love Nupondi,” Tumac explained between chortles. Nupondi not go hungry. His sheba vomit breakfast for him. Haha! All over his head.”
***
Art by Rob Goldstein
In no time Moon had modified the pocket-watch to work as a time delineator for Valentino’s train. Through a hand-held telescope, I saw Tom gingerly climbing down from the pterodactyl’s nest. He was drenched in something, presumably regurgitated dinner, but seemed unharmed. We bade a fond farewell to Tumac, our host.
When I walked past Tumac, he laughed, because he saw that I was hiding something behind my back. I winked and hoped he knew to keep quiet.
The big Orthophonic Victrola in the train’s control room blared out “Toot, Toot, Tootsie! Good-bye,” and I knew we would be leaving in a moment.
“Are you alright, Lulu?” Gramps asked me. “You look like something isn’t sitting well on your stomach.”
“Maybe some under-cooked dinosaur,” I replied weakly and mustered up a belch.
Delicately I put one hand to my lips, while the other was firmly behind my back.
“If not for that decidedly unladylike burp, I would go back and count all those velociraptor eggs,” Valentino told me with narrowed eyes as he climbed aboard the train.
“Well, I never…” I protested even though he hit the nail on the head.
Then I felt the egg move. I twitched at the surprise, and nearly dropped it. Valentino turned back at my abrupt movement. I put my free hand to my stomach and groaned dramatically. Clara Bow couldn’t have given a better performance.
A shining gold angel-bot leaned from the train. It was Dynamite.
“All aboard!” Dynamite called.
I made sure Gramps and Valentino were both all the way inside the train before I let Dynamite help me aboard. By then, the egg was practically dancing the Charleston.
The train’s Orthophonic Victrola always seemed to know more than it should be able to understand. Not to mention that it had a mean disposition. As the dinosaur egg lurched, the device started playing “Don’t Bring Lulu.”
Lulu back on the train, by Rob Goldstein
***
The end.
Update: Rob has just finished a fabulous video of this story. Do check it out and pay him a visit as well. http://robertmgoldstein.com/
You’re the cat’s pajamas!
And don’t forget!
Coming in Spring
Another Roaring Twenties Pantser Tale
Continuing the adventures of Pip and Granny, it’s…
This is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.
No part of this work may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.
All images are either the property of the author or provided by free sources, unless stated otherwise.
Happy weekend, everyone! I’m still settling in at my new digs in the Land of Enchantment, painting the walls, putting furniture together, and generally keeping every muscle in my body sore.
Crystal the cat seems to have made the adjustment. A few nights I’ve heard her making a midnight romp, and this morning, she wanted to play with her collection of bouncy and fuzzy balls! She also insists on approving any decorating.
Crystal with one of Rob Goldstein’s images.
Coming Right Up
I’ve mentioned that San Francisco artist, poet, and activist, Rob Goldstein and I got back together with a short story for Lulu, Gramps, and the enigmatic Valentino. I call it “One Million Years B-Lulu.” It’s a little riff on the old movie “One Million Years BC.”
Rob has made terrific illustrations for it. He really got into the spirit of the story. Rob will feature this short story at Sue Vincent‘s blog, but I’ll run it here as well.
That’s Not All
Brother Love
Brother Love collage by Teagan Geneviene
Hang on — that’s not all! I’ve started work on a mini series with blogger Dan Antion. The core of the story was inspired by a Neil Diamond song “Brother Love’s Traveling Salvation Show,” along with the blues legend of the devil at the crossroads and Robert Johnson.
If you will watch the video trailer, you will have some idea of the core components of the story. It’s a pantser tale (spontaneously written), so I don’t know too much more about it yet.
Dan was kind enough to invite me to his fictional bar for a drink at his SoCS post this weekend. I hope you’ll click over and share some conversation with us.
Dan’s photos will help guide my pantser pen. He’ll also give me some random “things” to drive the story. (Most of you are familiar with my “three things” way of writing serials.) I can tell you that the setting is rural Mississippi in the late 1950s to early 60s. My narrator is named Birdie Devovo. Which brings me to your invitation…
Come out to play!
It seems like a long time since I’ve been able to involve you, the reader, in my stories. That actually makes a lot more work for me. However, I love including you. Dan will be giving me photos and two random things. So I invite you to leave onerandom thing in the comments. That will make the total of three things.
The first episode will post a week from today. All three things will be from Dan on that chapter, but after that I will start including reader “things.”
A rather old blues song has been running around in my head. It helped me write the mystical prologue for the story, so I’ll go ahead and share it. Be sure to leave a random “thing” in the comments. Happy weekend!
And don’t forget!
Coming up, another Roaring Twenties pantser tale
Continuing the adventures of Pip and Granny, it’s…
This is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.
No part of this work may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.
All images are either the property of the author or provided by free sources, unless stated otherwise.
I’ve had my hands full trying to put my cottage in order, now that I’m feeling better from the ordeal of moving, not sleeping, and being as freaked out as anybody can be. There was one other thing I worked on this week. Here’s a hint.
An image for One Million Years B-Lulu. Art by Rob Goldstein
That said, I didn’t have a post for this weekend. However, I did want to stop and wish you a happy weekend, from me, Lulu and all the crew of the #dieselpunk train! You’re the bee’s knees!
Update! I forgot to link to Rob’s blog — it’s here.
And don’t forget!
Coming in Spring
Another Roaring Twenties Pantser Tale
Continuing the adventures of Pip and Granny, it’s…
This is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.
No part of this work may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.
All images are either the property of the author or provided by free sources, unless stated otherwise.
With helpful angel-bots, Lulu gets ready for a bath. (Art by Rob Goldstein)
I’ve been painting accent walls. Places that I don’t even have are sore! I sure wish I had a couple of angel-bots to run a nice hot bath for me… Hullaba Lulu may have been brash and uncouth, but she was one lucky flapper!
My plate is full with putting my new home in order. I’ve been gathering the day-to-day needs that I couldn’t bring with me. Did you ever stop to think just how many different needful things you use in the course of a single day? From the handy holder for the toothbrush (still on my “to get” list) in the morning, to the bedside water glass at night. (I know that glass is here somewhere…)
Anyhow, I’m not back to full-steam-ahead blogging quite yet, but I’m getting there! Even though I’ve been scarce in the blogosphere for a couple of months, I’ve actually been working on a few things.
Lulu blowing a bubble (Art by Rob Goldstein)
On the Horizon
San Francisco artist, poet, and activist, Rob Goldstein and I are getting back together with another adventure for Lulu, Gramps, and the enigmatic Valentino. This one is only a short story, not a serial. I call it “One Million Years B-Lulu.” It’s a little riff on “One Million Years BC,” which featured Raquel Welsh.
Rob asked me to do a story with his illustrations. Don’t ask me why that particular scenario popped into my head. I’ve told you that I’m just not wired right. Rob will feature it at Sue Vincent‘s blog, but I’ll run it here as well.
It’s a big horizon!
A Crossroad (Photo by Dan Antion)
Hang on — that’s not all! Before Rob asked about a new Lulu story, I was already working on a mini series with blogger Dan Antion.
But I’m getting ahead of myself! The idea for this story started nearly a year ago. I penned an intro episode, planning to make it into a serial. The story was inspired by a Neil Diamond song that has always caught my imagination. Being born in a small town in the deep south, the sultry words, “Hot August night, and the leaves hanging down, and the grass on the ground smelling sweet,” took root in my soul and stayed. (I enjoy Diamond’s description of how the song came to be in this video, preceding the song.)
Yet I didn’t have time for a new serial. However, like the words of the song, the story idea held on. Now that I should have a little more writing time, the idea loomed large. I wanted someone to bounce ideas around with, and create images. Immediately I thought of Dan Antion.
I wasn’t sure what Dan would say when I sent him the idea. Partly because I told him that I’m also inspired for it by the old blues legend of the devil at the crossroads. Also, I had no idea if he even liked Neil Diamond or the song.
The Reader’s Digest version is that Dan was onboard. He even went out right away, to a particular (railroad) crossroad that inspired him, to take photos. I should also mention that he went out into the harsh winter weather to take those pictures.
The working title is “Brother Love.”
Although I’m not quite sure how I will work the opening I wrote last year into the new serial, I’m sharing it here as a teaser. Originally, my thought was to use “things” from the Neil Diamond song to drive the new story. I’m not sure if that will work for this collaborative incarnation of it, but here’s the original beginning. The new serial will likely be different from this. …Or maybe not. I don’t know yet.
In the summer, leaves hung down so far, they almost reached the sweet-smelling grass on the ground. Moths clung to the screen, attracted to the kitchen light.
I fanned myself futilely with a mimeographed flyer. It did nothing to alleviate the heat of the night, and the cloying odor of the ink turned my stomach. I stared at the wet circles on the formica tabletop as the ice melted in my glass of sweet tea.
At last a breeze! It rustled the pages of the Pan Am calendar hanging on the wall. August exclaimed “Back to Hawaii!” and boasted a man and woman disembarking a plane while greeted by hula dancers and musicians. That scene was too farfetched for my imagination.
I liked July better. It showed a couple, suitcases in hand, laughing and walking fast. Yes, I liked that one best. They could be anyone, going anywhere… maybe the girl could even me.
The mimeographed flyer floated on the breeze from the table down to the cracked and faded linoleum floor. Someone had left the ad on the front door ― Brother Love’s Traveling Salvation Show, it read. It was odd for anyone to come around, witnessing or leaving things like that. They rarely came all the way to the outside of town. I was glad I missed them.
Thunder rumbled faintly, very far away. Maybe there would be rain.
Or maybe not, I thought as I put the damp glass to my forehead.
I crawled half-under the table to pick up the flyer. The kitchen light flickered and popped, causing me to bump my head. Then all the lights went out.
The screen door creaked open. Normally it would bang shut, but it closed softly. At the sound of footsteps, I scrunched the rest of the way under the table.
***
Remember, this may or may not be part of my collaboration with Dan. However, I wanted to share the origin with you.
So there you have it — the things that have been simmering away on my twisting brain’s back burner while I’ve been so scarce around the blogosphere!
And don’t forget!
Coming in Spring
Another Roaring Twenties Pantser Tale
Continuing the adventures of Pip and Granny, it’s…
This is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.
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