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Novels novels everywhere and not a minute to write…

The Blog Everyday in May thing didn’t last long. I got bored of it real quick. (Or if we’re using proper grammar, that’s “really quickly”.)

Oh look! Something shiny!

Today’s something shiny is a novel I started about four years ago. I didn’t get very far with it. In fact, what you see below is all there is. Nevertheless, I’m intrigued with this cast of characters and I’d like to finish their story sometime. I have only a vague idea of what it would be about…

Poem’s Story

Yellow maple leaves fluttered overhead as Ed Watts pulled his 1964 El Camino off Ohio 52. October, yet the summer heat would not relent, intensifying as the speedometer fell.

Rose sat beside him, Poem on her lap—the two glued together with sweat. They hadn’t stopped since Batesville, the Camp Isle sign arching overhead signifying the end of their six-day journey.

Finn Lively didn’t notice their arrival. He was pounding on bull hide with a stick, biting the corner of his mouth as he tried to fall into rhythm with the pow wow drums.

Tents edged the circular courtyard. Donna Lively sat under one, offering Tarot card readings. Under others, mediums conjured deceased spirits. Carefully crafted lies became Aunt Maude’s turquoise necklace, Billy’s favorite teddy bear, Grandpa Ira’s gold pocket watch. Evidence that the departed could still speak, or that con artists could still fool—sometimes even themselves.



The drums droned, masking the sound of bald tires against pock-marked pavement. Festival-goers commanded the road. Ed lifted his foot off the break, idled the El Camino forward, stopped again to let two gray-haired ladies pass.



Poem rested her hand on the door and looked out over the courtyard. A breeze tickled her arm. She watched the full-bellied, bare-skinned men dance in their feathered head-dresses, too young to wonder what pow wows and sweat lodges had to do with psychic readings and séances.



The Ohio Association of Spiritualists understood the monetary value of multi-culturalism, and they milked it for all it was worth. They also offered cheap rooms at the Violet Hotel, and a cafeteria across the way with lunches offered on Fridays and Saturdays. For all other meals, the gas stoves and double sinks were free to use.

The road turned to gravel and curved right under the shade of sturdy
 maples. A breeze billowed through the yellow canopy in waves. Leaves
fluttered against leaves, saturating the pow wow drums in rustling 
applause.



They drove past Finn, still beating his drum. Limestone dust wafted
 against his back. He reached up and wiped his nose with his hand, 
adhering bits of dry foliage to his sweaty cheek. Poem watched the back
 of his hair part down the middle as the wind continued to blow. A piece 
rose up and wagged side to side like a finger, then fell to rest as the 
breeze died.

Ed turned left into the Violet Hotel’s parking lot, pulled into the only
 empty spot, and cut the engine. He leaned his head against the headrest and gazed at their new kitchen—a one story cinder block building with a green 
roof. Never painted, the stone aggregate had aged to a yellowish brown.
 The interior of the cafeteria was no cozier, but it would function.



Poem watched a bead of sweat roll down her father’s temple. It pooled
 in the crevice beside his eye, and then a slow blink sent it tumbling down his 
cheek.



”What are you doing,” Rose said.



He pulled his T-shirt up to his face, shrugged behind a shroud of sweaty
 cotton.



Rose sighed. She grabbed the door handle and tugged. Hinges creaked
 against the force of her elbow. “Up… Up!” She motioned to Poem with
her free hand, her other resituating her tank top as she leaned into the
 door. Poem peeled herself from her mother’s bare legs and hopped to the
 gravel.

She walked to the back bumper, banging her fist against metal 
as she went, leaving dusty knuckle prints in her wake.

 The pow wow drums were silent now. Feathered men stood in clumps, 
scratching their backs, drinking from aluminum cans, laughing. The flag
 in front of the hotel snapped against the breeze, fluttered wildly for a 
moment, and then drooped like a scolded puppy.



The men in blue uniforms said 
Daddy could come home.

 To four-year-old ears, the word “deserter” held no negative connotation.
 It merely conjured images of vanilla ice cream and warm brownies.
”Gerald Ford” was just another brand of car. And “dishonorable 
discharge” meant moving south, going where the summers were hotter and
 the flag displayed three colors instead of two, a place Mommy and Daddy called “home”.

That’s all there is. Hopefully I’ll get around to writing more someday, although, it won’t be for awhile. This project is way down on my list.

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