Excerpt from “Shifting Sands: Secrets”
On the first day of spring, I drove to the nearby Murray Lake for inspiration and meditation to finish the last story in the new book “Shifting Sands: Secrets” slated for spring publication.
The lake was thawing and the ducks were bathing in the fresh streams.
It was only me, a diehard ice fisherman and a curious blue heron perched on a piece of floating ice. Later, it started snowing mixed together with rain.
I had to get out of the car to get a photo of that brave man, who was literally floating on the remaining ice. The man was totally oblivious to his surroundings.
Did I find my inspiration?
I have to answer the question: I did find inspiration on the shores of a water body. This time 1,000 miles up North from where I found the first pieces of inspiration on the Gulf for the following story.
Excerpt from “Six Palms by the Tiki”
kind of secrets were hiding in those calcium skeletons built by slimy mollusks
that have no spine?” Amora often wondered.
all, the mollusks were long dead when washed ashore eaten by another sea
creature. Most big shells had broken fringes and fragments of shells were more
usual than whole intact shells. To find shells still attached to each other was
out of the norm completely.
paid $2 for a cup of Venetian coffee at Papa’s. The hot dark liquid still
steaming vaguely reminded her of mornings Up North. Seadog George was always
available for a chat. He had a tan of a sailor and considered himself to be
one, since he had spent the last 15 years on the pier’s deck hovering 20 feet
you ever get seasick?” asked Amora naively searching George’s tanned hardened
by wind and sun.
I do when the wind is high and the pier sways in the waves,” he said. “But they
built to withstand anything from Brazilian swamp wood that has already grown in
seadog George wasn’t a native of Florida, although he wished he was. Once he
tried to pretend in front of tourists that he was a Floridian.
on buddy, you sound like the Yankees, you can’t lose that,” laughed the New
Yorker. “I am a fourth generation Yankee, I know.”
then on, George stopped pretending. With blonde hair matching the tan and the
beard, Amora guessed he must have been Norwegian or Swedish. She hasn’t found
the guts yet to ask him; Amora didn’t want to be either too friendly or too
nosy, or worse yet: Seadog George could think she was hitting on him.
She only engaged enough in casual talk to finish the cup of Venetian coffee without having to walk with it.
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