The Intrepid Reader by Sojourner McConnell

The Intrepid Reader

Vivian Williams sat at her computer surrounded by her cats. Yes, she admitted that she was a closet cat lady with her two starter cats, Mime and Jester. They were her black and white tuxedo cats. The two were brothers and were similar in looks. 

They both had little mustaches painted on their faces since birth. Jesters face was black with a white mustache and Mime’s face was white with a black mustache.  Vivian almost named him Adolf but decided she did not want to think of Hitler every time she called out to him.

Both cats were lounging on the chairs that filled the computer room/den. Was it unusual to have a den when you lived alone? She wasn’t sure so she called it a computer room, just in case.

Vivian had been living alone since her divorce 16 years earlier. It was still a shock when she realized that so much time had passed. Oh well, she thought, it’s not like I am looking for someone.  The last time she had left the house was several weeks back and that was to pick up some groceries, cat food and litter. The necessities of life as a closet cat lady.

Maybe she would go out today, but perhaps not. She wasn’t willing to commit to that when she still had a pantry full of food and plenty of litter.

Vivian loved being part of the blogosphere. Her best friends lived all over the world and she never had to leave the house or call them to find out what they were doing on any given day. Sometimes she even knew exactly what they were eating and drinking. 

Vivian wrote her own blog, The Intrepid Reader, where she wrote book reviews and short stories for fun. Reading and writing were the two things she had always wanted to do. Now she did it with fervor.  Day in and day out, she sat at the computer, keyboard clacking away.

This morning she typed in her favorite blogger’s page. Instead of a landing page with the familiar icons and images, she found the glaring words,  404 page not found.

“What…? That can’t be right.” The cats looked up when she spoke so she continued her tirade in her head. I was just there yesterday. Looking at her pictures of the new vegan cookie recipe she was trying out for the first time.”

Julianne’s blog, Look at Me Now was where she religiously documented her weight loss and new life as a vegan.  It had some interesting recipes even though Vivian was a complete carnivore.

But where was her blog? Vivian typed it a second time and got the same results.  Not Found! What did that even mean? Julianne would not just take down her blog. She had been building it for the last two years and it was her passion.  Well… that and living the vegan lifestyle.

Something was wrong, Vivian could just feel it. There was a mystery afoot!

Vivian went to one of her favorite forums that both she and Julianne frequented. She put up a post, asking if anyone had heard from the blogger@lookatmenow.com. She did not want to put Julianne’s personal information out on the internet. That wasn’t her place and she did not want to jeopardize her friend’s safety. She just wanted some answers.

As she waited for a notification to pop up on her screen or in her email, she concentrated very hard on Julianne. She visualized her profile picture and kept her eyes closed.

A vision as clear as a bell came to her. Julianne was standing on a boat, a large boat. Perhaps it was even a ship.  She could see her looking out over the Seattle shoreline. She recognized the Space Needle in the vision.

A gentle ping sounded and it was just enough to draw Vivian back to her own surroundings.  She looked down at her computer and saw a message icon.

Clicking the icon she saw that she had a comment notification from her blog. She pulled up the site with bated breath hoping that the message was from Julianne.  She blew out her breath in a low whistle that made Jester and Mime’s ears twitch.

“Sorry guys” she called out before looking back at the message. It had taken its time loading and she was excited to see who had left a response.

Once the screen fully loaded she could see that it was indeed a post from Julianne. She scrolled down the screen and read the carefully worded message.  

Did you get my email? J.

“Email? I didn't see an email."  She had checked her email inbox first as she always did. There were the usual 50 blogger notifications just as there was each morning. She once again went to the browser and pulled up her email account.Viv saw nothing from Julianne so she clicked the spam box, just to make sure. There, 4 spam emails down, just below the Nigerian King's offer to send her 5 million dollars, was her friend’s name.

She immediately clicked it open and read:

Hi Viv,Going on a cruise with my mother today, Alaska! She planned this for my birthday. Gotta love surprises! Be back in 7 days.  I will have new pictures for my blog.  By the way, the Blog server I use is going to be down for a day or two. They are upgrading their equipment. Will miss you!Love you, J

"Damn spam filter!"

Vivian hurried to log into the forum and delete her panicked MIA post. She realized that she had spent the last 4 hours searching for someone who was not exactly missing.

“How did I know she was on that ship in Seattle? I really must be psychic! A psychic detective!”

The rest of the day and well into the night Vivian searched all over the blogosphere for pages on telepathy. She read every post she found on the subject. Until it was time to shower and go to bed.

Vivian told Jester and Mime as they snuggled in around her head, all three sharing the same pillow, “I just love being part of the Blogosphere!”

Scrivener Saturday!

Today I woke up ready to write. I chose the story that I wanted to focus on and I have focused well. I have written about 1000 words so far which doesn't take into account all the words I have deleted and changed.

I find myself editing as I go, recreating sentences several times before being satisfied. How many similar items are too many when you are making a point?  I add and subtract and then add them back in. Does anyone else second guess themselves in this manner? 

Research this morning went well and brought in a new dimension to the story. I like what I found and think it will resonate with the readers.  As this is a middle grade / YA story, I am hoping that they will enjoy the research done to make it authentic.

Research is such a fun part of writing. It allows more depth to the characters and their story.  Now to get the images created to go along with the story.  I would love to be an artist. It is a shame that the images I have in my mind are not going to be the final product. Hopefully, the final products will go above and beyond my own vision of Hiram, and his world.

I only want images to project the feel of the chapter so it isn't like producing an illustrated story.  

What are your thoughts on the number of images needed to tell a story?  Just the cover image or more?

Short Story: Second-Hand Hero by Sojourner McConnell

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Second-Hand Hero by Sojourner McConnell

I woke up this morning in the mood for something new. I had known right away what it had to be. So I grabbed my checkbook and began to subtract the debits from my checking account. To assure I had the funds for my mid-week escape. When I wake up in this type of mood, there is no other place that cures what ails me like, Susan's Second-Hand Rose. That store amused me like no other. There were vintage clothing and shoes. I have always loved a good nineteen forties Dress.

It made me happy to dress like an actress in some of my favorite movies. The Egg and I, My Favorite Wife, I remember Mama. Oh, I do love a good nineteen forties movie. I loved wearing a dress that made me feel like Irene Dunne. Sure, I looked nothing like her. I for sure don't speak as she did. I am a country girl from Alabama with straight blond hair. I couldn't pass for the beautiful Irene Dunne if I tried. But I sure feel like her when I am in one of those dresses.

But today, I wasn't interested in those dresses, or Irene Dunne. Today I wanted to find a well-loved book. One that had been read by a sensible woman from the middle of last century. I wanted to fall in love with a man that had caused another woman's heart to flutter in her chest right after the Second World War.

But not just any man. He had to be one of those handsome young men that felt the call to arms. A man that had enlisted with vim and vigor. A man that had written to his family regularly telling them of his love of God and country. A man that had stood up bravely on the shores of Normandy. A man that had loved deeply and was now afraid he would never love like that again.

I knew that he had come from a farming community somewhere in middle America. A man that would come home a little different than when he left. A little wiser, a little jaded and perhaps a little broken. I needed to find this man and mainly I needed to read his story.

Today, I needed to be the woman who saw him as he returned home, a hero. The woman who saw him as the only man she could love. The woman who could acclimate him back to civilian life. The woman who made him able to love again. The woman who made him feel unafraid of loud crashes of thunder and vivid lightning. The woman who made him whole again.

Today, I needed to be that woman. I wanted to read myself into her words and see myself in her clothes, wearing her sturdy shoes. I wanted to read myself in her actions. I needed to be the woman who had sacrificed her own sleep to make sure he was able to sleep through the night again. Today I needed to be the woman who loved that soldier.

I had only been inside the shop for a moment when I was approached by the owner. Susan. She always greeted me with a smile and called me by name, today was no different.

She asked, "Lillian, what are you looking for today? I have several nice dresses that I just acquired."

I shook my head and told her, "Today, I have something else in mind."
I walked to the back wall where the second-hand books were stacked neatly on the floor to ceiling bookcase. I began to cull through the books hoping to find what I needed so desperately.

There were plenty of books on that large oak shelf that were about the war. The hard surfaces faded and the corners curled, but I did not find what I was seeking. I brought over the footstool that Susan kept for short people like me, to reach the higher shelves. I climbed up the first rung. There I was able to see what treasures were housed just above my head.

The faded greens and grays with the occasional pale orange and blood red bindings were a delight for my eyes. My nose was also twitching with excitement at the aroma of those books, some almost one hundred years old. My fingers felt thick with the ages old dust and oil of other people's hands. Yet, I was in heaven. I slid my fingers over every title written on the side panel of each and every book. Then I saw something that made my heart flutter. I took in a deep breath and smiled.

The title was Come Home My Darling by Dorothy Napier, the cover was deep blue and the letters were embossed. My fingers traced over the letters and I pulled it off of the shelf. I did not even step off the stool, I simply opened the book and read.

The train pulled into the station and the soldiers began to cover the cement platform like ants marching in green wool. Men in all manner of military garb stood shoulder to shoulder, duffel bags on their backs and nervous grimaces on their faces. Every eye was shifting back and forth as they looked desperately for familiar faces. One by one the grimaces became smiles when they found there was someone who loved them waiting at the station.

I watched hoping to find the one face that would respond to my smile. I wanted to be there when he came home, his welcoming wife. If he is not on this train, I will be here, for the next, and the next. I will be here to welcome him home. No matter how many smiles I have to muster.

I sighed. Yes, in my hand was the book that had called me here. Here was the woman I needed to read about. I would wait with her on that crowded platform, waiting for him, our hero, to come home. I had found exactly what I needed. I took that blue hardback book to Susan. I paid in a hurry, ready to escape to my own home, to my own bed. To read the second-hand book that had so urgently called to me today, to meet my second-hand hero.