Just a quick blog this morning, one I was writing before I had to run out to a physical and fasting bloodwork.
Ed Calkins has been sending me finished drafts on Ruthless, which is a fictional account of the fictional Ed Calkins, otherwise known as the ruthless dictator and Steward of Tara - mixed in with elements of the truth.
He appears in all three books of the BryonySeries "drop of blood trilogy"
I've done some preliminary edits and readings as he's sent me chapters. I enjoyed them so much I even got a bit derailed on my second writing retreat because I found the chapters so funny and interesting.
The publication of Ruthless will mark the first book in the BryonySeries not authored by me. I am hoping it will not be the last one.
Here is the current table of contents with Ed's "code" for his progress. Below that, a short excerpt.
And with that, I'm off to work because it is a working weekend for me. Enjoy this beautiful day. :)
Table of content (outline)
Newspapers! Lest the pig
eat the horse. I’m out the door and off to work.
Once in the van, I’m
confronted with the angry faces of twenty-four brownies which should have been
twenty-five. My earlier description of them might have left out too much
detail. Brownies always seemed to me as if a child drew their features and
though they are entirely brown, their lips, which now were formed into an angry
frown, and eyebrows, which now seemed to narrow over their eyes, are a darker
brown then the rest. Their tongues, which were now wagging recriminations, are
much lighter, almost yellow.
Ramon, the leader, made
the most words while pointing to an hourglass shrunk to scale in the ‘humans
around’ size.
“Brownies wait for ride
to Steward’s newspaper barn,” he proclaimed. “Brownies wait and wait and wait!”
By ‘Steward’, of course,
he means me, Ed Calkins, the Steward of Tara and most ruthless dictator of all
time, but now I feel like I’m being treated like a truant. I’m tempted to kick
them out of the van and make the walk the whole way, which is ridiculous as it
is ineffective. Brownies don’t know the way to the newspaper barn.
Who will blink first? I
cross my arms eying the brownies, and they cross their arms eying me back. Well,
this isn’t getting any work done.
Starting the van, I put
the trans into reverse but look back at them before releasing the brake.
“Maybe, I’ll make it up
to the brownies,” I muse aloud “Maybe I’ll give each of you one brownie point
for being patience…”
The brownies uncross
their arms; but remain suspicious.
“…to off-set the one
brownie point each of you lost for yelling at me!”
I’m driving at this point,
so they are too busy enjoying the ride to continue their protest of gestures.
Some are even shouting and screaming as one might while riding a roller
coaster. The roads to my work place look just as they always did, yet I know
without evidence that somewhere the
time-scape has changed and am in a reality where some of the people I’ve known
in life don’t exist as if they never existed. The same might be true of people
that exist here, but not in my former life. There’s no way to tell, of course.
The memory changes with the time-scape. I know for example, that the brownies
now look healthier, handsomer, happier, more rested, then they did…when? I
don’t know at this point.
The newspaper barn, or
distribution center, is now in my headlights, and I can see that I’m again in
trouble before I can park. I see the unhappy look in one of my wives’ eyes
about having to wait for me to count the papers off the dock.
Worse than that happens
when I do park. The brownies expect to go in with me. Policing carriers is hard
enough; explaining brownies to those who believe and the brownies’ consequences
of them trying to help to those that don’t is more than I can handle.
Fortunately, brownies know they are in an undiscovered land of humans.
“Now is a special time
for brownies here,” I tell them. “People work, but brownies nap now. Isn’t that
nice?”
“Brownies nap in big
white wheel box?” Ramon asked, referring to the van.
“That’s the custom,” I
tell him. Before I can open my door, the brownies are cluster snoring. God, I
hope no one hears them.
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