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Nowhere On The Map  

By Caroline Walken

 

Nowhere on the map, is it where Jon Banks is heading leaving Cincinnati, a place he considers home.

He has no other option when he receives the call that his Aunt has taken ill.  Taking a leave, he travels to a town that is a left turn from nowhere.  When the town’s sweetheart befriends him, a cop’s curiosity turns into a more.  Before long where he began, becomes a dot on the landscape behind him.

Everyone in Hawks Ridge loves Maggie Lewis.  However, her lighthearted nature belies a deep-rooted fear.  Although resilient, the method she uses to safeguard her heart has become her prison.  When the new guy joins the force, this creates an opportunity to assist in organizing the cold case files.  In fact, his arrival in Hawks Ridge has opens more than one door for her.

Another member of the small town struggles as his demon demands justice.  Pieces of an unsolved murder come together out of nowhere.  As the vortex from the war within the man grows in intensity, it draws the others in.

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My desire…

My desire is that you to fall in love…
I want to write words that bring that rush of emotion to the surface.
I hope to instill passion for life in you, evoke excitement and wander lust.
You honor me if my words cause you to cry or feel the bitter tang of rage.
Meet me in places that exist solely in my mind.
Know that I will age and change, there will come the day when I leave this earth.
I pray my words however, remain ageless.

The Bridge Of Words.

I had a request for this entry, hope you enjoy this as much as they did.

Author Caroline Walken

When I say writer I am not only talking about the Stephen Kings’ of this world but include the short story writer, novelist and poet.  It is often a challenge to understand why we sit for hours before our laptop, journal or computer simply staring.

To the outsider, we are stuck or wasting time.  I am sure more than one writer has gotten the advice to ‘walk away’ or ‘take a break.’  No one understands when you can’t.  Sometimes, we are not stuck.  In truth it may be that we are ‘there’ instead.

We are in a medieval castle; the cool rock walls protect us from intrusion.  The tanker of mead feels cold in our hands, the pewter keeping the drink the perfect temperature.  We may be with that long lost love, our heart pounding at the sight of them.  Perhaps we feel betrayed or exhilarated…we have not decided just…

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Unfinished work….

This is from an abandoned novel I started a few years back.  The story explores dissociative identity disorder in a young woman, the setting is in the mid 1970s.  One day perhaps you will read her story; the story of Cheyenne.

The door of the small cottage opens, there is a hesitation then a young woman ventures out.  Dressed in a simple cotton shift she is unremarkable until the breeze wraps the material around her lithe form revealing the beautiful woman beneath.  She glances over her shoulder once then makes her way through the yard to the rusted mailbox set on a post leaning precariously into the road.  Cheyenne checks to ensure no traffic is coming then quickly steps onto the blacktop to retrieve her mail.  She extracts a single envelope; it’s the monthly check from the government for her disability.  That was what the doctors liked calling it, disability as if she was missing a limb not losing her mind.  She has no need to open it; the amount is always the same; $115, never less and never a cent more.  That is why she sells miscellaneous items she finds in yard sales, she convinces those that stop that the items are antiques.  She stops midway in the yard, she wonders if she should have her tables out today.  Panic begins to set in, she wonders if she has missed the days that she normally sells junk and trinkets.  She will have to consult the calendar she does not think it is Saturday yet.  Cheyenne glances up towards the rise beyond her yard.  The road is too quiet, but now that it is summer, she cannot gage the days of the week by the flow of traffic.  She hopes she has not lost the weekend; she won’t be able to make up the money if she has.  Wringing her hands she starts for the house again.  The sound of laughter coaxes her away from her present concerns.  Distracted, she glances at the farmhouse; the neighbor lady has hung out wash.  Children run in the yard hiding behind the sheets that dry in the breeze.  Their laughter beckons, slowly she smiles.  She stretches her arms out, suddenly feeling light and giddy and she begins to twirl.  She releases a rare giggle; the wind catches it tossing into the air with the laughter of the farm children.  The words from an old song come to mind, one of the other voices in her head begins to sing.  She feels Cheyenne begin to fade, taking adult worries with her as she disappears into a dark area of the mind.  In her place a child comes, lighthearted and hopeful.

She calls herself Daisy.

Dreamers, Schemers and the like.

I have always been a dreamer. Spent nights before Christmas imagining the pony I hoped was in the backyard. Hours wasted in class dreaming of the boy in the first row. Escaping through the veil of sleep to a land unimagined during waking hours. To sit before a keyboard and dream of another life and place comes rather easy. Like others, I will struggle with words, syntax and flow. That doesn’t bother me; it is part of the venture. I will bat these annoying gnats away while immersing myself in the garden of the setting.

Scheming takes another part of my soul to achieve. I now have to lure readers into my world, trying to keep my promos fresh. At times, I feel a bit like a witch in a forest, my hand outstretched bearing that shiny apple.

“Just a taste dear…”

“Doesn’t this look nice?”

It is a necessary tool, applying the best method to unveil the path to our words. It is not ego, not at all! Many make this misconception about writers. Writers are not egomaniacs; instead, we seek spotlight for them, the flat one-dimensional protagonists we create. Our characters wait for you. They have lived and loved in our minds for months and possibly years. They don’t exist without you. To hear that you walked through the abandoned house and felt the same fear as the structure shifted thrills us. The flush of passion that made her heart hammer as his lips touch hers fails to occur if you don’t blush as well. He never brushes off the accolades as they celebrate his bravery without you.

On this cold winter day in this quiet house, I sit and dream. Months from now, during the edits and revisions I will scheme. I will use precious hours dreaming of new ways to invite you. In the future, my voice echoes…

“Doesn’t this look delicious dear?”

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