We've had alot going on around here...some good, some bad...and, in life, we need to put our focus where it's absolutely needed. We all have different distractions that pull us in different directions, but sometimes...we need to have tunnel vision for the things that require the most attention.
And that's what I've been doing.
BUT I wanted to let you know that we are re-publishing my first YA book, Blackbird Flies. We'll have a brand new cover (which is FABULOUS, by the way!) and I have added to it enough that you should be able to get it in print version! That's RIGHT! Until now, this book has only been available in ebook form, but now you'll get to hold it in your hands, if you are an old-fashioned reader like me.
I will share tidbits over the next little while as the new publication process progresses. Today, to start the excitement, I am going to share a snippet from this inspiring book. I hope you enjoy it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A train whistle echoed into the frigid night. By 3:00 a.m., most of
the passengers had been lulled to sleep by the swaying of the steel wheels
slicing through the snow. Not everyone was enticed to sleep as easily.
Fifteen-year old Payton MacGregor stared out his window. He pressed
his forehead against the frost-fogged glass then attempted to stretch out his
legs. Man, it was like trying to get a giraffe comfortable in a station wagon!
Designers of passenger train cars must have gone to the same engineering school
as airplane designers: all passengers should be able to fold themselves into
the two-foot space between rows of seats.
Payton twisted around until he
finally settled into sitting with his legs bent up, his shins leaning against
the seat in front of him, and keeping his head against the window.
Excellent, he thought. By the time the
train stops in Edmonton, I’ll be numb from butt to ears.
He squinted out into the darkness, then closed his eyes, his head
vibrating against the window. John Lennon crooned through his iPod headphones
about someone named Julia. Who was the song about again? His mother? A
girlfriend?
Then I cannot sing my
heart…I can only speak my mind, Ju-u-u-ulia…
Payton
laughed. Speaking his mind was what got him on the train in the first place.
All his life he tried singing his heart, but nobody listened. When he finally
spoke his mind, he got into trouble. Well…not trouble exactly.
His
grandparents had decided the week before that it was time for him to ship off
and meet his father—a man who’d run off to join the army and left Payton with
his alcoholic, bipolar mother. Not a phone call or a letter or a, ‘How the heck
are ya, son?’ Just…gone.
“Yeah, that’s a guy I’d love to get to know,” Payton had said,
picking a hangnail on his thumb.
Grandma’s fork froze at her lips. “There’s no need for sarcasm,
young man. Especially not at the dinner table.”
Payton rolled his eyes. “Grandmother, you told me what a jerk Dad
was and how he ran out on me and Mom. Why would I want to go and ‘get to know
him’ now?”
“Because he’s your father.” Grandpa had said around a mouthful of
roast beef. “And mind your tone. You’ll respect your elders.”
“Yes, sir.” Payton said, softening his tone. “But why? Where was he
when Mom went manic and left me? Where was he when she drank and took off?”
His grandparents had stopped eating and looked at each other.
Grandpa reached over his plate and squeezed Payton’s shoulder. “We just think
it’s time for you to know both sides of who you are.”
“I have no interest in
getting to know yet another person who never wanted me.”
Grandpa fiddled with his knife. “He wanted you, son. But he should
be the one to talk to ya about it. Grandma and me think the only way you’ll
become who you’re supposed to be is to see where you came from.”
Payton’s eyes rimmed with tears, but he wouldn’t let any fall. “What
if I refuse to go?”
Grandpa picked his fork back up, and continued eating. “You’re
going. We already got your train ticket. We’ll take you to the station on
Friday, and your dad will meet you in Edmonton on Sunday. End of discussion.”
Payton stared into the living room. “What about my music? Does he at
least have a piano?”
Grandma gripped Payton’s forearm. “I’m pretty sure he’ll make sure
you’ll have access to your music. You have to give him a chance, Pay. You need to do this. You shouldn’t be so
negative and pessimistic so young.”
“I’m not negative or pessimistic, just realistic. At least I don’t
see things through rose-colored glasses.”
Grandpa had put his fork down. “Now listen here, son. We raised your
mother. We know. And for the record, we’ve raised you too so we know. There are
no ‘rose-colored glasses’ in this family
so you mind your attitude. And I said end of discussion.”
After that, Payton had excused himself from the table, then ran
scales on the piano as a way to release his anger. It had always been his
release.
Always.
So, that Friday, as promised, the teenager was packed up, carted to
the train station, hugged and shoved onto the train.
Just like that.
Music…the only gift his mother ever gave him…music always helped
him…
A
train conductor grabbed Payton’s shoulder, startling him out of his daydream.
He couldn’t feel his legs anymore.
“S’cuz
me, young man. Edmonton’s comin’ up. Best get ready.”
Payton
nodded with a weak smile. He rubbed the frozen numbness out of his forehead. He
put his MP3 player back into his canvas carry-on bag.
He
descended the staircase off the train, almost whacking his head on the metal
doorframe, then shuffled out onto the platform. There were squeals of
excitement as people greeted one another. People hugged, some crying tears of
happiness, and he searched, wide-eyed, for a Dad-person whose eyes were the
same as his.
His
heart pounded. Then somewhere from the crowd he heard his name.
“Payton!
Payton! Over here!”
He
turned to see him—“Dad”—waving from the other side of the crowd. Payton guessed
his father had to be at least his own height, six foot two, because they both
had a full-head height advantage over most of the other people on the platform.
His father lowered his arms behind his back and stood in an ‘At Ease’ military
stance. Payton squinted at the man’s wire-rimmed glasses, with Coke-bottle
lenses, from behind his own. They had the same dark-blue eyes, similar pale
skin tone, dark hair, buzzed short (only ‘Dad’s’ was salted with gray) and
identical big, red-tinged noses.
How weird to look so much like someone you hardly know, Payton thought, repressing a shiver.
‘Dad’
rubbed his lips together, his bushy moustache sweeping against his lower lip.
Payton froze. His body wouldn’t allow him to move forward. He stood there—with
crowds of squealing, hugging, crying people—as his father did the same.
How
does a person greet someone he hasn’t seen his entire life but, oddly, for whom
he’s also secretly longed to meet?
His
father moved toward him, slow shuffle, then stood in front of him. For a few
painful seconds, neither man said anything. Just stood there on the platform
looking into each other’s eyes. Then his dad finally spoke.
“Let’s
start this way,” he said, sticking out his hand. “My name is Liam.”
Payton
stared at Liam’s hand, chewing the inside of his lip. Then he shoved his hand
into the rough, meaty palm and said, “Payton.”
After
a firm handshake, he pulled his hand back. Liam picked up the bag containing
all of his son’s precious possessions and flipped it over his shoulder.
“Hungry?”
“Not
really.” Payton said. “But I could use a good, strong cuppa coffee.”
Liam
smiled. “I didn’t sleep much either. Let’s go to coffee shop drive through on
the way back.”
“Sounds
good.”
Payton
watched as Liam did a casual, quick march towards the end of the platform. The
people around him still hugged and cried.
“You
can tell a lot about a man from his handshake,” Grandpa had always said often.
Payton
pulled the hood of his sweatshirt over his head, and stuffed his hands deep
inside the kangaroo pocket. He shuffled down the platform at a comfortable
distance behind Liam.
Handshakes are a good place
to start.
For now.
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