Well, hi again. I’m trying to get back on here at least once per week in 2019. You deserve better than a blank blog with nothing to read. So, please, hold me to it.
Last time we spoke I shared my 10 goals for 2019 but one of the goals I forgot to include in my goal-sharing post (face-slam emoji) is probably the biggest: This year, I’m going to write a book.
Maybe I’ve mentioned it before but years ago, I wrote a book called “The Hands of Salamandre” and it traveled all the way up then landed with a silent thud on the desk of a big-time Penguin editor. He read the book then politely penned me a short email saying that while I had “talent,” it needed “a lot of work.” (He may have just felt bad. I’ve since found the manuscript and it teeters on the edge of unreadable.)
Anyway, the first page isn’t half bad and I thought a good way to kick off my new 2019 venture would be by releasing the old. Enjoy …
The Hands of Salamandre
“This story begins as many stories do, from the very start and from nowhere else in between. It is a tale about that distinct moment in every great man’s life when he must choose a path between defending what he believes in or else accepting his ultimate demise. And in this world where power is not a given and respect is falsely offered, laws and rules do exist but only as things to be broken and unbroken in an endless journey toward truth.
It is here that we find our unfortunate soldier, named only Salamandre, a remarkable creature struggling to be a passerby yet always labeled a hero; determined to use his existence to contribute nothing of importance to others, all the while unaware that because he was born a great man, his own big moment — when he must choose to fight or submit, to live or die — is fast approaching. In fact that moment has almost arrived and an epic conflict churns anew that Salamandre did not start but will nevertheless have to finish …
A sharp stench of trouble hands heavy in the air now, but like they’ve done for thousands of years, the time-ripened Ghelleyberry trees hold tight ’round Brixbanx Village with a lush, unyielding embrace. The new day’s sunlight leaps across wet Ghelleyberry wood, cloaking tree trunks in a knowing sparkle that winks with ancient secrets soon to be revealed. As the sun climbs higher and hotter, nature’s tears dry u, and so too does the shimmering border they created. Soon the flicker of amber light fades complete to dusky grey as silent shadows of night grip the land. Then from the darkness, a battle cry begins, slowly beckoning over and over with an intoxicating rhythm: ‘It is time my son. It is time. Prepare yourself for war.'”