In Three-Quarter Time

Our first day of spring.

By this date next year, Sorcha Alden’s story will out there.

That’s a scary thought—relaxing my control-freak grip enough to set this story free.

I know the time has come, to let go, to look forward, to share the magic of the Equinox Gala…

When the doors swung open, hundreds of candles adorned the walls like burning gemstones. Raimond grasped Sorcha’s hand and raised it to eye level. Stretching out at full arm’s length he presented her in the center of the dazzling ballroom. They turned in a circle, acknowledging the guests around the dance floor and many more ringing the upstairs gallery.

“May I have the honor of your first dance, Lady Sorcha?”

“Yes Duke, but the honor is all mine.”  

“And the music?”

“The waltz, please.”

“The waltz it is.” Raimond turned toward the orchestra director. “S’il vous plait…”

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Don’t Rush Me…

Can you feel it…the dawn of spring?

If you just got buried by Blizzard #Stella, you probably can’t see past mountains of snow.

 But the snow is melting and the Spring Equinox is just days away.

Time for the story of a beautiful girl in her sapphire gown, waltzing into vampire royalty.

As soon as she drags herself out of the bathtub…

 

          The evening of the party kicked off before sunset, the equivalent of early morning for a house full of vampires. Sorcha’s eyes fluttered open and settled on bustling around the armoire.
         “Whoa, is that my dress?” She threw the blankets off and flipped on the chandelier. The blue fabric leapt to life in the soft glow. Her fingers caressed the subtle tone-on-tone pattern. Steven outdid himself. A silver slip lay on the nearby chair; its boning and fluffy layers would give the skirt perfect fullness. 
           “Breakfast is served!” Steven and Lily barged in, carrying coffee and chalices of blood. “You have to eat early today—you’ll need your strength for tonight. Hurry up. Hair and makeup take time.” 
           Sorcha fiddled with her food, spun her glass and left everything but her coffee on the tray before retreating to a tub full of bubbles.
           “Quit stalling in there!” Steven pounded on the bathroom door…

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And So We Begin Again…

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March 17th

Light at the end of winter’s dreary tunnel and a special anniversary.

Fifteen years ago, Glory Days joined our family.

Each year, the echo of bagpipes sparks her survivor’s soul.

The things is…most people see a plain, old boat. Fiberglass, chrome, an inanimate machine. But I always heard a voice–even if she only whispered at first.

Before the whirlwind of summer begins, I like to reflect on our shared memories,

New York Harbor in August 2001–spectacular and scary.

Dodging the Staten Island Ferry, logs in the East River. Navigating Hell Gate, and a Point Judith storm that sent waves crashing over the bow.Late that next night, floating under the Verrazano Bridge watching a lightning storm, unaware the skyline behind us would change forever in less than a month.

Glory Days has proudly flown the stars and stripes for memorials, holidays, and fireworks in the years since. She’s been the centerpiece for extravagant parties and a fortress for retreat when the world is too much. Whether she towers like Queen Mary at the end of the dock or slips in and out of the marina like a stealth fighter, she’s home and peace.

Wind, raging surf, flood and fire were the tests during Hurricane Sandy. When dawn’s light raced across the ruined beach, the Lady was alive in the debris. Against all the odds, she held on.

The timid whisper has become a voice that rings like royal crystal. A driving melody from the past, pushing us full blast into the future.

Be not discouraged, as many will fail to believe,

Forever follow a spirit that sings,

Viciously cherish each beating heart,

Revel in your timeless soul,

                                                  Glory

Flowers of the Forest

The only musical instrument ever outlawed as a weapon of war.

Tomorrow morning the skirl of bagpipes will bounce through the canyons of Manhattan. Here in the States, pipes herald parades, weddings and funerals but they still send me back to our Highland castle ruin. In those complex days of heartbreak and renaissance, my greatest savior was the evening ritual.

Alone on a desolate moor, dressed in full clan regalia, the soloist played from his heart, driven by the sheer power of the harmony and his love of the ancient earth. All civilization paused, spellbound and silent in reverence. Legend told of brave pipers that inspired soldiers to battle and instilled dread of certain death in their enemies.

I feel for a foreigner’s terror. The pipes stir my soul to the core-pulling me home to our roots in the blood forest, our grandest battle plans and decisive victories.

Two tenor drones and one base, tuned an octave apart. Follow their call-your reward will be the dawn of spring in all her ancient glory.