Book Give-away: where in the world is Kat Magendie?

Oh I am late today! I am frantic in working on some things - so everyone, please pardon me if I do not get by your places consistently for maybe a few days or so. And, I know as Tender Graces's release date approaches, I will become even more busy! Then when it gets here, more busy! And in between and around all that, I will have to sit my butt down (I can't wait!) and work on the second book--then I know I'll be scarce...but I know you all will understand!

That image is where my camera malfunctioned while I was photographing some tiny signs of spring. But, the "malfunction" is so beautiful and interesting, I kept it.

Today is the book give-away "contest" announcement. I am going to post the "instructions" at the top of my blog...teehee. Basically, if you want to "play" - for the next almost-week, I will be posting a "where is Kat?" hint, and you have to tell me where I am...the instructions will make it all clear, and those will be up later this evening....teeheehee -- you'll either have a good time, or throw up your hands and say "too much trouble!"

Now, I have to get busy. I'm already running behind on everything this morning! *muwah*

The next "installment" of The Fishing Day (almost at the end; I believe there are two more "installments" left):

....

The daughter turns to her father. “Do you need help?”

He shakes his head and straightens from his slump, pulling until the fish reveals itself in an explosion of water and sound. It arches and flops as he drags it onto the bank. Its gills open and close, the pink flesh beneath tender and sad as the fish tries to breathe. The father and daughter stare at its struggle. “Let’s get the hook out of it,” the father says as he bends down, the knees of his slacks soaking up the wetness from the bank.

“He’s trying to breathe out of the water, but he can’t.” The daughter watches the fish, its colors yellow, red, pale peachy pink.

The father works slowly to free the hook, frowning at the damage he has caused. The fish looks small and helpless now. It isn’t nearly as big as he had thought. “Oh, poor fish. I wish I had not caught it now.”

“Don’t hurt him,” she says, reaching out to the shimmering scales. The fish calms at her touch, and allows the father to pick it up and finally work the hook from its mouth. The daughter looks at the torn flesh. She looks at the father’s frown. She knows he will be okay. When he is released, he will heal. She knows much for her age, because of where she has been, and where she must return.

“I think we should put it back. What about you?”

“Yes, Daddy, let it go. It wants to be free again.”

The father gently places the fish into the water. At first, it does not react, but then with a shiver and flick of its tail, the creature swims off until it disappears into the murky lake, unseen, but there all the same.

“I bet he tells his friends about his adventure,” she says.

“He might. Unless he keeps it all to himself. He may not want anyone to know he was caught unawares and hurt like this. It may feel better to pretend it never happened.”

“What do you want to know, Daddy?”

The father gazes into the light, casting his face in shadow. He had not noticed how much the sun has descended. As he looks down at his daughter’s bright face, he wants to hug her close, but he can’t. He knows this is all that parents really want to do, hold their children safe so that they never come to harm. The father thinks of days when he swung his daughter up high, around and around, as his wife stood by laughing. His wife’s golden brown hair, caught up in two bobby pins to keep it off her tanned face, is a shorter version of their daughter’s. They had all three laughed like this every day it seems, even though he knows that is not real. But they had been happy and contented, this he knows is real... to be continued...

Let me tell you bout the birds and the bees and sad stories under willow trees

I've decided to put up a little gentle short story - a bit at a time - I've always loved this little story. It's just something I wrote one day because I saw a man and child fishing, their backs to me, and I can't remember why this particular story needed to come out in the way it did. There's no place for it, really, so I will share it here. I'll put up a bit at a time, and it should take 4 or 5 days to have the complete story here. If you haven't been by Eazy Cheezy's place, I'm still there! And more guests will be coming 'round, too....

The next book giveaway "contest" is going to be on Thursday!

Here is the first section of "The Fishing Day"--

Their two backs face a weeping willow tree. Long wispy branches reach out to them as the breeze lifts things lighter than the heaviness. The sun is rising, illuminating what only a few hours before was hidden in shadow. The father shows his daughter how he baits the hook with a worm. She watches, her nose crinkles and so do her eyes—she is smiling because her father is smiling, because they have this day. The father’s shoulders are broad shoulders, but he is thin. The thin caused by unnatural loss of appetites. His once robust frame has wasted away over the months, and he cannot notice to care.

Strands of the daughter’s long brown hair, the kind that is never thick and wavy, but straight and delicate, blow like the willow branches, up and over, landing across the father’s arm as he bends toward her. He cannot feel the tickle of her hair as he concentrates intently on his task of baiting the hook. The tiny hook is sharp, and he accidentally pokes his finger with it, and watches as the blood beads quickly at the surface. The wound feels numb now, but he knows it will hurt later, throbbing in the middle of the night while he lies sleepless. The small puncture will spread inside, unseen, until it becomes infected, red and raw. He knows he will worry it at night, rubbing his finger against the bedsheets to stop the itching pain. For now, it does not matter, for the numb allows him to pretend it will not hurt later.

When at last the worm is threaded, the daughter throws out her line and watches as the cork bobs and then stills. She likes how the minnows swim up to investigate, then dash off, little silvers of light. Her father readies his own pole and casts the line, his cork landing farther out and away from his daughter’s line.

There are only nature sounds, the birds calling to each other, splashes from fish chasing the minnows, the occasional branch falling in the distance. Ducks glide toward each other, meeting in the middle to dip their beaks, their sleek reflections wavering on the pond’s glassy surface. A fat bee buzzes by, then turns back, circling the daughter’s head three times. Another bee, just as fat and black and yellow, joins it. With unseen wings, they quickly fly around her before racing off together. The daughter laughs. The father wants to laugh, but finds he can’t help but stare across the pond beyond the other side. His lips haven’t laughed in so long, they are stiff and unnatural feeling. He works them, trying to smile, trying to mold them back into the shape they used to be, when he laughed, smiled, and said I love you....

(to be continued...)

(image from fotosearch at google images)

PS - from Kimmi's place I saw her Wordle, so I had to do one (Angie - it reminds me of your poetry you did - the one for Dancer's Cap!) - I did mine - it's in the sidebar - pretty cool!)