Chapter 1

     Overhead florescents and canned air circulated the germs of a million mouths and gave Anna the impression that she'd been turned exactly into a walking petri dish.  She strode with purpose over the meadow of rubbed carpet dyed the color of plums and rust.  Her carry-ons bumped her hips, a blunt rthym.  She was glad she'd spent the extra for the water proofed luggage.  It was worth the money knowing her gear was adequately protected inside, even though now she wondered whether she would make use of it again, or whether she was so burned out this time that she'd quit for good.  Qbie had teased her--said he'd heard that before--laughed his almond milk laugh as they bounced along in the stolen army issued jeep, over dusty terrain, the kind that made newcomers choke.

    Now that she was home, misgivings began to sit in.  Her whole life she'd worked toward travelling and becoming this independent photographer.  She sold images to all the high profile publications:  news, art, fashion.  It didn't matter who bought, as long as they paid.  Her talent for picking the right market for the right shot kept her viable and moving, kept her bills on time. 

     Her keen eye served her well and was one of the traits she'd inherited from Gram, whose people had migrated up from Appalacia--dirt farmers--flooding up in the landgrab that ran roughshod over the ten o'clock line pushing her father's relatives to parts west:  Missouri, Kansas and finally Oklahoma.  No one ever believed she was 1/8 Shawnee by looking at her lithe frame, blonde hair and freckles.  She was all Irish right down to her Kelly Greens.

     As she approached the baggage claim, relief flooded her seeing her fellow passengers scratching their heads wondering when their luggage would lumber down the belt toward them.  United always lost your bags out of Charlotte.  Seasoned fliers knew this and she best of all, having experienced their specific brand of don't care too many times.  So, taking matters into her own hands, she made it a standard practice to whittle down her possessions to what she needed, bought the rest where she landed, and gave away anything she didn't need at the end of her trips.  Especially in poorer countries where need overwhelmed resources, people remembered her, were more likely to repay her with their confidences, a necessity to get the really good shots next time she was around their way.

     The closer she got to the whispering glass terminal doors, the more her gait slowed.  She noticed that people were staring and then hiding their stares by jerking their heads away as if they didn't want her to know they were looking.  She wondered if she was making what Gram called Sourmash Face; another trait she'd inherited.  Whenever she concentrated, her already thin lips would practically disappear and a lost look would come into her eye.

     Indeed, she felt lost.  It was only a brief hiatus she was taking--a month maybe--but she had no idea what to do with herself next.  She was usually more prepared.  An editor she was acquainted with gave her the number of her doctor when she was in New York last, and had said, "You look peeked.  Take care of yourself.  Go see this guy.  He's got a sharp mind and a good bedside manner."

     She'd gone for the bedside manner.  Travelling among people whose miseries toppled her own sense of fairplay was tearing her down and she knew it.  She knew there wasn't a pill for that, but maybe he could recommend some trick that would at least wrestle all those wounded stares that flew over the tops of  her lenz like so many ghosts among the living.  Instead he had prescribed rest and lots of it.  He suggested a year.  She compromised with a month.  It would have to do.

     Stepping through the terminal doors that robotically opened for the priviledged and now opened for her, she drug her wore out curiosity along behind her by its resisitant ear, and wondered what would happen next.

Serials

In the tradition of Charles Dickens and the like, I'm beginning a blog, or serial, that is my attempt at starting and, with perserverance, finishing a novel.  The idea is that every few days or so I will update a new installment and any of you kind enough, or bored enough, to check it out will get a little new bite to read.
Having worked in the book business for far too long, I thought this might be a fun way to create an audience
w/o wasting paper.  Additionally, this will be a great format because those who are moved to can feel free to comment and this will ideally help my writing to grow. 

I turn 41 next month and am a bit of a luddite when it comes to computers.  This is my first blog, though not my first writing attempt.  I've had a few poems published here or there and have been writing for over twenty years. 

If you are kind enough to continue, thanks in advance for reading!
Here we go. . .