Fault Zone: Detachment goes on sale December 1, 2023. My contribution (other than editing the prose and finding the cover art) was a fantasy short story: “Weird to the Third Power.” And here are the links to place an order or comment on Goodreads:
https://www.amazon.com/dp/1962538168/
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CNR9WMFY/
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/1482953
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/202473213-fault-zone
Once upon a time, I might have equated the thought of the teenage me “being hot” to “being cool.” That is, dressed in the stylish clothes my mom couldn’t afford to buy me. Luckily, living in a three-generation rented flat in San Francisco, I had the use of two sewing machines until I turned sixteen and my grandmother (by then, a widow) decided she’d had it with my father’s drunken rampages and my younger brother’s lack of acceptable social behavior. By age twenty, I’d learned to sew fairly well.
“Being hot” during my early to mid twenties meant dressing to please my first husband. Well, as far as my checkbook would allow. Yes, my checkbook, in both our names. I was the person who fed it, balanced it, soothed it during financially worrisome times–and always kept it up-to-date. Regardless, I was never “hot enough” for my first husband, despite my most intimate outfits. Somehow, other women were. And my first husband let me know it with abusive emphasis.
“Being hot” in my early to mid thirties took on an entirely new definition. Practically anything I did pleased my second husband (although I had to get better at pronouncing a few of my words correctly). I simply could be myself–the person he loved. We aged closer in spirit with each passing year. I lost him to cancer after forty-two years of marriage. The 17th of February, 2017. Every month, I light LED candles in our home in his memory. I miss him beyond belief and will do so until the day I die.
And “being hot” in September, 2022? I refer to the three-digit temperatures influenced by the ignorance, stupidity, apathy and/or greed of the human race, and people’s corresponding lack of adequate planning for the long run, (Myself included, I have to admit.) Without home air conditioning, “Being hot” at the age of 79 has become a matter of endurance for me. And a matter of life-and-death for all-too-many others.
I hope in 2023, “being hot” will refer mostly to the spiciness of the salsa in my refrigerator. But I’m not making any predictions.
With warm regards,
Laurel Anne Hill
Author and Former Underground Storage Tank Operator
Return of the Laurel
Okay, I’ve allowed myself some pensive days during my recovery from Covid-19. Now it’s time to get with the program at hand: The return of the person known as Laurel Anne Hill to her prior productive state of mind. Not that I’ve been unproductive for the past week, quarantining with and happily cooking for my eldest step son, whom I accidentally infected before I knew Covid-19 had caught me. My “normal” state, however, tends to be one of gross over-productivity: succumbing to the impulse to go way beyond what’s needed.
I sip the last drops of wine from my glass. Dinner’s officially over. I offer another prayer of thanks for food, housing, church, family, friends, vaccinations, boosters and antivirals. I pray for all who have lost loved ones to death, whatever the cause. The face of my beloved David drifts into my thoughts. Nearly five-and-one-half years have passed since cancer claimed him.
I’ve caught up on the bills today. Taken care of some of my regular donations. A load of laundry swishes in the washer. One grocery run awaits me in the morning.
I gaze over the crest of my laptop’s screen at my mother-in-law’s old mahogany buffet. The elephant in the room (in the form of my third novel) stares at me from its bookstand. I sigh. We both know it’s time for me to crawl out of my covid cave and start publicizing this book again. Plague of Flies: Revolt of the Spirits, 1846 has no ability to leap into the hands of potential readers and sell itself. Too bad. Plague did win award number eleven for me at the end of June. I found out the good news several days before Covid-19 landed on the doorstep of my respiratory system.
Chanticleer International Book Awards (CIBA):
OZMA Fantasy Fiction 2021 Grand Prize
Have you read my book? If so, please go to Amazon and post your honest review. What you liked and what you didn’t.
Thank you,
Laurel Anne Hill
Author and Former Underground Storage Tank Operator
Hello Readers:
A new day dawned this morning. No surprise. After all, scientists have predicted we earthlings have at least five billion years before our sun turns in its future retirement notice. Not that people will be around by then, except maybe in spirit form. The way world politics continues to head, I sometimes wonder if humankind will even manage to survive five hundred years. Unless we learn to permanently disengage the nuclear war button and permanently engage the “Save Our Planet” one. Soon.
My new day included reaching the ten-day milestone that I likely can’t transmit my remaining bits of Covid-19 to others if I follow basic precautionary measures. That aggressive virus made me cough like my lungs would fly out my mouth while my brains shot out my ears. Yikes! Yes, I’ll still wear a mask in public places. Yes, I’ll still practice social distancing and avoid groups that are large or contain vulnerable people. I don’t plan to return to church in person for several weeks. And I’ll chill out for an appropriate while before visiting unvaccinated family members or friends. Or before going to in-person medical appointments. But with the help of vaccinations, boosters and antivirals, I’ve been blessed with this new day, and hopefully, many more to come.
More new days to exercise my body so I can keep walking. More new days to write so I can keep thinking. More new days to communicate with the people I love.
Way back in the early 1960s, I decided to study microbiology in college. The microbial world contains countless “friends” of humankind. Such organisms help us digest our food. They colonize parts of our bodies so their nastier neighbors can’t easily take over the territory. Unfortunately, sometimes the line between friend and foe stretches mighty thin, particularly in the immunocompromised.
But for now, my wonderful allergic-to-so-many-things immune system hasn’t forgotten how to mount a defense against ruthless invaders. I thank it and my hardy resident microbiome for protecting my “castle walls” through my recent bout with Covid-19.
Have you talked to your microbes and white blood cells lately? Thanked them for a job well done? At least take the time to nod and smile.
Laurel Anne Hill
Author and Former Underground Storage Tank Operator
(Who also talks to her plants.)