Fiction: From This Valley

“Where’s Lornia?”

“Where she always is, Father,” Samm said. “Out on the boulder, staring off into space.”

“Still,” Mother said. “How long is she going to pine for that boy?”

Father shrugged. “The heart wants what the heart wants.”

“Oh,” Mother said, “so your heart wanted me?”

Father smiled fondly at her. “I’ll go talk to her. Samm, round up your other brothers and sisters for dinner.”

“Yes, Father.”

Father walked out of the house and toward his heartsick eldest child. She reclined on the big red boulder and looked into the darkening sky. He stood next to her in silence for a while.

“Do you think he’s ever coming back, Father?”

He pretended to ponder the question. “You never know what might happen, Daughter. But … you know a place like this can’t hold him. Not even with your boundless love. He’s got to be off doing whatever it is he’s doing. And your place is here.”

Lornia’s heart broke again because she knew her father was right.

“I know it’s hard,” he said, “but the sooner you can accept the way things are, the sooner you quit looking for him to come back, the easier it will be on you.” He kissed her cheek. “Come in for dinner.”

“I’ll be in soon, Father.”

As he walked back toward the house, he heard her singing; it was the same song she had sung to the young man she loved on their last day together.

“From this valley they say you are leaving.

“We will miss your bright eyes and sweet smile.

“But remember the Mariner Valley,

“And the Martian who loved you so true.”

Fiction: Taking Notes

Sy Retton made a leisurely lap of the New Year’s Eve party in his suburban Los Angeles home. The bartenders at all four stations were busy. All the right people had showed up – radio people, movie people, TV people, other music people – and were mingling nicely.

The fireplace was crackling along both for atmosphere and warmth as the evening started to get a little nippy. But Sy smiled, thinking about the frigid Wisconsin winters he grew up with. He had left the snow and the cold behind him, along with his birth name of Sylvester Rothahn and the slate of increasingly serious misdemeanors attached to that name. But hey! More than half the people in the room had pasts, many of them even more unglamorous and ill-spent than his.

Sy had found his new life writing music and had worked his way to the top of his profession. Movie producers, record producers, bandleaders – they all called him when they needed something new and special. He had always delivered, and that was why they were gathered in his beautiful home to ring in 1962.

Continue reading “Fiction: Taking Notes”