A JOURNEY THROUGH TIME ...

Funny how at certain times in our lives a mysterious stranger is destined to influence us and our writing.

It happened to me not too long ago. I had been traveling by train from the city for a much needed getaway.

As I wove between other passengers down the aisle, I had glimpsed a lovely young woman reading. What most intrigued me about her was her choice of reading material. It wasn’t the latest paranormal romance, scifi, or epic fantasy; it was a book of poetry by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. How odd, I thought.

I stopped in my tracks. The seat next to her was vacant, so I slid into it and accidentally grazed my shoulder against hers.

“I’m terribly sorry,” I said, smiling. 

She glanced at me and nodded. 

“Interesting choice. Barrett’s poetry is quite beautiful.” 

She smiled ever so slightly, and her gaze returned to the pages of her book.

Okay. 

Despite her elusive response, I found myself turning my head from time-to-time. Her focus never waned as unpolished fingers turned the next page with subtle grace. I wondered who she was. Typical teens didn’t act this way.

I reached into my pocket to retrieve a pack of gum. Turning toward her I asked, “Would you care for a piece.”

She lowered her book and stared at the piece of gum I held in my hands. Her eyes met mine. “No, thank you, sir.”

Sir? “Please, call me Michael.”

“With all do respect, Sir, I never speak with gentleman to whom I have never been formally introduced.”

WHAT?! Is she kidding me?  I shook my head. “I was just trying to be friendly. I never meant to offend you. You needn’t act so ... overly formal.” 

Her cheeks flushed, but she didn’t respond. Yet she had kept eye contact with me.

I could certainly play along. “Well, then, if I may introduce myself. I am Michael Di Gesu, and interior designer and hopeful author.” I extended my hand.

She studied me for a moment, and then cocked her head. As her lips curled into a smile, she took my hand. “My name is Verity Boone.”

“Quite an unusual name, but I believe it suits you. Does it have any meaning.”

“Yes. It means truth.”

“I do like names with meaning. Mine, for instance, means ‘of Jesus’ in Italian.”

She propped herself up as her eyes brightened. “I have never met anyone from another country. Your manner of speech is almost perfect.”

I laughed. “Thanks. I was born in NYC, and so were my parents. What about you? Where are you from?”

“I was born in Pennsylvania. I am returning there now to meet my betrothed.”

My jaw dropped. “You’re getting married? At your age?”

“I am certainly of age, sir. We have been corresponding for months and Nate finally proposed to me.”

I stared, amazed at so much maturity for such a young woman. “Ah, well, I guess congratulations are in order. How does your family feel about this.”

“My father arranged our meeting. My mother passed away when I was only two-years-old."

“But such things aren’t done anymore. Arranged marriages are so nineteenth century.” I looked at the book in her hand. “This happened in Barrett’s time.”

She looked at me quizzically. “But, sir, I am from the nineteenth century”

I raised a brow. What does one say to that? I could hardly catch my breath. She sounded and acted as if she had stepped out of the pages of Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women.

“Are you feeling all right? Can I get you something? Perhaps a doctor?”

Her expression hadn’t changed. A moment later, she returned to her book, but on occasion she glanced toward me.

A short time later, I composed myself, then cleared my throat. She faced me.

“Verity, you honestly think you are from the nineteenth century? This is the twenty-first century.”

Her face tensed. “But how could it be? I am on my way to Cattawissi, Pennsylvania. My father has sent for me. I do not understand.” She inhaled and composed herself. “I apologize for my outburst, sir, but you must be mistaken.”

As the train passed through a darkened tunnel, all was silent. A flicker of sunlight appeared and the windows blazed with afternoon brightness. I blinked my eyes and looked toward Verity. She was gone. “But how?” I gasped. 

It was as if she had faded into air. Had I imagined her. I mean, I am a writer. I shook my head. Impossible!  Not even I have that good an imagination.

Something glossy shined next to me. A book. But, it wasn’t the one Verity had in her possession. It was another. I viewed the lovely cover and recognized it immediately. The Caged Graves swirled on the book jacket. Underneath the author’s name. Dianne K. Salerni. 

I picked up the book and flipped through it. Then the name, VERITY BOONE jumped off the page.

My jaw dropped again ...

Dianne K. Salerni
We Hear the Dead (Sourcebooks)

The Caged Graves (Clarion/HMH 2013)

The Eighth Day (HarperCollins 2014)

http://www.diannesalerni.com
http://diannesalerni.blogspot.com/

AMAZON: LINK

I hope you all enjoyed another one of my flash fiction pieces based on THE CAGED GRAVES. Dianne Salerni’s newest novel is currently doing an informal blog tour. 

It was my pleasure to feature her today! As a special gift, I am giving a hard copy away WITH a signed bookplate by DIANNE! This is so rare these days when most writers are only giving away ebooks. I know I LOVE to read a REAL book, so now here's your chance. There is NOTHING more satisfying.(US and Canada. Sorry my international friends. International shipping costs are too expensive for me.)

All you have to do is leave a comment for an entry with your email address if it's not linked from your blog. IF you’d like additional entries, post this giveaway on FACEBOOK and Twitter.  Just let me know in the comments.

ON MONDAY I will post the winner and MY REVIEW of this wonderful book. I hope you all have a fantastic weekend!