(heres another one I have in my arsenal... I can run it up to 50,000 easy... or 100, for a full length novel... its up to my investor... ;-) COUNTESS DUVALL © 2012, David Alan Dickens It was the winter of 1978, exactly one year after departing hastily from Lakewood, California under conditions too complicated and onerous to detail, that I received a most surprising invitation from an icon in the literary industry (not to mention lumber and mining). The monogrammed dinner invitation, printed on fine linen and scribed in the most articulate calligraphy, graced my lonely mailbox like a flower amongst weeds. Having read it numerous times, I had memorized word-for-word this wondrous epistle and could never hope to forget its promising epilogue: “It is with great expectation that we await your arrival.” Thus was the inception of a most surreal tale. The countdown of days to this seemingly wondrous occasion, six, to be exact (and fifteen-hours) dragged by like a one-ton sledge in the snow. It was also an anxious tongue that I bit, trying to keep my secret internalized. Alerting others at the paper-mill as to my lone invitation to the Duvall estate would only emblazon envy and resentment, placing even more circumspect eyes upon my hitherto straining back. It would also engender more questions than I myself had answers for. So I waited tortuously and silently as the days moved and the hour drew near. All the while I set about garnering and gathering the most ‘fitting’ attire I could muster. And then, like Cinderella being returned her slipper, the day was upon me. Entering the Duvall estate from the southern gate provided a view of the stables in the distance, fully rustic and in complete harmony with the burnished hillsides. Barren trees, stripped by the winds of winter, stood stark against the pale sky. Timing had placed my enchanting engagement with the arrival of the first winter storm, and it was packing a promise of high precipitation for the entire county. If our town received a direct-hit, as was rumored, up to two-feet were expected over the next forty-eight-hours, with the first flakes arriving in early-evening. As with any good portent, those initial snowflakes began assailing my windshield as I steered toward the mansion of spires and turrets. The arrival of this storm could not have been more poorly timed. Of all the people an aspiring author could ever dream to meet, Professor Marcus Duvall was at the top of that list. Had this countryside invitation been extended by anyone other than Duvall, particularly under such circumstances, be it president or baron, I would have politely declined in lieu of the coming storm. The anticipated blizzard was simply too menacing and promised peril for at least the next several days. But Marcus Duvall was Marcus Duvall, a modern-day robber-baron who could catapult a starving author to the upper echelon in the field of Literature; and as I had arrived at the estate in good order, this was the moment’s chief concern. Nothing was going to ruin this night, including the speeding ticket I’d gotten not ten-minutes earlier. Passing a school zone 15-miles an hour over the limit… ultimately I would challenge the courts, explaining to the judge presiding as I had the ticketing officer, that I was on my way to the Duvall Estate, in hopes of gleaning sympathy, or possible recognition, to sway the bench. After passing a splay of Doric columns, I noticed bundled servants trundling firewood from a shed to a side-entrance of the mansion. I passed a large fountain out front, now decommissioned for the winter, and navigated my car toward a cluster of vehicles nestled beneath a stark white sky; but a stiff-collared valet snared the corner of my eye, before hastily approaching with a courteous smile. Surrendering my keys, I was then met by a second servant and led into the grand foyer. Barrel-vaulted ceilings stretched and yawned above me and I felt a growing sense of anticipation. Arriving that evening at the designated time of 6:45 PM, I was greeted in the foyer by a butler who relieved me of my coat and hat; then, with a gesture of the hand, he motioned to an atrium where all manner of Renaissance art adorned towering walls. A barrel-vaulted ceiling held what could best be described as a Michelangelo montage, that of swirling entities and glowing goblets, and a grand marble staircase reached into the lighted ether on yet another level of splendor...
Posted on: Thu, 06 Nov 2014 00:36:32 +0000
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