Sam's Song

“You aways need to consider what might happen when you leave a situation unfinished.”

Lately I’ve been gaining a lot of new subscribers here on the stack—thank you thank you!

I thought I’d catch you up with what’s shaking in the Luke Fischer universe. In the next very short while (before Xmas) there will be a re-release of the first Fischer book, Surf City Acid Drop. This one comes free of typos, thanks to some wonderful editors. But wait that’s not all… There will also be some great bonus material, like three, count ‘em, three intros: an essay from a writer who I admire, an essay from a fan, and one from me. There will also be another surprise bonus, or maybe two, not sure.

In the meanwhiles, I’ve been working on the new Luke Fischer novella, Sayulita Sucker, which you can read right here on the stack (the first 10 chapters.)

I’ve also had a new novel underway that I will be returning to. For those who have read Manistique (Luke Fischer: 2), you may recall a certain sheriff from Schoolcraft County in Upper Michigan. That’s right, Sam Galliard will be getting her own book. So many readers have told me how much they like Sam, so I figured I better bring her back—and not only back, but give her her own book!

Here is a taste of what I’ve been calling, Sam’s Song.

Photo by Polina Grishma on Unsplash

Sam’s Song

A Sam Galliard Book

Chapter One
Sam Galliard finished her bowl of steel cut oats, cut and milled by her father, and set it in the sink. For a brief moment she considered leaving it there before she went outside for her morning sessions in the gym. But when she flashed ahead to when she’d return to the calcified bowl and how much work it would take to get it and the pot clean, she knew she had to clean them both.

“You aways need to consider what might happen when you leave a situation unfinished.”

“What do you mean unfinished?”

That was a lesson from three days ago, and it still reverberated within her. Her father smiled, then returned his face to the stern focused look that she’d grown used to. This was the gym, and he was different in here.

“There are times when we want to walk away from something, even when we know there is more to be done. Lots of people do it. They don’t consider what may happen, even if deep inside themselves they know.”

“Know what?” Sam asked.

“What will happen.”

She thought on that, she was still thinking on it as she pumped water into the sink this morning. She looked out the small kitchen window where the outbuilding nestled in a ring of tall maples waited for her. She liked her morning routine of eating breakfast quietly, and then almost always at the sink, she would observe her father coming out from the trail. On mornings when he was hunting he’d be carrying a bird or two. He had taught her how to clean the goose, pheasant, or prairie chicken, which would be their evening meal.

There was little green left in the trees, a light breeze moved the orange and red leaves, a few fluttering to the ground in a lazy way that made the morning feel even dreamier. Her father’s large frame emerged from the woods. He was not carrying anything, not even his gun, which meant that he tended to some other task. He was always up a lot earlier than her. Some mornings she heard a slight rustle in the room next to hers, before she drifted back to sleep.

Sam saw him glance over to the house, probably knowing that she’d be there. He headed into the outbuilding. It was gym time, Sam’s favourite time of day, and the thing she loved getting up in the morning for.

That summer they’d worked together in gutting the insides, like she’d do with a fowl. Her father had measured carefully and then cut two large squares in the angled roof. Dappled sunlight bled through the cut and then burst through when the wood fell away. There was a rustle and a flash of a brown tail flew through the air. He jumped and she laughed at the strong man being startled by a squirrel, whose morning foraging had been disturbed by the sawing.

Her father showed her how to reinforce the walls, insulated with thick pink batting, and then cover in sheet-rock.  Slowly the place took shape, converting what was a storage shed into a clean square space, brightly lit by a pair of skylights that he’d ordered from Duluth.

Sam finished up the dishes, including her father’s coffee cup, pot, and small saucer that he’d eaten his breakfast of thick toast and gooseberry jam on. They’d made the jam together. Sam’s mother had taught them how to do it, just in case they ever had to get on without her. Sam pushed away the pang of the memory. She dressed in her sweat pants and loose shirt, tying on the sneakers that had appeared on her bedroom floor one morning.

“Thanks Dad. They’re really nice. But how are these going to be out in the woods? Not the best for hiking and hunting.”

“We’re going to start something new,” he’d said.

That’s how he introduced new topics to her. For the last three years he’d taken over Sam’s education. He didn’t have the deep, seemingly unending knowledge of her mother, but whatever he didn’t know, he’d learn and then teach her. He was a skilled builder, hunter, fisherman, and knew a great deal about the plants that inhabited the woods surrounding the house he built himself before she was born. He didn’t have the scientific mind of her mother, nor her love of great books and poetry. But he determinedly learned that too, and Sam loved the evenings they would pore over Emily Dickinson together talking about what she meant by telling the truth at a slant.

“That sounds like she is saying we need to lie,” Sam said.

“No, I don’t think that’s it. I think it’s more we need to look at things from a different angle. Like the time of year when the sun has moved enough to shine a beam in the kitchen and formed our square.”

Being both a builder and a lover of the outdoors, her father designed the layout of their house to follow the path of the sun throughout the season. The square he talked about was the one that formed from the light that poured in the window she now stood in front of, and creating an angled square onto the centre of the wooden floor. That usually happened on October first. Who needed a calendar? Just look at the light.

Sam walked the narrow path to the gym, stepping over the maple leafs, not wanting the crunch to ruin the quiet of the morning.

“Hey Dad.”

Her father had already changed into his own loose clothing and was sitting on the large blue mat that took up most of the floor, tying his sneakers.

“Ready?”

“Sure. For what?”

Her father bounced up from the mat, did a few stretches, touching his toes, then side bends. He nodded at Sam, an indication that she should match his moves. Her own stretches were deeper than his, but his body was stronger, and somehow more confident she thought.

“So who wins in a fight between a sixteen-year-old and a fifty-year-old?” he asked.

“Depends. Is one a girl and one a guy?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

He took a stance, feet apart, strongly planted. It made her think of the maples outside. He nodded again.

“Come at me.”

For the last two weeks, mornings had started like this. He’d shown her basic fighting moves, punches, kicks, proper footwork, how to guard, block and jab. Right from the start she was fast, but had little control. This morning she thought about all the things he’d been showing her.

She threw a jab, which he easily ducked out of, but not by much. Sam held her father’s gaze. He had his fighter face on, his usual warm expression was flat, his mouth a tight string. She feigned left, making him bend, before she threw a hard right. He got a piece of it, but the blow clipped his shoulder.

“What are you thinking?”

The question threw her. Her mind cycled through the movements he’d taught her when they worked on footwork yesterday.

“I—“

Sam was stopped short by a stinging blow on the chin. She saw flashes of light, little cameras going off, and her knees started to buckle.

“Stabilize,” he said.

She took a fast breath, and then a deep one. She felt the mat through her sneaker, pushed into it, found her centre and took a step back, fists raised in guard position, again focused on her father’s eyes.

“Good.” He smiled and dropped his hands. “You won’t always have time to find your balance, but you’re getting quicker.”

Sam dropped her hands. Her father shook his head.

“Come at me again.”

“You’re not ready,” she said.

“Lucky for you.”

She shrugged and moved into him, she led with her right, drawing back her left fist, coiled, ready to release. It was her strongest punch and she was going to let it fly. In a moment of time too brief to count, her father’s body had moved away from her, he was turning fast, or maybe it was the room. Something slammed into the side of her head and she timbered down.

When she opened her eyes again, her father kneeled next to her. It took a moment for his face to come in focus. His hand was on her cheek, then across her forehead brushing a long lock of hair back.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” she said. “What was that?”

“Today’s lesson.”

“Which is?”

“Spin kicks.”

* * *