April 19, 2010
An Excerpt from Aaron Starmer’s Clover
As an author of novels for young people, I have to stay on top of the trends. The trends have shown that girls these days are swooning over magical old men who sweep into their high schools and offer danger and breathy declarations of love. Stephanie Meyer is keeping the vampire fires burning with her upcoming novella and the Eclipse film. Maggie Stiefvater’s Shiver has shown that girls dig werewolves too. Lauren Kate’s Fallen has proven they like them winged and biblical. And Carrie Jones’s Need feeds the need for hot pixie-love. No, I’m not talking about Kim Deal and Black Francis.
Seeing how successful these books have become, I thought I’d jump into the game. So here, for the first time, is a sneak preview, an excerpt from a novel I am writing. Set in coastal South Carolina, it is known simply as Clover.
The violet light skipped across his face. I couldn’t always tell indigo from violet, but this was violet alright. It splashed soft highlights in his fiery hair and shrouded his freckles in inky, purple shadows. I reached down to touch his cheek.
“You’re old,” I said.
“Aye,” he said.
“In school, the boys are always bragging about being men and all that. Three years ago, they didn’t even know what shaving cream was.”
“Tis true,” he remarked.
“Your face is rough,” I said. In his stubble I could feel the hills of his homeland, the roots of soul.
“Twas a beard for many a snow,” he said. “The sands of Myrtle Beach know lil kindness towards a whisker me-fears. Barbers rule this land.”
“Myrtle Beach is cruel,” I said. I’d always believed it, but never had the courage to admit it to my friends or my parents. They all adored the golf and go-carts.
“Aye,” he said. Smoke trailed from the side of his mouth. If the breeze hadn’t stolen it, I would have sucked it up and felt its dangerous caresses on my lungs.
“There’s a dance,” I told him. “It’s not important or anything. It’s just something we do here. If we went for an hour, would that be awful? Together I mean. If we went together.”
“I do a jig,” he said. The velvet soles of his boots attacked the sand and the rhythm of the waves combined with the gentle scrape into a sensuous lullaby. I knew that Lance was still waiting at the concert. He’d texted me, “Wassup Jen? Where u at? Got the tix. Theez jams r gonna rock ur bra off!” I’d let him wait. I had my music here.
“The rainbow?” I asked him. “How long will it last?” In a tide pool, I saw that the colors were now cast upon my face.
“Never can say. She’s like a sparrow in a tawny fog. She disappears, but then she always finds her way back.”
“I thought you hid your pot of gold beneath it,” I said. That first night, after I met him near the clover patch, I’d gone home and done research on the Internet. The reputation of greed scared me. Even that morning, fear hitched a ride with my passion as I chased down that rainbow.
“Me pot of gold is here, love,” he said, tipping his green hat. “Tis your heart.”
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