You Little Ol' Busker, You

I came across a "new" word the other day: busking.

According to Wikipedia:

"Street performance or busking is the practice of performing in public places, for gratuities, which are generally in the form of money and edibles. People engaging in this practice are called street performers, buskers, street musicians, minstrels, or troubadours."

From the root word, buscar, meaning "to seek":

"Up until the 20th century buskers were commonly called minstrels in America, Europe and other English-speaking lands...The word "busk" comes from the Spanish root word "buscar", meaning "to seek" – buskers are literally seeking fame and fortune..."

And more from Wiki:

Folk music has always been an important part of the busking scene. Cafe, restaurant, bar and pub busking is a mainstay of this art form. Two of the more famous folk singers are Woody Guthrie and Joan Baez.

The delta bluesmen were mostly itinerant musicians emanating from the Mississippi Delta region of the USA around the early 1940s and on. B.B. King is one famous example who came from these roots.

Now there's Cyber Busking:

"In the first decade of the 21st century, some performers have begun "Cyber Busking". Artists post work or performances on the Internet for people to download or "stream" and if people like it they make a donation using PayPal."

Happy Busking, Olivia J. Herrell

And for my fellow blues and guitar lovers, here's a priceless video of the late, great Gary Moore and BB King swapping licks like, well, go see for yourself.

Frankie's Third Annual No Kiss Blogfest

This year my entry to Frankie's No Kiss Blogfest is an excerpt from the prologue of my newest work-in-process, Blessed Are The Peace Makers.

"The mail creaked and Awen grunted as she drew it from the prince's broad chest and arms. Shoving it aside, she summoned all her strength to drag him from the water. From the depths of slumber, William cried out. Awen probed his chest and shoulder for wounds, then wrapped her arms behind him to inspect his back. Her ear rested over his heart, listening for the beat of life. It was faint, but present.

The wounds had closed, save those that kept him from waking. She leaned in to confirm that he was breathing, and felt a light stirring on her cheek. It was present. She turned her face back and her lips barely grazed his.

Steel eyes flew open, startling her. Recovering, Awen’s face blossomed in welcome.

Attribution

The eyes flickered, staring without seeing, then just as abruptly closed. His body was waking but his spirit still wandered.

Awen touched her lips to his cold, white ones. The eyes fluttered. She put her hands on both sides of the handsome face and slowly kissed him in the way of the druid. Forehead, nose, chin, cheeks. Then his eyelids and his temples. Finally, her lips came back to his. This time they were warm, and breath tumbled out of them like the water from the rocks.

Awen waited, her face only inches from the fallen warrior’s.

His eyes fluttered open. Sight was returning. He almost focused, then fell back under, the death sleep unrelenting.

Awen sat back on her heels and looked in to the forest. The glade had darkened. The light was waning. It was time to set a fire and a kettle. But first she must wake the almost dead."

Please leave a comment to let me know what you think of my little snippet. I'm counting on the Blogfest to inspire me onward. It's time to get onward with the business of writing, past time to get this story down for others to read. Oh yeah, and don't forget to click over now to read the other entries.

So Long 2011, Hello 2012

If you're looking for a fun way to meet some cool writers, start 2012 with Frankie's Third Annual No Kiss Blogfest on January 2nd. Click on over to join in.

What a difference a year makes. This time last year I was blogging and writing on a regular basis after climbing out of a pit of depression. My Goodbye 2010 post had 25 comments. This year's had two, other than mine. Not that I'm counting. But it is a good indicator of what kind of blogger/friend/writer I've been this year. A sucky one at best.

For 2012, I pledge to do better, to get back out there, heart and soul. No guts, no glory, right?
2011 turned out to be a year for healing. 2012 is my year for charging forward.

Onward!

Happy New Year, Olivia J. Herrell

P.S. And don't forget the No Kiss Blogfest. Here was my entry for 2011, an excerpt from my first work-in-process Churches, Chickens and ChiChi's:

It was dark when Sammy stepped from the Boeing 767 at the gate in Atlanta. She was glad she’d told her father not to pick her up, she wanted him at the hospital with her mother. She needed the drive to Gainesville to gather her wits. She had slept a bit on the plane, just enough to ease the hangover from the night before. Of course, the two Bloody Mary’s had helped.

She was still angry at J.C. And even angrier at herself. There was thinking to be done, decisions to be made and a huge mess to clean up. But right now, the main thing was Mama.
Fighting the tears that threatened again, Sammy shook them off and threw a brilliant smile at the man who had just deplaned. Tall and lanky with broad shoulders, dark hair and flashing eyes, he was exactly what her bruised ego needed. He looked crisp and fresh in black-on-black Armani, in spite of the five-hour flight across the country.

"Cherie,” he grinned, “you here for long?”

“Don’t know,” she replied, tossing silken hair from a pixie face that held sad, green eyes.

Lanky waited a beat for Sammy to fall in beside him. She had a designer bag over one shoulder and towed a laptop and carry-on behind her.

“May I?” He asked, reaching for the carry-on.

“I’ve got it, thanks,” she flashed another of those almost-famous smiles. “You changing planes? Coming home?” The report of her stiletto heels rang through the concourse, blending with the symphony of Hartsfield. One PA announced an arriving Delta flight, another, a last boarding call.

Lanky paced her, smitten. She knew that look.

“I’m just passing through. My next flight’s out of Concourse B. And you?” he asked.

“Oh, just visiting,” Sammy shrugged and stepped on to the escalator descending to the tram.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he asked, close behind. “I have a couple of hours to kill before my next flight.”

Sammy hesitated. What was another hour or two? She could use the diversion. When she’d called Daddy after landing, he’d said Mama was sleeping.

“No, handsome, I’d better not,” she concluded. “I have to grab a rental car and head north. I don’t want to get in too late.”

“Mon Cherie, are you sure?” he implored. “It’s early. One hour. No more.”

Laughing, Sammy waggled her head and gave him a little pout. “No, Handsome. I’m sorry.”

The tram pulled up and after everyone had gotten off, Lanky extended his arm for her to board. Sammy stepped in, chose a center pole and wrapped her arms and leg around it. The dark man took another and watched her with jet-black eyes, a speculative smile on his lips.

He was certainly a sight to behold. Too bad she didn’t have time to play. But still, she was tempted.

The tram announcement interrupted her thoughts. "The next station is concourse B. The color-coded maps and signs in the vehicle match the station colors. Please move to the center of the vehicle and away from the doors. Please hold on. This vehicle is now leaving the station."

When Lanky edged over to share her pole, Sammy unwrapped enough to give him a handhold.

“One little kiss, Cherie?” he leaned in and whispered.

“Non,” Sammy giggled. Then sighed. Oh, it felt good to be pursued. Even if only for a while.

“The train is approaching Concourse B. Please hang on.”

“Just one?” his breath tickled her ear.

“Non, s'il vous plait, non. Stop teasing.”

“Ah, mademoiselle, my heart breaks.”

“We have now arrived at Concourse B. Please step away from the entrance. The doors are about to open.”

“Your stop, handsome,” Sammy said. “Have a great flight. And thanks for the offer.”

Lanky chuckled, leaned closer and planted a warm kiss on her lips, his eyes never leaving hers. Then moving away, he stepped to the door and stood, watching her.

“Au revior, mon amour,” he laughed, stepping off the tram, and waved as he turned to go.

“Bye,” Sammy waved, green eyes sad again, watching him though the closing doors.

“Bye,” she whispered.