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Showing posts with label Finding the Sky. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Finding the Sky. Show all posts

Tuesday, September 12, 2017

The Flight of Lydia Grimm (Jo Harper No. 9)



by Richard Prosch

In 1979 I was 13 years old, and the Space Age was still all around. The launch of America’s new space shuttle was imminent, and my dad and his friends were excited about the coming of home computers and video tape machines.
My grandpa’s Aunt Rose shared my enthusiasm. When she was 13—in the same year as Jo Harper—the 20th century was just beginning, and technology was beginning to make serious changes to everyday life in the West.
While the German immigrant grown-ups in Nebraska embraced steam powered tractors, then gasoline engines, telephones, electricity and wireless telegraphy, Rose let her imagination soar into the future.
When I was 13, I sat at her table sipping instant coffee and listened to her stories.
She talked about moving pictures projected onto bed sheet view screens in the back of the old mercantile store.
The thrill when she first saw an airplane move through the sky above the Nebraska prairie. 
The excitement of listening to music in her farm kitchen—music pulled straight out of the air.
These stories have stayed with me.
And haunted me for the past couple years.
I always hoped there would be another story for the series that began with Waiting for a Comet.
The first four, gathered together in Finding the Sky, capture Jo’s enthusiasm for the wonders of the nature. The following collection, On Solid Ground, are crime and mystery stories—almost like a young Nancy Drew on the range.
The Flight of Lydia Grimm picks up on that enthusiastic sense of life that is so much a part of Jo and leads off a series of four that combines the qualities of the first two.
This time, influenced by Aunt Rose, Jo’s engaged with man-made wonders even as she thwarts the crime or solves the mystery.
I hope you’ll join Jo, Frog, Abby Drake, and their friends and foes alike as they rush to embrace the future, first in The Flight of Lydia Grimm (now available) and coming soon, Last Wytch Park.

After growing up on a Nebraska farm, Richard Prosch worked as a professional writer, artist, and teacher in Wyoming, South Carolina, and Missouri. His western crime fiction captures the fleeting history and lonely frontier stories of his youth where characters aren’t always what they seem, and the windburned landscapes are filled with swift, deadly danger. In 2016, Richard roped the Spur Award for short fiction given by Western Writers of America. Read more at www.RichardProsch.com

Tuesday, November 11, 2014

PPB New Release -- Finding the Sky: The Jo Harper Collection by RIchard Prosch -- Giveaway!

Richard Prosch is giving away one free ecopy of Finding the Sky: The Jo Harper Collection to one lucky person who comments, so be sure and leave your contact information.  This is a great collection for old and young alike.

BLURB


Twelve-year old Jo Harper thought 1910 would be another boring year in the Wyoming range town of Willowby, Wyoming. Then tough-talkin' pistol-shootin' Abby Drake came to town and made Jo a deputy law and order woman...


Collecting four exciting Jo Harper novellas, Finding the Sky pits Jo and her friends against cattle rustlers, outlaws, a bank robber and a tinhorn gambler. With explosions of fire, flaming arrows, and a wild ride in a Model-T, Jo's introspective, early 20th Century life will never again be the same. 

EXCERPT

     Laughing and squealing, squinting into the sun, Jo didn’t see where she was going until it was too late. She hit the stranger full on, and bounced down, hard, on the boardwalk.
     Pain shot through Jo’s arm, and she cussed out loud, rolled onto her back, and kept her eyes squeezed shut against the tears.
     Funny bone!
     “Land sakes! Ain’t you a fireball,” said a woman’s voice.
     Holding her elbow tight, Jo opened her eyes.
     Scuffed leather boots, denim pants, a belt cinched tight around a thick middle, and a worn holster stuffed with iron. The woman’s gnarly bronze hand snatched up a big hat from where it had landed on the boardwalk and plopped it back onto a braided gray scalp.
     The face was impossibly old, a wind-burned landscape of chasms and puckered buttes with one eye, focused and alive, blazing over all, and the second one unmoving and made of glass. At her collar, a red neckerchief flapped in the wind “Name’s Abigail Drake,” said the woman. “And I wouldn’t take unkindly to an apology.”
     The breath caught in Jo’s throat. 

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