I Am Lucius van Dyke III

I lost this domain name some time ago due to a muck up with web host provider 1&1. (Don’t ever, ever use them… they’re terrible.)  After a couple of years, it seems that the domain claim jumpers have finally given up on this one and it is now back in my possession!

I will update this site soon, and once again begin writing.

It’s good to be back!!

Dad turned off the air conditioner in the whale-sized Oldsmobile as we neared Sandbridge.  The briny smells of the ocean wafted through the windows rousing my sisters and I from our sleep.  Though eleven hours in the same seat had exhausted me, the salty breeze swept away any discomfort that I had considered complaining about.

As we turned the corner at Sandfiddler Road, I saw my first glimpses of the ocean through the dunes and sea oats.  Dad, havng seen the waters before, continued to plow his way down the sand-covered road at an excruciatingly slow pace searching for the beach house that would be our home for the next two weeks.  I longed to jump from the car and run straight to the ocean, convinced it had been there waiting just for me. Read the rest of this entry »

Chapter 3

“…and in Jesus’ name we pray. Amen,” said Reverend Kelley.  He signaled for the casket to be lowered into the grave.

I tried to hold back the tear at my eye and wiped my nose with my sleeve.  My father put his arm over my shoulder and we walked away in silence.  My mother and Scooter followed. Read the rest of this entry »

We here at LVDIII.com would like to welcome aboard our brand new fellow author, Izzie Crossen! Check out her first post entitled “Meeting Molly.”

I’m wondering again what the hell has become of my life. Standing in front of my mailbox in the lobby of my apartment building, I stare at the scarred sticker that bears my name: Molly Welton. I’ve lived here for a couple of months now, but can’t for the life of me, remember why I moved here. I hate the city with all of its noises and bustle and crime.  In fact, I’m not much of a fan of Cleveland itself.  I hate being cold and that word, along with all of its synonyms, is the essence of our weather forecasts.

My home is an old stone-front building on East 105th Street that the city renovated into apartments a few years ago. In her youth, she was probably stunning with her sand-colored stone walls, high arched windows, and the iron lattice-work that adorns the front walk. The developers had hoped, I suppose, that yuppies and all of their money would move in, but when that didn’t happen, they lowered the rent and let in just about anyone who was willing to live here.  And though recently painted, the lobby still emits a mixture of must and that antiseptic stench of a hospital.  It’s depressing to  live here, but I cling to that desperate feeling, hoping that it will make me a better writer.

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Pretend Jesus strode down Hollywood Boulevard in a burlap robe eating salad from a plastic container. He smiled beatifically at tourists and the tattooed kids standing outside the tattoo parlor as he munched down lettuce and baby tomatoes. He wondered if there was anything more divine than crisp lettuce and succulent baby tomatoes on a mild spring day in Los Angeles.

Molly Ravenhardt had recruited me to help her collect corn stalks for the high school art department’s annual Halloween “Witch Walk” since I was sixteen, thus able to drive.

I pulled the Impala out of our driveway and across the street to the Ravenhardts.  Molly stepped out of the door wearing a red jacket and a black beret.

“I didn’t know I was picking up a little French girl today,” I said as she climbed into the car.

“En Francais!” replied Molly.  She was just a little too into the French language class we shared in high school.

I put on a bad French accent and mangled the language in a way that would have caused the Frenchmen worldwide to drop their cigarettes and declare “Zut, alors!” had they heard me.

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