Edmond A Porter: Award-Winning Utah Author | Official Website
Coming Soon
Turbulent Waters
In the shadow of Idaho's biggest engineering project, Jake and Anna are on opposite sides of the river—until the current pulls them together and the flood takes everything else.
A historical fiction romance set against the 1976 Teton Dam collapse in eastern Idaho — Jake and Anna are on opposite sides of the river, until the current pulls them together and the disaster tears their worlds apart.
Chauncey strode toward the two blue silos. The war ten years earlier, and the pandemic that followed, assured the demise of the dairy farm, but the structures still towered into the sky.
Upon reaching the base of the south silo, Chauncey gripped the ladder and began to ascend. He climbed past the rust streaks and blistered paint that marred the side of the silo and reached the platform. Stepping off the ladder, he paused to catch his breath. His eyes rested on the manned capsule atop the modified military rocket.
Crossing the platform to the spacecraft, he poked his head inside. “Do you have the memory pods?” he asked, looking at the two occupants.
“Yes, we have them.” The helmet muffled Cranston’s voice. “They are stowed in the center console.”
Cranston gave a thumbs up, but the woman sitting in the seat beside him pulled off her helmet and shook her head. “They’re just USB drives. That is not what I expected memories to look like.”
Chauncey chuckled, “Did you expect a piece of brain tissue, Silvia?”
Silvia shuddered. “Of course not,” she said. “I didn’t know somebody could digitize human memory.”
“You can thank Carver for that,” Chauncey said with displeasure. “Now, are you ready to go?” Chauncey suspected the memories had little to do with Sylvia’s concerns.
“Not yet,” Silvia said as she shifted in her seat. “What if we don’t make it to space?”
“We’ve been over this before. That’s what the parachutes are for,” Chauncey said. “Remember, you are not the first to take this ride.”
Every writer encounters those daunting moments, sometimes multiple times a day, when the words won’t flow onto the page. The novel, begun with enthusiasm five years ago, now looms ominously overhead, much like the fabled sword of Damocles. The story, once eagerly promised to the writers’ group, remains frustratingly elusive.
We share a common struggle as we stand together in this familiar terrain of creative blockades. I, too, have faced the silent mockery of the page, the story that resists completion despite years of nurturing. In these challenging times, what tools do you turn to? What strategies do you employ to coax the words from the recesses of your imagination?
Now, let’s shift our focus from the solitary struggle of the writer to an inspiring narrative of athletic determination that has inspired me. For the past three years, I’ve been following the progress of a confident young man — a sprinter on his high school track team. Annually, he has secured his spot at the state championships in the 100-meter. Despite commendable performances, the finals eluded him — until this year. This season, he not only clinched a medal, placing 7th statewide in his classification with a blistering 10.88 seconds, but expanded his repertoire, qualifying in the 200-meter dash, the 4 x 200-meter relay, and the 4 x 100-meter relay. His relentless pursuit led to a new school record in the 100-meter dash, clocking in at 10.79 seconds, shattering a decade-old record. Moreover, his 200-meter relay team repeatedly broke and re-established the school record.
Frank lashed his whip across the backs of the team, hurrying the horses into a fast trot as the train whistle echoed across the Bear River north of Cache Junction. Charlotte wrapped her right arm tighter around her baby sister and grabbed the wagon seat with her left hand. In the wagon box, Matilda Benson cradled Anna’s head in her lap. A moan escaped Anna’s lips, soft but loud enough for Frank to hear. It pierced him to his core, but the train was close, and Anna had to be on it. There was no time to waste.
Frank rushed to the ticket window as the train rattled across the bridge. “I need four tickets to Salt Lake City.”
“Eight dollars,” the clerk said.
Frank slid the money through the slot and took the tickets. He returned to the wagon, lifted Anna from the box, and carried her into the depot.
“All aboard!” the conductor shouted over the hiss of the steam from the engine.
Frank carried Anna into the car. Charlotte followed, both arms wrapped around the baby. “Where’s Matilda?” Frank asked, frantically looking around the railcar. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw her pushing her way through the crowd toward them.
“I sent a telegram to my daughter in Salt Lake City. We’ll need someone to meet us at the station,” Matilda explained.
Frank sank back into the seat beside Anna. “Thank you, Sister Benson. You are a Godsend.”
Matilda smiled and patted his shoulder. “Get some rest,” she said. “You’ll need it.” She turned to Charlotte. “Let me hold Helen for a while so you can rest too.”
