Laura wrote about the differences between the coffee culture in the U.S. and Italy for a June 1, 2011 article that was posted on AOL/Huffington Post Media Group's site MyDaily.com. Click here to read the article. * * * Laura blogged about the "End of Summer" for a recent RedRoom feature, and her post was selected for RedRoom's wrap-up blog for the week of September 7, 2010. Click here to read the feature and click here to read Laura's blog post. * * * Laura recently participated in GalleyCat Reviews' inaugural The World's Longest Literary Remix contest. Hundreds of participants rewrote a 100-year old novel Joe's Luck: Always Wide Awake by Horatio Alger, which is now available as a free eBook from Scribd.com. To view Laura's remixed page, click here and scroll to page 74, or read the full text below. GalleyCat is a publishing blog on Mediabistro.com. __________________________________________________________________________ “Are you on the square?” demanded the other suspiciously. Hogan coolly appraised his attacker. “Look at me, and see.” His voice was light, but strangely aggressive. The highwayman paused. Something felt off, but he’d take him at his word, for now. He lit a match, surveying his captive. Hogan’s expression was ghoulish in the flickering flame. His hat sat jauntily atop greasy bangs; his clothes hung in tatters. “You don't look wealthy,” he admitted. “Well, I haven’t any money, nor anywhere to sleep.” Hogan grinned suddenly, baring his teeth. A shiver ran down the highwayman’s spine, but he feigned confidence. “You'd better leave. It’s rough in these parts.” He fingered the gun hidden in his jacket. “Wait,” Hogan said. “I’ll tell you where we can find some money.” Again, the sharp grin. A red gleam danced in his eyes. Had his teeth just grown longer? The highwayman straightened. It must be the brandy he’d drunk earlier. “OK, follow me.” Hogan trailed behind. Then—a hot breath on his neck and something clammy—a hand?—brushed his cheek. “What the--?” He whirled around. Hogan was still a few feet back, his eyes fixed on the ground. “Too much brandy,” he muttered, shaking. He led Hogan into a low shanty on Pacific Street, and, bidding him be seated on a broken settee, waited for particulars. |