On a remote spit of land, a magical bicycle befriends Tom, a boy of nine. Emerson the “talking bike” becomes Tom’s best friend and playmate, offering an ear during the boy’s troubles, and a wise sage during his adolescence. But as the boy becomes a man, Tom listens less and less to Emerson and more and more to the wisdom of the world. It would take a miracle to bring Tom back to the hopeful days of his youth when life was an adventure to be lived – not endured.The miracle arrives after Tom’s stint in jail when the ocean delivers one of the most savage hurricanes to ever hit the coast. Tired, bitter, and old, Tom rummages through an old garage and finds his discarded bike. But is he too late? Can Emerson restore the soul of his friend before the sun sets on their adventures for the final time?
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I am a writer and graphic designer. I see excitement in spaces where most people see only voids. I hear music in my head that has long since stopped. I cry secretly at certain tv commercials and wonder what God’s plan is for me. My mother was a concert pianist. . . a child prodigy from Massachusetts. In 1919 the Boston Herald referred to her as, “a nine year old pianist extraordinaire.” She, too, heard music that others didn’t. She, too, wept at Pepsi commercials.My father studied art and wrote love letters to Mom. . .letters that would have captured the heart of any woman. Sadly, though, that was during the depression and he was raised to reach for the golden ring, so he went to medical school to provide an “honest living” for his family. He forgot how to cry. He no longer heard the music. His paintbrush went dry.So it was clear that someone in my family was going to catch the disease called creativitus stupiditus. It was me.I went to a traditional museum school of art, followed by a Big Ten University. Dad talked to me about the golden ring but my heart kept hearing and feeling the sounds that Mom heard.I married an artist (www.joannritterfineart) and began working in advertising, the only place where I could scratch people who didn’t itch. I wrote ads, instructional booklets, television commercials. Also designed ads, trade show booths and set designs. Even wrote a few tv jingles and songs for Sesame Street. While I was working I wrote, filmed and edited, “Being Amish.” It was picked up by PBS and distributed for many years. After moving to Boston I started my own business providing creative services to companies. But like my father I felt compelled to chase the golden ring, sacrificing tummy bubbles and chills for a steady income. Oh me!Several years ago I resumed the goose bumps of lost music, resurrected the grace of a curved line, thawed the hardness of my creativity and put my life in the hands of a power far bigger than anything I had ever imagined. Quietly.I love to fly fish. The rhythm and grace of the process is beautiful. Delicate, soft and lethal. I’ve fished many waters in many countries. . .salt, fresh and murky. Caught some beautiful fish, so many that I don’t need to lie about it.Several years ago I was given the opportunity to volunteer my time as a translator on medical mission trips to Guatemala, Nicaragua and Cuba. This has evolved into functioning as a surgical nurses assistant while translating. Operation Walk providesI also build cars. . .hot rods, those gleaming relics slammed close to the ground that growl and roar. I have a 1936 Ford Cabriolet and a 1940 Ford Pick Up.