What's another great attribute about being a writer? You have a circle of friends that love to write! Literally, it is amazing how many of my friends, upon being asked what they like to do in their free time, have answered "I like to read and write."
But the most serious writer I have ever met is my friend Monica. She is a fantasy fanatic, but she also loves to read myths and is completely in love with Ancient Egypt. How did these two San Antonian writers meet and where? Hours south of where we live. The exact place? Laredo, a city that is so close to Mexico that I saw the country with my own to eyes during that trip!
We were both there to watch our brothers (who were teammates) play hockey for the San Antonio Diablos. I got to talk to her after the game.
That very night, her family asked me and Brant if they could take us to dine at a former team member's house. We agreed to go. During the ride over there, I asked Monica what she liked to do. Lo and behold, she loved to write fantasy!
Immediately excited, I blurted out, "Me too!"
Thus, the conversation veered off in the direction of characters and plot lines, and there it remained for the rest of the night. Needless to say, I was thrilled to have a friend who adored the art just as much as I did.
The next morning at breakfast in the hotel, we talked about collaborating (co-authoring) a book. And, although it took a sleepover at her house and many hours to figure out what our book was going to be about, we finally agreed.
Surprisingly, we drew the story out of two old legends. One was the long ago Halloween practice where a person would be sacrificed to keep the evil spirits away (I'm not entirely sure they really did that, but that was one of the springboards for our idea). The other was from a Mexican legend about a woman who had lost her children. The latter was used to scare children into staying indoors after dark.
The results? A plot line where a young fairy named Isleen discovers that young fairies are vanishing, but not without undergoing symptoms that are similar to all the rest of the vanishing young ones. Will Isleen find the truth and be able to protect herself from those dreaded symptoms? Then, she finds an oracle stone with a prophecy ethched into it; a prophecy that speaks of her.
Here is an excerpt from our book The Oracle Prophecy:
As the stars illuminated the moonless night, Isleen slipped beneath the rough covers that shunned the cold's biting chill. The pillow was far from comfortable, but the girl paid it no heed.
The wind whistled through the open window. The stars were shrouded briefly by a cloud and the world immersed into an eerie blackness. Then the cloud shifted and the stars peaked out timidly from behind their former barrier.
But all of this mattered little to Isleen. Her ears were open, catching every little sound that was made in the next room.
A door was quietly closed. She could hear shuffling, then a few creaks as her mother laid upon the overused bed whose faded wood had seen much better days.
The girl lay heaving silently, waiting until she was certain that Merre would be resting. Then, she swung her feet over the side of the bed and submerged them into her shoes. Having left her dress on, she pulled her door ajar and peered out cautiously.
Stealing acorss to the cabinets, she grabbed a slice of bread just in case the journey gave her the reason for a hasty bite, along with the potatoes. Pulling her ragged shawl from the peg near the main entrance, she thrust it over her shoulders and yanked the door open.
The wind's chilling cold whipped about her suddenly, playing with her ragged skirt and piercing her thin clothing. She clutched the shawl to her as her hair slapped her face. She gave the stable a longing glance, wishing that taking a horse wouldn't make any noise at all.
Suddenly, she found her feet pounding upon the trodden path that meandered from their humble home and into the hills that guarded it. Glancing up at the stars, she attempted to determine the time. Midnight was only a few hours off, and the village was still many miles away.
Standing on the last hill, she peered down, searching for the village that concealed itself in the dark. Her feet ached from the sheer beating they had received. A nervous feeling began to inhabit her, escalating itself to a sickening dread, as if she was getting herself into something she didn't want to. Shaking herself, she darted down the hill, meeting her fate head on, her face sullen and jaw set firm.
As she neared the village, she slowed a bit so as not to arouse the city. It took some time in the dark, but she eventually recognized the spot that she had often set up shop. Leaning her back against a building, she waited. And waited.
A thump sounded from a distance, its lone rhythm announcing that it was steadily approaching. Isleen drew in her breath, trying to prepare for the inevitable.
A voice from beside her caused her to start. "Are you there, young one? Did you bring me the potatoes I asked for?"
The fairy forced her voice not to quiver. "I am here. And so are the potatoes."
An aged hand was extended to her. Isleen drew a potato from the bag that dangled from her shoulder and placed it into the old one's hand.
The scrutinizing fingers inspected it, as they had done the others. Slowly, the stranger spoke, "Yes. These are indeed fine potatoes. They are a just payment. Follow me now."
Using her staff as an aid, she trotted off at a surprising speed for one of her age and condition. Isleen found herself struggling to keep up. The woman, even with her shortcoming of no sight, seemed to know exactly where she was going.
The village gave way to hills. The hills to valleys. The valleys to marshes. And it was in one of these damp areas that they finally descended the last hill. Their feet met the mud, and they sloshed around in it for many minutes.
Suddenly, as if from out of nowhere, the woman drew aside a curtain and held it open. Isleen stepped in. Then, the ancient one banished the star's brilliant glow by dropping the curtain back over the opening. After some shuffling and indistinguishable words from the lips of the blind one, the light of a fire sprang up upon the hearth, revealing the woman stooped over it.
Isleen realized that they were in a tiny grass hut; the walls being lined with nothing other than her hostess's few belongings. But it was not a poorly constructed shelter, either, for one glance told the newcomer of the lovingness of which the hands had woven the extensive strands of grass together.
"You are quite skilled for being blind," she remarked.
"Never say that again! Never!"
"Why not?"
"Because blindness is not a disibility. Instead, it gives one the ability to sharpen their other senses, and to know that the things of this life are fleeting, so we must enjoy them to their fullest. It may disable the weaker ones who yearn for pity, but to those who are willing to work, it can be a rich lesson in leading an alert and satisfied life. My name is Oglanda."
"Isleen."
"Ah, Isleen," Oglanda said. "Your name means Dream or Vision. Did you know that?"
"No. You seem to know a great many things."
The woman sighed. "Having many years behind you isn't all bad, either. If you spend your time wisely, it can greatly aid your knowledge of times and cultures. Never waste a minute. The tea is ready. Would you like some?"
"Sure."
Filling two cups, Oglanda kept one for herself and handed the other to Isleen. The familiar aroma settled the remainder of the guest's nerves and almost made her drowsy. She stirred the drink absently. "What do you have to tell me about your story Oglanda?"
Setting aside her tea, the ancient one proceeded thoughtfully. "That is perhaps the darkest part of my memory. The girl I spoke of was my daughter, but back then we didn't live here. Nay, she was raised in the hills that you now live in. I can tell by your accent. As I said, she went away to school. She was single, and no one had even been interested in her until she met a young man in her class. I believe that he was in love with her, and I liked him very much. But she was currently trying to win over another young man, one I knew that she could never love. She didn't succeed. Eventually, she got depressed. One day, I received a letter from the school sumoning me immediately, for she had suddenly gone pale and became very ill. By the time I arrived, they said that she had vanished. I moved here, for the memories in that house were too painful. I never heard of her again."
Isleen found herself pouring out Kai's story, which she had found so similar to the one Oglanda had given her. Even her host was astonished by their similarities.
"I'm going to find him. I must find him." Isleen was surprised at her sudden decision.
"That you should. But there may be more to this. These situations are too much alike to be coincidences. Somebody with power may be behind them. Be careful, and fell free to ask me for anything."
Isleen rose. "Thank you. But my mother will worry if I'm not home beofre she awakes. I must go."
Oglanda didn't speak. She only watched her guest shove the curtain aside, allowing a stream of starlight to enter momentarily. Then, she turned away, feeling hope's warm rays fill her cold body.
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