A dark, smelling, cold fog crawled to the Elve's gardens searching for someone. That mess of fog growled through the gardens up turning houses and drowning the circle of laughter! Then the elves heard a humongous uproar and fight on top of the bridge where the older Troll children live. Troll Canute, his house, now Troll Grunda Faye and the sherrie are missing.
I love stories. I told stories as a child: in the backyard digging holes in the sand pile my dad use for cement, playing at the creek, finding frogs or fishing, walking to and from school, sitting in the swing in the garden rocking back and forth on warm Colorado nights, hiking in the Alaska Mountains, sitting on the train going back and forth to Colorado, or having a coffee at a café in Oakland, CA or telling a story to my children before they fell asleep, now my grandchildren who are engrossed with tales.
As a child, drawing was my way of communicating. Today, I am a writer of words as well as a verbal storyteller, which blends skills of illustrating, speaking, and written words to create, enhance, reimage, embroidery, fabricate, and elaborate stories to fascinate those who view, hear, and read the tales!
--->I love stories which inform us about our worlds.
During my childhood in Colorado, the weather was dramatic with winds, rain, and snow. When living Alaska, there were three days of Autumn: one the yellowed leaves, next the leaves dropped off, on the third tiresome snow fell. California has either drought or rains. With the rain comes the fog which rolls across the ocean creeps through San Francisco and crawls across the Bay. Fog blankets the East Bay quietly and deceptively. Fog was an essential character in the Celtic and the Russian folklore and is called Ole Boneless, the immortal, Death. Fog's strange and mysterious appearance makes the perfect nemesis.
PURSUED is a retelling of the Russian folktale, 'Vasalisa, the Frog Princess,' which is now in writing process, that means re-imagining, enhancing, and elaborating.
We silenced our talked when we felt that ominous cold. A fog entered our garden so forceful and smelly the cat ran up the stairs to the upper deck. The bitter fog blew into our Meeting Lodge and threw papers, chairs, and pictures around. Then it blew into our School House, knocking over our desks and chairs. Our books and paper flew everywhere. The fog crawled through the lower yard, then disappeared into the PortHold. I thought this must be death. But for whom, we, the Elfin folk nor Faeries, die; we are ageless. Maybe the Trolls die?