{"id":211,"date":"2013-06-26T22:12:00","date_gmt":"2013-06-26T22:12:00","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.tamaragranthambooks.com\/2013\/06\/snippet\/"},"modified":"2015-11-13T15:20:48","modified_gmt":"2015-11-13T15:20:48","slug":"snippet","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/tamaragrantham.com\/StagingSite\/snippet\/","title":{"rendered":"Snippet"},"content":{"rendered":"

I’m an unpublished author–a writer. I’m determined not to call myself an author until someone actually pays me to write.<\/p>\n

Yesterday I signed my first writing contract. In February, assuming all goes well, my first novella will come out!<\/p>\n

So, my friends, in February, will I become an author?<\/p>\n

I can’t say for sure yet. <\/p>\n

What’s it about?<\/p>\n

I can’t tell you that either. I know, I’m horrible.<\/p>\n

\nUntil February, here’s a snippet of a novel I’ve been working on for quite some time. It’s called DREAMTHIEF, about a young lady named Olive Kennedy who helps people remember their past, specifically their time they spent in fairy world and have no memory of. Their repressed memories lead to mental instabilities such as depression, bi-polar disorder, etc.<\/p>\n

And you thought depression was genetic . . .<\/p>\n

\nDRAMTHIEF–CHAPTER ONE<\/div>\n
\n<\/div>\n
\nI don\u2019t believe in karma. Once I gave twenty bucks to earthquake victims, thinking hey, maybe tomorrow my luck will change, maybe I can pay the utilities this month without digging into the grocery bill. The next morning my car broke down. Transmission. Five-hundred bucks. Don\u2019t get me wrong, I still think we ought to help others, but not because we expect the universe to pay us back for doing it.<\/div>\n
\nI do believe in magic. Not magyk. Not Magick. Not the stuff that Wiccans do or warlocks. I believe in the old stuff, the real, honest-to-goodness-straight-from-fairy-land kind of magic. Am I crazy? Maybe, but not because I believe in magic.<\/div>\n
\nI knocked on apartment 31C off Champion Forest Drive. Houston is a damp place in November. Standing on the porch, hands in my pockets, my breath like puffs of cumulus clouds, I wished the lady inside wouldn\u2019t have taken five minutes to open up. The door cracked open and a gray eye peeked out, matching a wiry mass of hair. I tried to ignore Ms. Shot\u2019s sour expression. I get that a lot.<\/div>\n
\n\u201cYou the shrink?\u201d<\/div>\n
\n\u201cYes.\u201d I stopped correcting people a long time ago. If they want to call me a shrink, let them. I know what I am. I\u2019m not offended. \u201cMy name is Olive Kennedy.\u201d<\/div>\n
\n\u201cDr. Hill sent you?\u201d<\/div>\n
\n\u201cYes, ma\u2019am.\u201d<\/div>\n
\nShe looked at my purple Doc Martens, my cropped red hair, and then stared at my slightly pointed ears. Her brow creased. \u201cHe said you were a shrink, not a circus freak.\u201d<\/div>\n
\nCircus freak. Wow, I\u2019d never heard that one before. <\/div>\n
\n<\/div>\n
\nMs. Shot took a step back. \u201cRuby\u2019s real sick. Maybe you ought to come back next week.\u201d The door started to close. I held it open.<\/div>\n
\n\u201cMs. Shot, if she\u2019s as sick as you say, don\u2019t you think I should see her now before she gets worse?\u201d<\/div>\n
\n\u201cShe\u2019s getting better.\u201d<\/div>\n
\n\u201cYou just said she was real sick.\u201d<\/div>\n
\n\u201cShe is.\u201d<\/div>\n
\n\u201cThen may I please come inside?\u201d<\/div>\n
\n\u201cI\u2019m not sure you can help her.\u201d<\/div>\n
\n\u201cWe won\u2019t know until I try, right?\u201d<\/div>\n
\n\u201cYou sure you ain\u2019t gonna mess her up even more?\u201d<\/div>\n
\n\u201cMa\u2019am, Dr. Hill trusts me. There\u2019s a reason he sends me to all his patients he can\u2019t cure. <\/div>\n
\nBecause I can.\u201d<\/div>\n
\nMs. Shot gave me one last stern glare and then opened the door. I stepped inside. The smell of cat feces hit me immediately, followed with the unmistakable scent of old lady. <\/div>\n
\nCrocheted doilies covered every surface. The couches, the end tables. Through the apartment\u2019s tiny living room I could see into the kitchen. Pill bottles cluttered the counter, interspersed with loaves of half-eaten bread and cloves of garlic. But I didn\u2019t find what I needed, not yet anyway.<\/div>\n
\nMs. Shot led me through the living room to a door opposite the kitchen. She turned to me, her voice low. \u201cRuby\u2019s in bed. Refuses to get out, even for Jeopardy.\u201d<\/div>\n
\n\u201cHow long has she been in there?\u201d<\/div>\n
\n\u201cTwo weeks. She woke up week before last like usual. Watched Price is Right and then went to bed. Said she wasn\u2019t feeling well but won\u2019t say why. Dr. Hill calls it depression. Baloney, is what I call it.\u201d<\/div>\n
\nI glanced through the door. Ruby didn\u2019t resemble her sister. Her cheeks were more filled out. She looked like the sort of old lady who would offer you hard candies any time you visited, who would bake the world\u2019s best cupcakes and give them to trick-or-treaters, whose face would light up any time you said hello. Instead of a smile, her face twisted in a frown, in pain. I knew the look. I\u2019d seen it too many times to count. Turning to Ms. Shot, I saw her watching me, expectant, part of her hoping I could help and the other part suspicious.<\/div>\n
\nI wanted to help, but so far, I hadn\u2019t found what I needed.<\/div>\n
\n\u201cMay I go inside?\u201d I asked.<\/div>\n
\nMs. Shot nodded, opened the door.<\/div>\n
\nI stepped into the bedroom, searching. Ms. Shot followed.<\/div>\n
\nOn a wall near the bed sat a china closet. Fairy teacups, figurines, statuettes. <\/div>\n
\nBingo. <\/div>\n
\nThe closet, the end table, every surface available. All fairies. <\/div>\n
\nI turned to Ruby. She eyed me from the bed, her expression sour.<\/div>\n
\n\u201cDo you collect these?\u201d I aimed for a polite tone. Being raised for half my life in Texas, it\u2019s not too hard to conjure up.<\/div>\n
\nRuby nodded.<\/div>\n
\nI stepped to the china closet. Dust covered most of the figurines. I focused on a few interesting pieces. Time worn, their little faces like something from the Dick and Jane<\/i> books. <\/div>\n
\n\u201cHow long have you been collecting?\u201d<\/div>\n
\nRuby shot me a blank stare. Her mouth slacked, but she didn\u2019t answer.<\/div>\n
\n\u201c\u2019Bout forty years,\u201d Ms. Shot answered for her sister.<\/div>\n
\nImpressive. <\/div>\n
\n\u201cRuby, I know this is going to sound strange, but do you remember the first piece you collected?\u201d<\/div>\n
\nI got the blank stare for an answer. Ms. Shot turned to me with a hard look. \u201cWhat\u2019s this all about? I thought you were here to help. This some kind of voodoo or what?\u201d<\/div>\n
\n <\/span>           <\/span>\u201cIt\u2019s no voodoo, ma\u2019am.\u201d That was all the explanation she\u2019d get. If I told her the truth, I\u2019d be back outside in the rain.<\/div>\n
\nI scanned the china closet, scrutinized each piece. All the fairies not covered in dust I immediately excluded. Any fairies with steampunk or gothic themes: out. <\/div>\n
\nThat left me with a row of fairies at the bottom of the shelf. I knelt, peering at each one with a carefully trained eye.<\/div>\n
\nThat\u2019s right. I stare at people\u2019s junk for a living. Hey, I never said my job was glamorous.<\/div>\n
\nOne of the little faces caught my attention. A male fairy\u2014a little boy with a dog snuggled at his feet. With the chipped nose, Leave it to Beaver<\/i> kind of face, and the yellowed paint, I guessed it to be at least forty years old.<\/div>\n
\nI pointed at the figurine. \u201cWhen did you get this one?\u201d I asked Ruby.<\/div>\n
\nRuby focused on the statuette but didn\u2019t answer. Ms. Shot crossed her arms. \u201cI think you ought to leave.\u201d<\/div>\n
\nI ignored her. \u201cDo you remember?\u201d <\/div>\n
\nRuby only stared.<\/div>\n
\nWith careful fingers, I picked up the collectible and walked to Ruby. I took her hands in mine, then placed the statue on her open palm. A strange expression came over Ruby\u2019s face as she looked at the figurine.<\/div>\n
\n\u201cLonnie,\u201d she whispered in a cracked voice.<\/div>\n
\n <\/span>\u201cWho\u2019s Lonnie?\u201d I asked.<\/div>\n
\n\u201cOur brother,\u201d Ms. Shot answered. \u201cHe\u2019s dead. Farming accident. Crushed by the hay-baler.\u201d<\/div>\n
\n\u201cHow long ago?\u201d<\/div>\n
\nRuby exhaled. She ran her hands over the little figure. \u201cForty years.\u201d<\/div>\n
\n\u201cYou collected this piece soon after he died?\u201d<\/div>\n
\nShe nodded. \u201cIt looked so much like him\u2014the way I remembered him as a boy. Always had a dog with him. Wherever he went, there\u2019d always be a dog that followed.\u201d<\/div>\n
\nI pointed at the tiny pair of wings sprouting from the statue\u2019s back. \u201cThis statue has wings, Ruby. Why do think you collected a figure like that?\u201d<\/div>\n
\n\u201cThe wings.\u201d She ran a wrinkled finger across the ceramic wings. She looked as if she were trying to remember, but couldn\u2019t.<\/div>\n
\n\u201cFairies,\u201d I answered for her.<\/div>\n
\nMs. Shot heaved an exasperated sigh from the corner of the room. \u201cYou don\u2019t have to listen, Ruby. I\u2019ll tell her to go if you\u2014\u201d<\/div>\n
\n\u201cNo,\u201d Ruby answered. She looked into my eyes. I saw a flicker of hope in her expression. \u201cWhat about the fairies?\u201d<\/div>\n
\n\u201cRuby, I know this sounds strange, but you\u2019ve been collecting these items because you\u2019re trying to re-live a memory. Sometimes, when people suffer a tragedy, like a loved one dying, they can\u2019t handle the grief. When this happens, their enhanced emotions create a portal to a realm called Faythander\u2014a fairy world.\u201d<\/div>\n
\nI leaned closer. \u201cYou\u2019ve been there, Ruby. After Lonnie died. When you came back, you had no memories of Faythander, of the fairies you visited. But somewhere within your subconscious, you held on to the memory. You collected these items, trying to remember, but never quite grasping the truth of the past.\u201d<\/div>\n
\nMs. Shot blew out an exasperated breath of air. \u201cOf all the\u2014\u201d<\/div>\n
\n\u201cLet her speak,\u201d Ruby cut in.<\/div>\n
\nI took Ruby\u2019s hand. \u201cI can help you remember, if you like.\u201d<\/div>\n
\nHer gaze lingered on the statue. She nodded. <\/div>\n
\n\u201cKeep your hand on the statue. I want you to think about Lonnie. Can you do that?\u201d<\/div>\n
\nShe nodded.<\/div>\n
\n\u201cGood. Now close your eyes,\u201d I said. \u201cListen to my voice.\u201d<\/div>\n
\nHer eyes closed. I closed mine as well. I called the magic inside me, focused on the statue, focused on Ruby\u2019s breathing, focused on mine. <\/o:p><\/i><\/div>\n
\nI felt the magic flow from my hands. Then I felt it flow from her. She gasped. Good, we\u2019d made a connection. Now I just needed a way for her to view the trapped memories. Ms. Shot still lurked in the corner. \u201cDo you have a mirror?\u201d I asked in a soft voice.<\/div>\n
\nArms still crossed, she nodded at the bedside table. I picked up a cheap plastic mirror. It doesn\u2019t matter what kind I use. Faythander magic courses through any mirrored surface. I held it in front of Ruby. \u201cRuby, can you hear me?\u201d<\/div>\n
\nShe nodded.<\/div>\n
\n\u201cWhen you\u2019re ready, I\u2019d like you to open your eyes. Your memories will be unlocked once you look in the glass.\u201d<\/div>\n
\nSqueezing my hand, she slowly opened her eyes.<\/div>\n
\nBlue Faythander light glowed from the mirror. An image formed of a little girl skipping through a maze of giant red mushrooms the size of houses. Lights the color of twinkling stars fluttered around her. She stopped by one of the mushrooms and held out a finger. A fairy settled on her finger.<\/div>\n
\nShe smiled. <\/div>\n
\nThe image faded.<\/div>\n
\nWhen I lowered the mirror, I saw tears in Ruby\u2019s eyes. \u201cYou remember?\u201d I whispered.<\/div>\n
\n\u201cYes. I remember.\u201d<\/div>\n
\n#<\/div>\n
\nI left the apartment, my bank account still empty. I didn\u2019t care. I\u2019d never done this for the money. Seeing the look on Ruby\u2019s face when she finally remembered the past, that feeling of real joy in knowing I\u2019d helped someone who really needed it. That\u2019s what I did it for. Come to think of it, I wondered if this was karma. Not a paycheck, but something far better. That thought stayed with me for the next three-and-a-half minutes, right before I hit the five-o\u2019clock Houston traffic.<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

I’m an unpublished author–a writer. I’m determined not to call myself an author until someone actually pays me to write. Yesterday I signed my first writing contract. In February, assuming all goes well, my first novella will come out! So, my friends, in February, will I become an author? I can’t say for sure yet. […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-211","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/tamaragrantham.com\/StagingSite\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/211","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/tamaragrantham.com\/StagingSite\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/tamaragrantham.com\/StagingSite\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/tamaragrantham.com\/StagingSite\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/tamaragrantham.com\/StagingSite\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=211"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/tamaragrantham.com\/StagingSite\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/211\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":1547,"href":"https:\/\/tamaragrantham.com\/StagingSite\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/211\/revisions\/1547"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/tamaragrantham.com\/StagingSite\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=211"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/tamaragrantham.com\/StagingSite\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=211"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/tamaragrantham.com\/StagingSite\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=211"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}