I have been gone a long time from the glade, and I know it. I trudge forward into the winter glade with a heavy heart. I had always hoped that Fantasy and I would be weathering the ups and downs of the writing life, but much has happened since I was last there.
I was shocked at what I found. The glade was supposed to be a place of green all year round with off-shoots of seasons, which would shift from place to place and grow larger throughout the years as stories came and went. But I haven't been a good steward. Was Fantasy beneath this rubble? I glanced around me; she was nowhere to be found.
I brushed off a log and waited. I figured that if I hadn't been there for almost a year to feed her stories, that she would at the very least be weak. I waited for 10 minutes, then a half an hour. Then I felt a fly buzzing around my head. A fly? That doesn't make sense. Flies don't live in winter unless they're fruit flies. I shooed it away, but it zoomed back just as quickly. Then it started tickling me on the nose.
"Get away!" I waved it away. It danced away, and then tickled my neck. Then it landed on the paper I brought with the story. It had a faint blue tinge.
It's blue! I watched as it hovered over the top of the page. Fantasy knew I had a visual impairment. She would make herself seen, if that's who it was. I had brought a small set of acrylics as well as some paper in case I wanted to continue sketching her. I opened the tube of blue paint and put some on the palette. I then changed to a new piece of paper. She wrote her name just as it shows below; I knew it was her. She had been reduced to a spec - I had arrived just in time. I had a mystery from Kent for her to gnaw on until the next time. Hopefully it would be enough. I reached out my hand, set aside the painted pages and read the next story called "A Mystery."