Prologue

So I am actually going to post a story I've written. Yay! 'Bout time, I know. Hopefully, this will be a more common occurance but I suppose that time will tell. I hope all of you who are reading this (which may not actually be many) enjoy it. If you have any suggestions, critiques, or anything of that sort, please comment as that will be helpful for me. :) Thanks and have a good read.

Prologue

Do you know the place called Alethea? You may not recognize the name but you’ve been there. Most people have at least. It’s that place between dreaming and waking where things are too fantastic to be really real but too authentic to be a dream. Remember it now? Maybe you swam with a dolphin that recited Shakespeare’s sonnets or played on the stars like a trampoline. Maybe you heard your mother calling you home for dinner or your little brother asking you to read that story just one more time before bed. Whatever it may be, those have all been places in Alethea, only you didn’t know it. Most people don’t. But there are a few that do. Not so many now as there used to be. That’s due mostly to people not truly believing that Alethea exists any more and just attributing their experiences to a “very vivid dream.” Ever wondered why you get déjà vu sometimes? It’s because you did it in Alethea. At least, most of those types of experiences are due to having traveled through there. It’s a wonderful place. Terribly good you might say. Yes, that’s the phrase, terribly good. It might be frightening or terrible but it’s good. Not easy to explain that.

Now that I’ve jogged you memory a bit, I want to tell you a story of how Alethea was saved. Oh believe me, Alethea needs just as much saving as our world does today just . . . in different ways. This was the first of its rescues. You’ll never hear about it in any major newspaper or blog or website but you’ll hear it here. And the heroes of these stories will never be on TV talk shows or in movies or history books but they’ll remain immortal to those of Alethea. The heroes are people from our world who are given the very special privilege of coming into Alethea voluntarily. Normally, we get there involuntarily through dreams and what not. But these chosen few are given the choice to come if they so desire. Perhaps, one day, I will write of the all the times that Alethea has been saved and of her many saviors. But that will have to wait for just a bit. Anyways, I don’t know if anyone would really want to hear about them. Perhaps you will, once my story it finished. If you, dear reader, are the only one who ever becomes interested in Alethea, then my purpose will have been accomplished. Enough explanation now though. On with the story.

Our story begins in a serene valley. Can you see it? Lush, rolling hills forming a beautiful dell through which runs a clear blue stream. If you were to follow this steady stream, it would slowly grow into a rushing river, eventually ending in a courtly cascade. This cascade plunges into a deep pool, looking blue-green around the edges and inky black at its center. Just past this pool is a grove of wispy aspen trees, swaying at the slightest playful breeze. The leaves are a mixture of emerald, ruby, and gold. A light layer of fallen leaves are strewn around the bases of their respective trees and form a kind of carpet to a small stone table. Looking like a water-beaten rock, the edges of this table are worn smooth as glass. In fact, if it were not light gray and slightly speckled, you would indeed think it is truly glass.

Beside this table stands a man. His silvery blond hair falls to his waist in wisps on his black cloak like fog gliding in on a dark evening. His face is all ages and yet none. From one angle, he could be a boy just beginning manhood and from another, finishing the race of life. A face full of the gaiety of youth and the wisdom of age. Across from him stands another man. Yet he is not really a man for he is truly a centaur. Arms crossed upon his broad chest, he looks like a powerful barbarian lord from ages past. His raven hair falls to his shoulders, complementing his tawny horse hide. His tail, as black as the hair on his head, quickly swishes back and forth, revealing his frustration. Both man and centaur are staring intently at the surface of the table, the center fluid, in a sense. Images flitter across, never lasting more than a few moments. Neither of the watchers make a sound, as if a single voice would disturb the frolicking pictures. At last, the pictures stop switching and continue in a coherent progression. The man and the centaur watch the scene unfold before them. The man’s eyes grow wide. One hoof paws the ground angrily. All their attention is riveted on the scene before them.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Tears fall slowly. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Something white thunders through the trees. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Something metal zings. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. An eye full of tears looks mournfully as a giant tear rolls down. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. A quiet voice says, “Save me.” Thump-thump. Thump-thump. A blur of images. And a young woman bolts upright in bed.