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Author Insight
Cold, Bitter Ole Fog
As a child running and playing in the mountains of Colorado, I remember the cold snow, the bitter fog, and the bite of the blowing wind. No matter if your hands had on mitten or gloves or your head was covered after awhile the cold penetrated into your clothing. If you got wet the cold was more dangerous, freezing the cloth, which made your movement tight and hard which caused you to fall into the snow and becoming more cold and stiff. I heard stories of people freezing to death. After getting dangerous cold to the point of falling asleep, I would stagger into the house. Of course, the rule was all clothing from outside left by the door. Taking off the stiff, frozen coats, leggings, gloves, and hat was an enduring process. Finally inside, the feeling of warmth to fiery hot was the best. My cheeks burned. My legs and arms moved. I could think. Death did not get me.
Book Excerpt
PURSUED
Luckily, as I tumbled off the top of the arch on the bridge, the PortHold snatched me, and I plunged into the Inbetween. Unluckily, the Ole Fog clashed with me, crawling and grabbing at my hair and clothing. The thickness of his anger blunted the colors and sounds. I concentrated on keeping my legs in front of me while pushing the bitter Fog away from my head. The cold stung my eyes and ears as the bitter Fog turned into a wind and whipped frost around my head. I covered my ears to block his howls and the freezing. My vision blurred.
A long zap signaled an exit from the Inbetween. With a 'blip' I bounced under bare trees covered with frost. I smashed into iced snow harder than a pile of cold stones. The hour was late, the cold night descended. Freezing, I hid in the shadows of the frozen trees. The intriguing beauty of snow and ice exaggerated by falling moonlight created a wonderland I had never witness.
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A young lad talked to an ole man. I surmised a woodcutter because the ole man held an ax over his shoulder with chopped wood stacked on a cart. The young lad held his horse reigns in his hand and sat on a tree stump. This youth with his horse I saw in an Elfin storybook about a Prince.The thick and damp Fog sprawled into the snowy woods. He blew around and stirred up the snow throwing it at me. The bitter, foul storm thought I hid something.
I crawled closer to the two talking; the ole woodcutter heard the disturbance and glanced my way. The fog's interference stopped and hovered over a pond closer to the young lad and woodcutter.
“Prince! Where do you ride so sad and defeated?”
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