The Jace Letters, Part Two

In which Sandy hears back from 11-year-old Jace Murphy.

The Jace Letters

by Karen Funk Blocher
© 2006 by KFB
Part Two

Subject: Re: Why I'm not there
Date: 4/30/2005 1:55:23 PM US Mountain Daylight Time
From: JaceFace
To: NotaBeach

Aunt Sandy!

Is this one of your stories? U r a good writer, but your scaring me a little. Where are u really? We expected you last weekend. You didn't show up, and we never heard anything until now. Mom called your cell phone, but it said it was unavailable. She left a voicemail on your home phone, too.

Just tell us where you really are, ok? And that your allright.

You missed a pretty good party last weekend. I got a high-tech spy kit and an Aragorn action figure. But the best present was a pink iPod!

Jace

Subject: Re: Why I'm not there
Date: r0tu2ru0ru0r
From: NotaBeach
To: JaceFace

Jace--

I accidentally sent my email before I was ready. Sorry about that. Now that I've received an email reply from you, I know that Gabby was telling me the truth. Nothing else about the Internet works on my computer now, but at least I can write to you and get an answer.

But I told you. It's not a joke or a story. I really have been kidnapped, even though it doesn't make sense, even though I don't know why.

All I know is that I was just arriving in Sedona for the night when a tanker truck suddenly pulled out in front of me. I remember hitting the brake and yelling. I don't remember a crash, or anything like that.

Then I woke up here. Wherever "here" is. There's a cut on my forehead that doesn't seem to want to stop bleeding, but I'm fine otherwise. At least, I think I am. Maybe I was in an accident after all. Maybe I've had a concussion. Maybe I'm really in a coma, and this is all a dream.

It doesn't seem like a dream. It's weird and lonely and depressing, but it feels real to me.

If it is real, this isn't a hospital. There's just me and the woman I call Gabby, and Gabby won't let me leave. That's kidnapping, regardless of how I actually got here.

Jace, dear, I don't want to criticize. You know I love you, and I'm grateful that you answered my email, even if it scared you. But as a former English major, I have to tell you that you need to work on your writing skills a little bit. I'm glad you dropped the "texting" abbreviations after your first few sentences. It's much easier for an old fogey like me to read what you have to say if you write real words, not just letters. You also confused "your," which means "belonging to you," with "you're," which means "you are." And "all right" is two words, not one. "Alright" as a single word seems to be gaining acceptance now, but that is not what I was taught in school when I was your age..

Please understand, I'd be glad to hear from you even if it was all in lower case Pig Latin, but I'd much rather know that my goddaughter is literate. Fair enough?

Well, I'm off to bed, assuming that I'm not already asleep. I'll write to you again tomorrow.

Love,
Aunt Sandy

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The Jace Letters, Part One

Here we go with the new serial. Part One! This is an email from Sandy Sheets (yes, I know) to her goddaughter, Jace Murphy. All will become clear in time. This is first draft stuff, so I'll probably have to clean it up later.

No, the end of this installment is not a mistake. Not my mistake, anyway.

The Jace Letters

by Karen Funk Blocher
© 2006 by KFB

Part One

Subject: Why I'm not there
Date: 4/??/??? 09590fh2fy08y
From: NotaBeach
To: JaceFace

Dear Jace –

I don’t see how this email is ever going to reach you, but if it does, please tell your parents I’ve been kidnapped.

This is not a joke!

I don’t know why I’ve been kidnapped. There don’t seem to be any ransom demands. The only person I’ve seen since I woke up here isn’t telling me much of anything. In fact, she hardly says a word at all. I’ve decided to call her “Gabby.” Just about the only thing she did say was that if I wrote you an email, you would get it. So I’m doing it, just in case. Even if it doesn’t go anywhere, I have to write down what’s happened, and try to make sense of it all.

It’s impossible to tell where I am. There are no windows, and the only door out of the three rooms – bedroom, bath, small living room or study – is dead-bolted. Locked. I have my computer (obviously), but it’s not online. Or, if it is, there’s something wrong with the connection. I can’t get to any current web pages, blogs or AOL, or access my email. I have the clothes that were in my suitcase, and I have my iPod, and I have enough to eat. That’s all.

I haven’t actually been very hungry since this happened. Not that I know what happened. Not really.

All I know is

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A Fire in Mâvarin

This is the opening scene of the third Mâvarin novel (or fifth volume, or something like that), which has the working title, The Mâvarin Revolutions. It's kind of a teaser for the book, and contains no information that could act as a spoiler to the first book (or the Mages trilogy, until you get about thousand pages in!).

I hope to have something made-to-order for you next week.

The Mâvarin Revolutions

by Karen Funk Blocher
© 2006 by KFB

Chapter One, Scene One

Masheldu, 4th Day of Nefilem, 897 MMY


The fire started in the middle of the day, in the middle of the village. There was no way to pinpoint the source of the flames: ten buildings caught fire in an instant, on all four corners of Murbeth’s only intersection.

People began yelling and running, in every direction at once. A grocer jumped through his shop window, trailing showers of bloody glass, his apron already smoldering. Four of his customers followed him out, mostly avoiding the jagged remains of the window pane.

Across the street and one building down, a man climbed out onto an already-burning rooftop below a second floor window. From there he jumped onto a hard-packed snowbank. The flames on his clothing died as he rolled to the bottom of the tiny icy hill.

High pitched screams came from a schoolhouse as timbers fell to block the building’s only exit. The four children who were already outside ran another twenty feet before turning to stare, teary-eyed, at the teacher and students on the other side of the burning doorway.

A mile away, Temet turned his head in the direction of his friends. At the moment they were less than shadows to his altered vision, but he drew comfort knowing they were there.

“This is the place,” he told them. “Hurry.”

All art by Sherlock, copyright 2004.

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Related Entry: Rani's Dream
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