Prolog
Chris walked through the park, her blond hair blowing behind her in the chill December wind as she looked at the beauty around her through her glasses-clad hazel eyes. Shivering she tightened her blue scarf and wrapped her brown trench coat tighter around herself.
Suddenly she got a strange urge to look behind herself. Following that urge she threw a glance over her shoulder and froze. Behind her, smack dab in the middle of the path was a building. It looked like a log cabin, and above the door was a plack that read ‘The Writers Den’, and on the door itself there was a small poem.
Here lies a world of word and prose,
Where writers are safe from friend and foe,
Free to weave their craft and grow,
Free to focus on written worlds and sow,
The plants of plots unending.
Free to talk of what they write,
Free to type into the night,
Free to express their craft with page and pen,
Free to write by light of Sun and Moon,
Free to be an author true.
Enter this door and you shall see,
A place of which only writers dream.
Brave the door and you will be,
Free to see what your words can be.
Enter if you dare and be free to share,
In the place of which only writers dream.
That wasn’t there a second ago, Chris thought. The place radiated a warm and inviting atmosphere, and the door seemed to beckon to her, daring her to open it and step inside. Or that could be the poem, but ether way she wanted in.
What the heck, might as well. Who knows, maybe I could be embarking on the journey of a life time, she thought, reaching into her trench coat to check that her handy-dandy notebook (as she dubbed it thanks to watching Blue’s Clues as a little kid), and Lucky Pen (which was a really nifty pen that her dad got her in the gift shop of the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum, you could write upside down with it, and it took forever to run out of ink). Chris steeled herself and opened the door.
