This will be FVP’s third year with a booth at Maple Valley Days in…well, Maple Valley, WA. Here’s a couple photos from past years… Come and see us this weekend. We’d love to meet you!
It’s HERE! ODD MALL Everett is this Saturday and Sunday, June 4th-5th. FreeValley has a booth, so come down and see us and check out our unique indie-published books!
Look for FreeValley Publishing’s booth at OddMall in Everett on June 4th and 5th! We can’t wait to see you at this zany event…
As you may know, FVP’s new Anthology, Free-flowing Stories, will be released online and at our sale on Dec. 6th.
Here’s a teaser and a snippet from the seventh story:
Jalem Vitalma’s afternoon leads to an extremely extraordinary educational encounter with an enigmatic stranger.
Jalem Vitalma sat on the edge of Lavendars Lake and watched the flames beneath the surface of the water. She loved the warmth, the bubbling, the newness and the solitude. She discovered more here than from the lessons the professors taught at the Learning Hall—or so she told herself. Jalem wasn’t old enough to go to the sessions yet.
Hearing footsteps in the leaves, Jalem pulled her arms and legs in, tucked her feet beneath her and held her cloak closed as she tucked her chin down. Even with the concealing spell she created, the child was careful not to make a sound.
She scooped up some of the violet water and wordlessly formed a sphere with it that spun just above her palm, a braided collection of elements woven in ever-changing patterns. The humming from within the sphere blended with the emerging winds. A thin smile on her face, Jalem brought the sphere under the cloak—the hum keeping her warm.
Across the lake, she watched a stranger stagger towards a stump as he tossed his cloak onto a pile of wemota leaves by the stone fireplace. She made her way through the otamew stalks and listened as the stranger continued talking to himself. The closer she got, the more she could see of him. His kind old face reminded her of Rune Noble, the librarian in the township.
“I can help,” she said, answering the stranger’s question.
He gave her a quizzical look. “I didn’t think they taught that language in the learning halls around here. Never mind; my manners. I’m Leirej. And who are you, my dear?”
Jalem stood to her full height. “Jalem Anse Vitalma,” she said, the same way she heard her parents introduce themselves to visitors to the house. “You’re not a warrior, are you? They know how to protect themselves.”
Leirej chuckled. “I’m more than a warrior. But you’re right; this collection of injuries is a bit over the top, isn’t it.” He called out a healer’s roll, and it hovered within reach. With his good hand, he started a fire in the fireplace—a small cooking pot hanging by a cooking arm in the middle. “Want to know what these wounds are?”
Jalem nodded, quietly expanding the concealing spell to protect him, too….
She didn’t let that bother her, since she found her way in through a broken window in the alleyway. It was a better place to be instead of school.
Standing at the top of the rolling rickety steps, Moira’s small hand wrapped around a red, leather bound book. On the inside of the cover was an apple core sketched in ink, words written in the margins.
Moira used the tempo of the rain against the metal corrugated roof as she read the poem aloud.
‘You hold in your hands a mystery in words,
Cutting through space and time as easily as a sword.
For this collection of stories, with many games afoot,
Is simply a seed for your imagination to take root.
While many snowflakes fall,
Creating a ground of white
Listen to the Muse’s call
As your woven words take flight.’
Moira tucked the book inside her coat pocket before exploring the many costumes that had remained. From the wool houndstooth deerstalker and matching cloak, to an outfit perfect for Robin Hood or William Tell, the child wondered which world would be best to wander through, if only for a little while.
In another cupboard, Moira found two-piece suits, leather helmets and goggles, reminding her of Amelia Earhart. Beside that were a collection of floral dresses, cloches, fedoras and sunhats. Moira tried all of them, a new character emerging under each one as she looked up at the giant glitter-covered cardboard stars hanging from the ceiling.
In the many drawers found in the dressing rooms, she found loose papers from scripts old and new. Some pages she kept others she left where they were. Moira did the same with the photographs.
She found a Victor-Victrola phonograph buried by posters, maps and banners. Rotating the handle, Moira listened to the melody on the disc. Each note sparkled like a star in her mind; the new notes a new possibility. Maybe if she had lived a hundred years ago, she wouldn’t be so bored now.
Moira knew it was a silly thought, like many of her thoughts that got her into trouble. If the whole world was a stage, something her uncle once said; then she wanted the fastest route to get backstage, out of the spotlight, away from the microphones.
After an afternoon of adventure and anonymity, Moira smiled contently, aware that she would probably return here tomorrow, when time and her sketching kits were on her side. It wouldn’t be difficult to find alternative routes here from home, wouldn’t be hard to fix the window to keep the rain from coming in. Even with the power turned off, Moira knew how to keep herself from being in the dark.
For now, she would play the games and bend the rules without breaking them.
A Snippet by T. Tommia Wright, Featured Author Published with Permission