Authors have a need to write. Whether a non-fiction or a fiction writer the need to share their wisdom or fable with readers is ingrained into their DNA.
If authors write and no one reads what they have written, what’s the point? Sure they obliged the urge to write, but come on, we really want someone to read what we’ve written. That is what inspired me to release one of my favorite stories from the anthology, “Love & Magic”, as a stand-alone. I wanted to reach new readers.
Featured
I have been featured in two anthologies and have decided to pull a novelette from the anthology “Love & Magick”. There are five other wonderful stories by two impressive authors, Sarah Raplee and Judith Ashley.
Each story takes one on a journey with a touch of Magick. I’ve loved all the stories my fellow anthology authors have written. But I digress.
The novelette I’ve chosen to make available as a stand-alone, and for the low price of .99, "The Crystal Witch".
I created the cover in a program called Canva, and in doing so I learned a new skill. I have a brand new website, Diana McCollum Author, where you can click on the book page to purchase the story.
Free story
On my website there is a contact page and a newsletter sign up on the same page. By signing up for the newsletter you automatically get “The Crystal Witch” as a FREE download. The e-newsletter is filled with entertaining tidbits, recipes, information on new books, contests, and much more! The newsletter comes out about once a month!
Story excerpt
The Crystal Witch
October 30, 1692
Waxing, MA
The day in the village of Waxing began as a quiet fall morning, with a break in the rain which had plummeted from the sky for the past several days. Henrietta took the pail off the hook by the hearth and left to fetch the morning water. She was sixteen years now and considered a woman. Papa had died in a hunting accident last year and Gram shortly after. Now there was just her and Mama. The depression that had plagued Mama since Papa’s death was consuming her, and Henrietta helplessly watched Mama shrink a little more each day.
Henrietta had prayed to the goddess asking for help in the matter of her mother’s illness. The Goddess had come to Henrietta in a dream last night, and told her to go into the woods on the full moon, to the sacred circle, and Mama would be cured. Tonight was a full moon and Henrietta was determined to follow the instructions from her vision.
She worked the squeaky crank on the well, pulling up a fresh bucket of water, and lifting it over the edge and then dumped the water into her own pail.
“Ho, Henrietta, I’ll carry your bucket,” said Waya. He picked up her pail, his arm muscles bulging under the weight. “Have you time for a lesson?”
Waya, the Cherokee shaman’s son, was a few years older than her. She had been instructing Waya in his letters for several months now. In return, he brought venison, birds and grains for her and Mama. If not for Waya, they might have starved. He was a great hunter just like his namesake, the wolf.
“Of course, I have time for you. Mama needs her morning meal first. Come along and you can join us.” His nearness sent a shiver up her spine. They had grown close over the past few months and the bond went both ways. She felt good in his company, safe; yes, she felt safe. He’d kissed her a few times. She would welcome more. She glanced sideways at him.
They were careful with their friendship, since personal association with anyone from the tribe was frowned upon by the community elders.
Waya had kissed her yesterday. Not the quick kiss, friendly thank you type of kiss, but a passionate kiss. She had daydreamed of being crushed in his embrace; their clandestine relationship was the most thrilling thing to ever happen to her. Thinking about the kiss sent butterflies fluttering in her stomach.
Yesterday she would have made flummery save for the lack of sea moss and milk, two key ingredients. Then she could have served the pudding to Waya this morning.
They reached the picket fence and Waya set the pail of water down.
“Do you have chores, Henrietta? I can help today.” He scrunched up his forehead, searching for the right words. “I have no teachings today from Adahy. I am free as the — ,” he said turning his hand in the air, fluttering his fingers, “bird.” He smiled and his eyes twinkled; he looked quite pleased for finding the proper words.
“Henrietta!” Declan Blackthorn called out, his tone disapproving.
“Yes?” She turned to see the preacher’s son barreling down on them.
“What are you doing with this heathen?” Declan looked Waya up and down. “He’s barely dressed! Cover yourself, man. Henrietta is a decent God fearing woman and you dare to seek out her company?” Hands on hips and long black coat flapping around his legs, he was an imposing sight at six foot and five inches. He was older than Henrietta by five years.
“I’m helping him with his handwriting and reading proficiencies. Declan, he is good to Mama and me. He brings us venison and other food. Otherwise we would have starved after father perished!” Such a fury boiled inside her, it churned in her stomach and rose up to her heart, increasing the rhythm of the beat till she thought her heart could surely be heard by both men. She must keep her fury restrained; she summoned her will power and tried again. “Declan, sir, step away from us, begone.”
“Get out of here, heathen, and don’t come back.” Declan flung his arm wide and pointed toward the woods.
Waya seemed to grow taller in front of her eyes. He was majestic with his long black braids, muscular chest and snapping black eyes.
“Ho, Henrietta, I wish to cause you no trouble. The tree we talked of….” Waya touched the carved bone moon hanging on a beaded cord around his neck. He tipped his head slightly in acknowledgment, turned and walked toward the woods.
I’ll be there tonight, at the full moon, Waya’s voice whispered in her head.
Henrietta, stunned to have heard Waya’s silent words, could only stare at his retreating back. She turned back to Declan so fast her long skirts flared out. “What is wrong with you? He is human like us, and he is very nice. You have no reason to treat him so.”
“He is the shaman’s son. There is devil magick there and you’d best watch what magick you want to be associated with.” Declan walked around her looking her up and down, measuring her like one of his prize horses. His boot landed in a puddle and sprayed the edge of her dress with muddied water.
“And what would you know of magick, Declan? Aren’t you the preacher’s son? Isn’t magick the devil’s tool?” Her hands balled up, her arms shook in a desperate attempt to control the building rage.
His green eyes flashing, he leaned in close to her till their noses almost touched, so close in fact she counted three small hairs growing out of the mole on his left cheek.
“I know of magick. I know of magick in your family, Henrietta. Watch your back,” he spat out. He turned and took his leave.
The fury rolled out of her extended hands, scooping up the muddy puddle and slamming it against Declan’s back with the intensity of an Atlantic Ocean wave, sending him hurling to the ground.
“What… who… did that?” Sputtered Declan. He wiped his muddied hands on his wet coat.
Henrietta grabbed the pail of well water, passed through the gate, and hurried through the door. She set the pail on the floor and leaned against the wooden door.
This was the year when her magickal abilities would reach full force. Gram had told her what to expect. Mama didn’t know. The powers were passed down to the firstborn girl on her father’s side of the family. The magick had been showing up in bits and pieces. Was the fury now coursing through her part of the magick? And how could she hear what Waya whispered in her head?
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