Namíra Rahin: Taken from The Language of Light (Veh Samashk’Ajir), the name means “Sacred Spirit of the Wolf”.

Born into a bloodline which hadn’t seen any measure of wealth since the times of Avalon, I was raised by family who refused to embrace or accept anything outside of their own world. Taught to think only in the mindset of a single purpose, yet gifted with a vivid imagination, I began to question the nature of my surroundings and the tales of my upbringing. However, not at liberty to think outside my surroundings on a public basis, I digressed into the private world of my own imagination and began to explore its outer limits.

As I began to explore my imagination I stumbled upon my first doorway to freedom—a glowing panel in my bedroom wall just behind the foot of my bed. I first discovered the panel when I was ten years old. Having had great trouble sleeping for many nights, I was roused from my thoughts by a faint glow seeming to come from under the foot of my bed. Curious and unafraid, I moved the bed away from the wall and saw a dark square panel that was illuminated around the edges by a blue glowing light. I opened the panel and peeked inside, seeing a grayed darkness with a faint illumination in the distance. Pulled by my curiosity, I climbed through the panel and landed on a large cement platform. The platform opened into a vast cavern with what looked like a trackway which ran neatly through the exact center of the platform and stretched away into the darkness to my left and to my right. Across the platform was a single street lamp which cast a very faint yellow glow onto the platform and centered on the trackway.

I listened to the darkness and couldn’t hear a single sound—not even the scurrying of small, nocturnal creatures. Yet the quiet was not oppressive, just patiently waiting. Then from my left I saw it—a faint blue glow from the darkness. The glow became larger and then dissipated as a small object came down the trackway and slowed to a stop in front of me on the platform. It was oblong in shape, sleek, and looked to hold a single person. I moved forward to inspect the object and the top glass casing dissolved to display a single cockpit seat. Feeling an overwhelming sense of foretelling, I slid into the seat and the glass once again took its place over the top of the pod. Silently, the pod moved forward into darkness bearing its sole passenger.

This was the very first step I took on my journey into the unknown—into my imagination. I have often pondered writing such a beginning to a tale that would show the world a path into the imagination of the Sacred Spirit of the Wolf. For as this was my true beginning, after twenty-two years there is still no end in sight. The world of my imagination has taken on a life of its own. I hear it call to me in the darkness of night, it comforts me when the unbidden tears come, and it crosses over into reality through my dreams to bring me hope.

There are four philosophies that I strive for in my work:

Historical & Scientific Truths: Having a foundation or background with historical and scientific truths provides a stronger sense of stability within the story. Readers can identify with these little details and can consistently be engaged as they move throughout the story created. The foundation can give a reader enough truth to enhance a sense that the story could happen in their world...or in the world yet to come.

Emotional Reality: I want my readers to feel like there’s a real story in my work—something that piques an emotional response that the reader can identify with.

Unique Qualities: Unique, exotic qualities are the components that can identify and set apart an author’s story in any library. Such components as a semi-complete language, unheard of creatures, and worlds that can defy common logic can pique curiosity in a reader—hence leaving a reader wanting to know more about the story and its characters. With just the right amount of uniqueness, a reader’s mind opens away from reality and plunges into a fantasy world where they can feel adventurous and triumphant.

Balance: The most important component of any story’balance between too much information and not enough information can make or break a story. Giving too much information can result in a reader having to sift through twenty-seven pages of describing a tree, and not enough information can leave a reader confused or frustrated. With the right balance, an author can give enough information that a reader can use to paint the image of the story in their minds and still keep enough attention on the story to follow easily.

A Tale of Two Sisters

Once upon a summer when the world was fair, two sisters there lived with long, auburn hair. Each grew up with beauty and grace, but were as different from one another as the sun and the moon’s face.

It began at age three, close to an old oak tree. Whoever was first to climb to the top, would win the neighbor boy’s red lollipop. Each climbed steadily and without fear, and pretty soon the top of the tree was near. Both reached the top and stretched a hand to the sky, then looked back down and realized they were too high. They both grabbed the branch and let out a sigh, that’s when one of the girls began to cry. Not wanting her sister to be afraid, Shelana reached out her hand and said “you’ll be ok.” Then gathering her courage she led the way, till her feet landed softly on the ground full of hay. Shelana called to her sister to please come down, but Shehndi refused and sat there with a frown. Finally along their parents came, but at first just stood there calling Shehndi’s name. Then dad decided to brave the heights, to put a stop to Shehndi’s fright. To the bottom they came looking like a big spider bug, then mom fell all over Shehndi with hug after hug after hug. I never felt angry or jealous of this, after all she was my sis.

Time went by and it happened again, this time it was a well and we were age ten. Shehndi refused to do anything but sit, while I climbed out of that great big pit. Again a savior came to her aid, and the next day the town threw her a parade.

Shehndi began to realize her position, and soon this scenario became a tradition. Every few weeks she would cry “victim!,” and folks would give her presents like a new pair of mittens. My heart began to fill with sorrow, for now my sister’s attentions I could not even borrow. Yet she continued to play her game, and I not knowing if she would ever be the same.

Sadly one day tradgedy struck, when I found her body tangled in the muck. She had fallen into a large muddy pit, and had once again decided to sit. For three days she waited for help, but the townsfolk found nothing—not even her belt. On the fifth day I stumbled across, her secret diary which she must have lost. I opened it up hoping it would give me a clue, but all the pages were blank except for her name written in blue. With tears in my eyes I continued to search, but fell in a hole landing on top of a perch. I shook my head and opened my eyes, and there sat my sister with all her tears dried. Five days ago she hadn’t even tried to escape, now the truth was clear...it was too late.

Two days later I saw her body lowered into the ground, the sorrow in my heart as black as my gown. I walked to her grave and held the white flower up high, now was the time to say goodbye. With tears falling down my face, I looked into her open grave. I whispered “if we had left you in that tree, perhaps you would have learned this lesson at age three. Then we could have played at home, instead of you dying a victim...all alone.”

Silently...the flower floated down into her grave.

Author’s Note: This is a short story I wrote many years ago. I attempted to write it without the rhyme, but somehow the poetry-like rhythm gave the story a more etherial quality. I chose this piece for my sample so that I am always reminded that nothing is what it seems on the surface. It is only when we dig deeper that we uncover the hidden truths within.