Most writers have written a piece at some point in their lives that is special to them; I am no different. My piece has become a series, one that I will probably continue to write until my ideas no longer flow anymore. I always think of this piece as my mother’s book since I originally wrote it for her. Growing up in England, she loved the fairies, collected them and told me fairy stories for years. When diagnosed with a terminal illness, I wrote her a fairy story, Mischief in the Mushroom Patch. She never read the book in print but did read the first seven chapters. I told her the ending before she died. She made me promise to finish it and send it in. I had no idea that story would change my course from writer to author or how many people it would touch.
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Wil rushed across the playground. She had to reach Joey. She did not know what Bud might do next. Suzie and Robert followed Wil.
Wil stood next to Joey. “Everybody can play,” she said.
Bud made his mean face. “I’m not talking to you, Wilhemena,” he said.
Joey edged closer to Wil. He whispered, “Yeah, everybody can play.”
“Who said, little BABY,” Bud said to Joey.
Joey’s lips trembled. “The principal, Mrs. Johnson said. She makes the rules,” he said.
“The principal isn’t here, is she?” Bud shouted.
Wil stepped in front of Joey. I have to be nice, she kept telling herself. She grinned and said, “Those are the rules. Why don’t we start up another game?”
Some of the kids started to play again.
“What do you know, Wilhemena?” Bud yelled.
Suzie said, “She doesn’t like to be called Wilhemena.”
“She likes ‘Wil’,” Joey said.
“What’s going on?”…
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