Imprismed- Captured in Rainbowland

  Imprismed

  Captured in Rainbowland

  MJ Marstens

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright © 2019 M.J. Marstens

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Epilogue

  Characters

  Thank You

  More By MJ

  Excerpt from Adventures in Sugarland

  Copyright © 2019 M.J. Marstens

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  M.J. Marstens asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  M.J. Marstens has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet Websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such Websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.

  Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any productor vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book.

  First edition

  Cover design by M.J. Marstens

  Edited by Kathy Landis; Whimsicalworks4u and Bookish Dreams Editing

  Formatted by Rozie Marshall

  This book is intended for readers 18+.

  Dedication

  To my #1 Naughty Spreader. If I had to have a super fan, you would be it. Words cannot even begin to describe how much you mean to me and how much I appreciate ALL that you do for me. You’re an amazing woman: mother, sister, wife, author, and future nurse. I’m so glad that you stumbled into my life with your rainbow love, glitter jizz and sparkly dick ideas, and just endless support. This whole book is a shout-out to you, and Jett sends a wink.

  Chapter 1

  When we were kids, everything in life seemed magical. Every shooting star, dandelion head, and fallen eyelash was something to wish upon. Yet, nothing was more miraculous or special than a rainbow. I remember praying for summer storms to bring me my coveted light show and the chance to prove a legend was more than a myth: that there was gold at the end of the rainbow. Most children grow out of this charming preoccupation with pretty colors and make-believe worlds.

  They become adults and contributing citizens.

  They get jobs and paint their walls monochromatic colors.

  And their lives become seeped in variations of black and white.

  I think I must have missed growing up, though, because I’m still infatuated with color. The more vibrant the hue, the better, and as a testimony of my infatuation, every room in my house is painted one of the six main colors of the rainbow. My bedroom is passion red; my kitchen, a vibrant orange, my living room is cheerful yellow and my sunroom is emerald green. I painted my bathroom a calming blue and my study/library a psychedelic purple. All the windows sport crystals that catch the light and dance rainbows all over the open spaces of my house.

  In truth, my obsession with vivid colors is probably due to my lack of bodily color. I’m practically albino, and I can’t drive at night- at least, not legally. My optometrist has prepared me for the chance that my vision might worsen and I could someday, possibly, become blind. My eyes are so light of a blue as to be silver. My hair and skin are truly leeched of pigmentation and are white, not blond and fair-skinned, but honest-to-god white. I abhor it. Every time I look in the mirror it’s like looking at a ghost.

  Even my eyelashes are white.

  And so, I dress my world and myself up in the rich shades of the rainbow to bring a splash of color into my unicolor appearance. And instead of growing up like my fellow similar-aged neighbors, I choose to chase my dreams. My job doesn’t really have a title, but when people ask, I describe myself as a ‘legend hunter’. I look for the origins and even proof of the different myths around the world. I suppose a mundane job description might be an ‘archeologist’, but I don’t have a degree in that area of study. I work hard to get grants from various universities to go on my expeditions to search for these mythical truths.

  Nothing is more exhilarating than hunting for an oxymoron.

  And today, I’m finally living my ultimate dream: The University of Limerick has funded my search for the answer to whether there’s a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Well, not exactly this; specifically, I’m looking for the basis of the story and more information on leprechauns and the potential for buried treasure. But it’s an excuse to bask in the glow of a real, bonafide Irish rainbow. I’m in Doolin and visiting the outer stretches of the Cliffs of Moher, also known as Cnoc Tuar Ceatha, or Rainbow Hill. The consistent mixture of rain and sun brings rainbows nearly every day, if not more frequently, especially in July.

  I trudge up a slope and stare at the vast expanse of lime-green knolls, rolling on as far as the eye can see. My bones rattle with awareness when a boom of thunder crashes in the distance, and my blood dances with recognition when more lightning arcs across the sky.

  Storm’s a-coming.

  Usually, they blow through pretty quickly and that’s when the real show takes place. Double, sometimes triple, even quadruple rainbows appear in the sky. My body hums in anticipation. The wind picks up and whips across the verdant scenery, ripping at me as it rushes by; it’s more powerful than normal.

  I shrug it off and sit down, preparing for the drenching that will come with the five-minute mini-rainstorm. I tug at my t-shirt dress to allow airflow through the fabric that’s stifled by the muggy humidity. The various pastel colors fade seamlessly together into a pretty ombré pattern. I imagine I’m a lively splash of color atop the hill. A speck of Easter when seen from the sky. I chuckle at my fanciful thoughts and feel the first drops of rain hit my face as the storm descends over me.

  I revel in its power.

  For me, storms are like living entities: potent, majestic, and a hint violent.

  The rain picks up and pelts my skin harder, but I keep my face turned upward, like a flower towards the sun. On excursions like this, I make sure I wear the best waterproof makeup. Today, my lips and cheeks are a baby-doll pink and my lashes are a lush fringe of black. It’s a bold contrast to the lightness of my features. Aside from those three items, nothing else adorns my face. Although paler than the moon, I’m graced with flawless skin.

  As expected, the storm blows through in a hurry and leaves nothing
but a mottled sky of gloomy clouds and bright sunshine. I turn and wait, my chest expanding in anticipation, because here in Doolin when rainbows form, it is almost magical. As if an invisible hand is painting the sky with stunning colors.

  Slowly, starting at the bottom of the horizon, and gaining opaqueness, is the brightest and biggest rainbow I have ever seen. A double arch forms over the first one, a little more translucent in shading. I whip out my camera from my waterproof bag and start snapping shots of the glorious sight. It’s truly breathtaking and almost makes me forget my task.

  I have an interview in an hour with the town’s oldest member. Saoirse, pronounced seer-shaw, is ninety-eight and remembers the tales told to her by her great-grandmother, who remembers the stories from her childhood and so forth about the wee folk and their hidden treasures.

  I figure it’s one of the best places to drum up some information, albeit not conclusive, before I go snooping around churches and other sites that hide clues and evidence in their architecture. But it’s only a fifteen-minute trek to Saoirse’s cottage and the end of the rainbow is in her general direction, so I decide to see if I can find it.

  In all my life, I’ve never seen such a vibrant rainbow.

  I feel like it’s calling to me and to the childlike wonder I refuse to let go of. I wish there were some way to bottle it up and keep it forever. Unfortunately, the closest thing I can get to it is a rainbow maker. . .

  Which I have.

  I bought it for myself three Christmases ago.

  It sits next to my Rainbow Brite costume that I wear every Halloween.

  My need is real.

  I lope off, heading east, chasing an illusion of light. It takes me past the village, where I need to be, and into a glen of ancient-looking trees. I nearly stop to turn back when I see the most astonishing thing: the rainbow actually ends. It shoots right into the base of the tree trunk.

  Why I’m so excited about an optical illusion and the legend associated with it is beyond me. I think it’s because my childhood lacked “magic”. My parents were very straightforward and strict. They didn’t have any patience for my fanciful thoughts and fantastical colors.

  Or my desperate love of anything by Lisa Frank.

  I run up to the tree and wave my hand through the rainbow. A tingly sensation skips down my arm and I pull back in surprise.

  What was that?

  Rainbows are just light particles dispersed through water that splits white light into many colors. . . they are not electrically charged wonders of nature. I shove my hand through again and as before, all the nerve endings in my arm stand at attention. I step further into it and my whole body becomes awash in the magical colors and hums with a sense of urgency.

  I spin around, my arms splayed wide, as I soak in the electric feeling bursting over my skin. A little giggle escapes my lips when I fall over, dizzy from my antics. Now facing the tree, I realize there’s a large gaping hole yawning open, where the rainbow disappears inside.

  The small, adult part of me reasons that I’ll be late to my interview with Saoirse and that grown women don’t go traipsing through forests, chasing rainbows, and attempting to follow them into holes in the ground. . .

  Where a wild animal most likely lives.

  The other part of me, the overgrown child, flips adult-me off and tells her to go shove it up her boring, monochromatic ass.

  I’m having an adventure.

  Even if it means fending off a savage creature of the forest.

  That may or may not have horns, razor-sharp claws, and four tails.

  Because.

  That’s.

  How.

  Legends.

  Are.

  Born.

  From hopelessly whimsical adults who refuse to act their age.

  Chapter 2

  I get on my hands and knees and crawl a little way inside the hole. For some odd reason, I suddenly feel like Alice from Wonderland. I suppose if I were to be a Disney character, I would be her. I embody Alice’s need for fantasy and ludicrousness. I no longer feel the rainbow’s electric touch and stop, confused.

  I’m baffled at how far I’ve crawled into the hole in comparison to the tree trunk’s girth. It’s a very large tree, but I feel like I should have reached the other side of it by now. Just as I think this, my right arm shoots down into thin air. Startled, I fall forward.

  And right off a ledge that I had no idea I was precariously perched on.

  Down, down, down I fall, and I’m struck again with the similarities to the foolish Alice.

  Unease blossoms in my chest when the air becomes thicker and my descent begins to slow down. I can barely breathe it’s so smothering. I crane my head to look down and see a pinprick of light. As I get closer, the light grows in size, adding shadows to the darkened tunnel I’m falling down. Nothing discernible jumps out and I see the vague outline of tree roots lining the edges of my vision. Perhaps the tree was much bigger than I originally thought and I stumbled into a sinkhole underneath it.

  To use an Irish word, what the feck am I to do now?

  I’m pondering this predicament when colors suddenly bleed into my line of sight. Pastel wisps of pigmentation appear to rise up and vanish. I strain to see what it could be when I start falling again at the normal rate of speed as dictated by gravity. I plummet downward, through the hole of light and smash into the ground below. I groan both inwardly and outwardly.

  That is most definitely going to leave a mark.

  I stare up, wondering what this hole looks like, but only see the bright, blue expanse of the cloudless sky. Bewildered, I heave my aching body up and stare in wonder at the amazing world around me. It’s like someone took the colors on the saturation dial and turned them all the way up.

  It’s like Lisa Frank’s world come to life.

  The crazy woman knew how to create magical art, but damn if her stuff in large doses doesn’t cause a headache. That’s how I feel now taking in the vibrant hues around me, like a migraine of epic proportions is coming on.

  Or maybe that’s just the fall talking; I did hit my head pretty hard.

  Although, I doubt it knocked any sense into me.

  I’m still drinking in the amazing sights in front of me when I hear something behind me. I whirl around, and standing there are three sinfully gorgeous men. Their three-piece suits are an outrageous contrast to their strikingly flamboyant coloring.

  The man on the right has hair that seems black until he moves and it glimmers blue in the sun. His eyes are a startling light blue, like a tropical ocean, and his crooked smile melts my heart a little bit.

  The man on the left has tawny, sun-kissed hair that waves around his face and frames his deep amber eyes. The bright, sunny color contrasts boldly with his mocha-brown skin.

  Then there’s the man in the middle. He’s just as devastatingly handsome as the others. His hair is so red it must be dyed, and his eyes are a Sienna brown, with hints of red there, too.

  Of course, to complete the ridiculous play on colors, their suits match their coloring: crimson red, golden yellow, and navy blue. Mr. Blue is the only one smiling at me, but Mr. Yellow has a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. And Mr. Red. . .

  Mr. Red is holding handcuffs.

  “Mistress White, how good of you to heed the rainbow’s call. Come along, the others are waiting for us,” he says in the reasonable voice of someone who is certifiably insane.

  My mouth flaps open a couple of times and I probably look like a stupid fish, but what do I even say to this nonsense? Finally, I settle on something simple:

  “My name is Wynn Gealan, not White.”

  I don’t point out that my name Welsh actually does mean ‘white maiden’. It’s like my parents needed to label my albinism.

  Mr. Red gives a wicked smile, while slowly appraising me from head to toe.

  “You look white to me,” he says in a heated voice that grates against nerves and causes my sex to clench in need.

  I scowl.


  I don’t like it when people make fun of me for my coloring.

  Or rather, for my lack of coloring.

  And besides, my dress is colorful enough. I sweep a hand to indicate this and look down, but instead of seeing the rich ombré pattern, I see nothing but white. Then I remember seeing those snippets of color while falling and wonder if the trip down stripped my dress of its pigmentation.

  Which wouldn’t be the worst thing.

  No, the worst thing is being clothed in a white dress that’s sopping wet from the rainstorm and totally see-through, displaying my body for all to see.

  No wonder Mr. Red looks ready to combust.

  I can only imagine the erotic tableau I make for their eyes.

  Even my undergarments lack color and only their lacey texture shields my most private areas from the men’s prying eyes.

  I clear my throat in a scolding manner, snapping three sets of eyes back to my face.

  “Gentlemen, I’m not sure what’s going on here, but I have an interview I need to conduct. Can you please direct me back in the direction of Doolin, thank you.”

  Mr. Blue steps up and says in a deep, soothing voice, “Unfortunately, Mistress Gealan, you’re no longer in. . . Doolin, wherever that is. As Roux pointed out, you’ve heeded the call of the colors and are now in Rainbowland.”

  I snort at the ridiculous name.

  I might be an overgrown child, but Rainbowland sounds like a girls’ themed amusement park.

  That I totally want tickets to.

  Roux cocks his head to the side, taking in my reaction.

  “Why does that amuse you, Mistress Gealan?”

  “Sorry, it just sounds like a seven-year-old named this place.”

  “She did,” he says coolly.

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “I said ‘she did’. Queen Rainbowheart the First named this land when she was a mere seven years young. For her, it signified the purity, innocence, and peace found inside a child’s heart and symbolized how she wanted this land to be.”

  My jaded criticism dries up and I feel embarrassed about my reaction. I have no reason to judge these people, especially given my own proclivity towards rainbows. The name is a beautiful reminder of what adults seem to forget but constantly yearn for: youth. And that’s exactly how I would describe my surroundings, youthful. Everywhere here is full of new growth and new life; Rainbowland is practically teeming with vivacity.