Dear Readers, please give a warm welcome to fellow Silver Publishing author, S.A. Garcia. She’s come to visit and share the intimate details of how the idea for An Elf for All Centuries was born.
I remember that in my original submission letter, I tried to sum up “An Elf for All Centuries” in a succinct, intelligent manner. Man, back then I thought I failed like a bad stock. I guess I didn’t, because here I am celebrating the novel’s release.
Why write a book about a supermodel elf being kidnapped back in time in order to save his world?
Pop quiz: am I a huge Lord of the Rings fan? Answer: Damned straight I am. Actually, I’m not straight, but you get the drift. I am one of those teens who read LotR back in the early 1970’s because Robert Plant referenced LotR in his lyrics. Remember Robert Plant and Led Zeppelin? Sexy, raw rock and roll sans auto-tuning? Yeah, way back when. Back then the sincere concept of brave heroes and mysterious elves satisfied my virgin mind.
Flash forward to the movies. What annoyed me the most about the LotR movies? Too many decorative men wearing too many clothes. I think the most flesh we saw was when Aragorn rolled up his sleeves a few times to reveal sinewy forearms. No one stripped down to wash up, no one undressed for sleep, no one said, “Gee, it’s warm today, maybe I’ll unlace my tunic a tad.” The scene where Legolas appeared in the tight light blue tunic when greeting Frodo seemed positively pornographic.
On the other hand, I did enjoy Liv Tyler’s hubba-hubba outfits. Her low-cut outfits told me that they aimed the movie at geek guys. Guess what, dudes? This old lady offered her thanks. At least someone showed off flesh.
After seeing the movies, I had a dream. Honest, I had a dream about some unusual creature, he beautiful, of course, falling to the earth and landing in a mud puddle in what looked like a Yorkshire moor. He fell splat on his hands and knees but sustained no injury. The creature, he clad in this gorgeous light linen suit, pitched a serious fit, stood, and stalked away toward buildings in the distance.
The weird imagery stuck with me. I wrote it down, ah yes, I always write down those peculiar dream sprouts. Sometimes the sprouts grow into real novels. I have many sprouts I visit to water lest they languish from lack of attention. I pet them and promise them that their time will come soon. Good thing they don’t understand the concept of time. Their concept of soon is vague.
The mud dream, LotR, mmm, everything percolated together, swirled like swamp gas. How did the lovely creature in the suit… shazam!
Irritant. The creature in the suit supplied the irritant. He needed to act irritating. Echoes of Lestat from the The Vampire Lestat teased me. My character needed to be… fuck yeah… a supermodel. A self-centered, brash, “it’s all about me” supermodel. Someone like Zoolander, only nurturing far more coherent brain cells and an even bigger personality. This annoyance came from the future but he, and here came the huge “AHA”, needed to save the world, drum roll please, in the past. He lived in a really fucked-up future which needed adjustment from the past to survive.
Imagine, a self-centered, supermodel ELF needed to go back in time to save the world. Yeah, right, like the supermodel elf, and here I really gilded the lily and made him a bratty prince, would willingly go back and save the world.
The prince needed a sexy carrot to entice him. The perfect elf prince enjoyed plenty of wet dreams. What if the supermodel traveled back to save the fantasy elf who often ravaged him during vigorous nocturnal fuck fests?
This seemed like a great plan until I thought wait, come on, the problem remained. No matter what enticed him, would such a brat travel back willingly? Damn, I knew that no matter what emotional ploy I used, the supermodel would refuse to leave his safe penthouse. I thought, “Hell, when in doubt, resort to magic. Bring on the cliché wizard to kidnap the supermodel elf prince back to the past.”
Bingo, I had my big start. That is what I needed. I released the parking brake, let the story fly and watched the strange dream sprout grow into a novel with all the unexpected twists and turns.
What a marvelous feeling!
The result? I give you supermodel elf Prince Fabion, brat extraordinaire. Here is a little teaser from “An Elf for All Centuries.”
Elven super model Prince Fabion’s day is perfect until wizard Matradorian kidnaps him from his penthouse. Surprise, Fabion is a spiritual match for elf king Henda’s dead lover. Only he can save the dying Henda. The problem is Fabion lives in the thirty-ninth century. Henda lives in the nineteenth.
When he lands in the nineteenth century, Fabion controls himself from punching Matradorian, saves Henda and falls in instant lust with his romantic fantasy. After all, this is a romantic comedy.
When Fabion realizes his polluted, on the verge of ruin thirty-ninth century is gone, the super model pitches the temper tantrum of any century until he realizes sexy Henda accepts him as his true lover. Being the virile, handsome Henda’s lover fills Fabion’s emotional gap. Despite the lack of facials and hot water, the former super model adapts to living in the backwards century.
Soon Fabion learns the nineteenth century is more dangerous than his vanished thirty-ninth century. Who wants to kill him now? And why?
The supermodel reached the Sequoia’s warded doors. Tough-looking guards nodded his way. The fawning security chief opened the doors inserted into the tree’s giant base.
Before he entered, Fabion stopped and glanced to the right. Wait, who lurked over there? How had he slipped past security?
An ancient oldster, clad in a peacock feather-coated top hat and a tattered, blue robe, slumped against the Sequoia’s rough, far edge. Upon spying Fabion, he stood straight. His excited stare speared into Fabion’s flesh. Fabion sensed the invasion pass through his clothing and examine him down to the bone. How did the old wart create the strange violation?
Fuck, the insane wizard everyone was talking about now stalked him.
He owned no time for magical nonsense. Fabion pointed in command. “Guards, secure that suspicious, old cretin!”
The five aggressive guards followed Fabion’s gesture. Huh? No way! The scruffy dude had vanished!
A tall, blond hulk respectfully glanced toward Fabion. “Prince Fabion? Sorry, there’s no one there.”
Right, like duh, butthead. Did the blond lunkhead suppress a snicker? Asshole. “Wow, my eyes must play tricks on me.”
Like fuck! Fabion possessed sharp elven vision. The old bastard had stood right over there. The weirdo had even managed to make eye contact with Fabion. Super-duper creepy.
Fabion stared in further suspicion. Nothing. He sighed and entered the tree’s unnaturally enhanced pine-scented interior. No matter, the sweet air instantly calmed him down. At least the designers had left the rough wooden interior alone. How rare.
Another forlorn jab hit Fabion’s mind. What the fuck was wrong with him today? He needed to feel fabulous, not introspective. Fabion turned to the tall, human security head and amped up his smile wattage.
“Kyle, make sure no old wizards sneak in here. One lurked out front and I swear the skanky asshole shot me the evil eye. Too weird, right?” Fabion shook his head. “When Hestran arrives, send him right up. No need to buzz me.”
The handsome human winked in acknowledgement. “Will do, Prince Fabion. How did your meeting go?”
There, someone cared about him. Fabion preened in giddy delight. “Mmm, Kyle, consider my rent paid for eternity. Worry not, the fabulous bonuses for the many kicky extras you supply me still flow your way.”
Winking coyly, Fabion trailed his long fingers down Kyle’s cheek. He loved slumming with the muscular human. The security administrator’s bloodline traced back to an ancient, trusted royal human family sworn to support the elves. Too bad the Walmon goons had declared human dynasties illegal. Arrogant power-hogs.
“The news makes my day, Prince Fabion.” Kyle ducked away from the security camera and wetly kissed Fabion’s soft palm.
Fabion smacked Kyle’s firm cheek. “Stop it, you naughty boy. Hey, you’re off tomorrow and I’m not busy.” Fabion playfully winked again and licked his lips.
He adored how Kyle almost drooled in aching delight. “What time should I arrive, my prince?”
“Come up around four. Bring take-out from that clever dwarf fusion café. Their barbecued electric eel and fried kiwi combo platter is faboo. We can enjoy a picnic out on my balcony, well, if the pollution isn’t deadly. No matter what, at least we’ll enjoy each other.”
“I can’t wait, fair one!” Kyle bowed in respect.
“Keep hot for me, sweetie.”
His secret human squeeze deserved one last radiant smile. Fabion strolled to his private elevator and punched in his access code. He smiled at himself in the gleaming mirrors. What a delightful view. Nothing in squalid Pinar matched the pristine sight. He always wore light colors to offset his emerald eyes and waist-length, coppery tresses. This tailored suit displayed his masculine assets in a subtle yet impressive fashion. No wonder everyone adored him.
Fine, fuck, almost everyone. Stop!
The doors opened into the snug security foyer. Cameras monitored his movements. Another access code opened stern steel doors. Fabion stepped up to his custom, hand-carved double doors depicting him as a benevolent savior. As he murmured soft runes, Fabion’s fingers touched key spots in the beautiful display. They were located at his nipples, cock, and lips. Yum. Elven magic supplied more security than keys and locks, although when drunk, Fabion owned a dragon of a time entering his own penthouse. Slurring during a strict, elven rune chant messed up the works. He hated calling his building rune master, but the problem occurred more often than Fabion cared to admit. Rune Master Sarde had made a fortune off befuddled Fabion’s house calls.
The thick doors swung in. His mobile phone sang Hestran’s tune. Now what? Hestran probably needed advice on a purchase. His fingers plucked out his phone from his vest. Fabion entered his penthouse. His finger aimed for the answer button.
Instead of answering his phone, Fabion shrieked in total alarm. The phone fell to the expensive carpet.
Fabion turned to escape. The heavy doors mysteriously slammed shut. What the fuck? He launched his body at the doors. His hands grasped the silver boar’s head doorknobs and yanked backward. No effect. Cursing intensely, he slammed his handcrafted leather heels against the doors and pulled back in enraged elven might. Nothing happened. Come on, his superior physical effort should have ripped the knobs free from the wood.
Fabion muttered his security runes again. He touched the proper places on this side.
Nothing. Nada. Null. Impossible!
Fabion did not need this radical nonsense. Time to kick wizard ass in a lethal manner. He seldom released his elven strength but when he did, if he was sober, he understood how to inflict nasty damage. Abnormal strength and pristine looks were Fabion’s only special elven assets. He hated violence but hated violation even more.
His feet slammed back to the carpet. Fabion whirled, raised his taut fists toward the old geek standing before him and bellowed in fury. “Listen, you filthy old bastard, get the fuck out of my penthouse right now! I don’t understand how you slithered in here, but you need to slither out! I have more crucial things to do than endure your shit!”
The grubby dude performed an elaborate, arcane gesture. His staff bobbed. Fabion froze. What? Gaag! He couldn’t move, speak, or even blink! As Fabion helplessly watched, the winkled old dude performed a triumphant little dance. His feathery top hat bobbed atop his long, white hair. No points for grace.
“That I am able to smite thee tells me that ye are truly the one!”
Huh? Smite thee? Geesh. Struggling mightily, Fabion almost broke free from his freeze. To his annoyance, the old one flicked his fingers again.
The wrinkly dude stopped dancing and cleared his throat. His epic frown reminded Fabion of a frustrated prune. “Right. Sorry, I need to sink back into your odious speech patterns. Dude, I have conquered thee—wait, let me make this clear for you.” He hesitated one more time. “Bud, I can freeze your pretty royal ass, which means you are the true Prince Fabion. Do my words compute? Do you savvy my sizzlin’ stunt?”
Who had slipped him the hallucinogens? The frozen Fabion stared in pure amazement. His fractured temper soared into the polluted sky. This old asshole deserved an extra large helping of elven ass kicking with a side of manic stomping. He deserved to be tossed off the balcony into the Dumpster.
“Right, you can’t talk.” The old git twirled his right hand in an intricate pattern. “Pal, now you can talk. Let me warn you, if you raise your voice again, a choking spell will knock you out. Are we clear on the new house rules? I will let you talk, but no caterwauling. High-pitched elven hysteria hurts my poor, old ears.” He waved his tall, gnarled staff toward the astonished Fabion.
Fabion snarled in prime annoyance. “What the fuck do you babble about? My prize-winning voice is not high-pitched. I record my own commercials and win awards!”
Instead of looking impressed, old prune puss shook his head. “Fabion, if I release you, do you swear upon your elven soul, or what passes for an elven soul in this wretched century, not to jump me?”
Fabion rolled his eyes. “Yuck, do you think that I want to grope your grubby dick? Dude, so not true! I’d rather kick your wrinkled ass. Besides, what the fuck are you going to do to me? Keep me frozen and pork my tight ass?”
A vastly insulted look crossed the old man’s features. “Listen, mouthy, I don’t like your attitude. I’d best keep you restrained. Fabion, although you are a sweet hottie, I am not here to jump your bones. Please listen to me. I have wandered across this fucking filthy, crowded city looking for the chosen one. I need to find the royal elf who is a bitchin’ soul match for Fabion Leonia, son of Tonasdian, who died in the year 1803. Tag, pal, you’re him.”
Thanks for reading and thanks to Pia for letting me ramble on her territory.
Who wrote this nonsense? That’s me, S.A. Garcia!
Thirty years ago, I started writing m/m romance. My writing remained a secret lest my friends thought me a freak. Writing about men inserting tab A into slot B didn’t seem the norm for a female teenager. Reading Gordon Merrick, John Rechy and Larry Kramer helped me fill in informational gaps. Yes, I read those books only in my bedroom.
As the years progressed and I discovered my sexual path, I still wrote m/m romance, although the stories progressed from lurking in notebooks to hiding on the computer.
Now I am glad I kept the writing faith. Six published novellas and novels later, my life is a fun quandary of too many stories hindered by slow typing skills. I accept the silly challenge.
More info about S.A. Garcia
Buy Link: An Elf for All Centuries
Website: S.A. Garcia’s World of Words
Facebook: Sandra Ann Garcia