Keys to the Sun
Author: Marcel Feldmar
Genre: YA Supernatural
In a city built on legends, the truth is hard to find.
This is a novel-length fantasy based in modern-day New Orleans and inspired by The Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew, with maybe a little bit of The Goonies and Scooby-Doo.
Keys To The Sun is a mystery tale about three teenagers on vacation in New Orleans who find more than they bargained for when they discover a secret attic in an old mansion.
Lucas and Parker Chance, with their new friend Nicole Wells, find an old map and mysterious clues that promise to lead them to a long lost pirate’s treasure. With the help of their enigmatic Aunt Ruby they begin to search through the French Quarter, but soon realize they are not alone in their quest, and find themselves caught between the forces of good and evil as the treasure turns out to be the location of the legendary House of the Rising Sun.
This is a novel-length fantasy based in modern-day New Orleans and inspired by The Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew, with maybe a little bit of The Goonies and Scooby-Doo.
Keys To The Sun is a mystery tale about three teenagers on vacation in New Orleans who find more than they bargained for when they discover a secret attic in an old mansion.
Lucas and Parker Chance, with their new friend Nicole Wells, find an old map and mysterious clues that promise to lead them to a long lost pirate’s treasure. With the help of their enigmatic Aunt Ruby they begin to search through the French Quarter, but soon realize they are not alone in their quest, and find themselves caught between the forces of good and evil as the treasure turns out to be the location of the legendary House of the Rising Sun.
“Bury me above the cold, cold ground,” he whispered quietly. “Where my soul shall not be drowned.”
“What?” Aunt Ruby snapped her head around.
“Nothing,” Lucas said shrugging. “Just rhyming.”
Aunt Ruby promised they’d come back when the gates were open. Mother wasn’t so sure, but father convinced her by telling her how amazing her photographs would look.
The neighborhood seemed so quiet as they drove. “You’ll see. It’s a different world in the daylight,” Cole told them.
The sun had set, the yards were full of shadows, the trees seemed to sway secrets between leaves and branches. People on the street walked quietly, stopping on occasion to take a picture of an interesting porch or house. Windows were lit, golden and warm, but curtained. There was a world inside each house hidden from them all, a story they would never hear behind each wall.
“And then the journey ends,” Aunt Ruby said suddenly as Cole turned the wheel. They drove between two houses on a gravel path that curved into a row of trees, a gnarled and twisting moss-covered oak and a row of magnolias. The wheels spun and crunched, and Cole skidded to a halt beside a brick wall that had turned almost black from age.
“Home.” Cole jumped out of the car and opened the doors for her passengers.
The six of them stood and looked past the large oak, along the decaying brick wall and through the magnolia trees. They looked and didn’t move a muscle, except for a soft exhalation from mother and a quiet sigh from Lucas.
The street they had driven along was gone. The houses they had driven between were hidden. What they could see was a grey house. A beautiful two-story house with ornate columns on the bottom, a balcony with wrought iron rails and more columns, two rows of windows, alternating stained and tinted glass. The walls were painted different shades of grey, from not quite white to not yet black. The highlights around the windows and rails, the eaves, the door, the stairs, and the spirals of the columns were all different shades of the same theme. A beautiful merging of shadows that formed a cohesive look for a house that couldn’t possibly be any other color than grey.
“Welcome to Twilight Oaks,” Aunt Ruby said.
“What?” Aunt Ruby snapped her head around.
“Nothing,” Lucas said shrugging. “Just rhyming.”
Aunt Ruby promised they’d come back when the gates were open. Mother wasn’t so sure, but father convinced her by telling her how amazing her photographs would look.
The neighborhood seemed so quiet as they drove. “You’ll see. It’s a different world in the daylight,” Cole told them.
The sun had set, the yards were full of shadows, the trees seemed to sway secrets between leaves and branches. People on the street walked quietly, stopping on occasion to take a picture of an interesting porch or house. Windows were lit, golden and warm, but curtained. There was a world inside each house hidden from them all, a story they would never hear behind each wall.
“And then the journey ends,” Aunt Ruby said suddenly as Cole turned the wheel. They drove between two houses on a gravel path that curved into a row of trees, a gnarled and twisting moss-covered oak and a row of magnolias. The wheels spun and crunched, and Cole skidded to a halt beside a brick wall that had turned almost black from age.
“Home.” Cole jumped out of the car and opened the doors for her passengers.
The six of them stood and looked past the large oak, along the decaying brick wall and through the magnolia trees. They looked and didn’t move a muscle, except for a soft exhalation from mother and a quiet sigh from Lucas.
The street they had driven along was gone. The houses they had driven between were hidden. What they could see was a grey house. A beautiful two-story house with ornate columns on the bottom, a balcony with wrought iron rails and more columns, two rows of windows, alternating stained and tinted glass. The walls were painted different shades of grey, from not quite white to not yet black. The highlights around the windows and rails, the eaves, the door, the stairs, and the spirals of the columns were all different shades of the same theme. A beautiful merging of shadows that formed a cohesive look for a house that couldn’t possibly be any other color than grey.
“Welcome to Twilight Oaks,” Aunt Ruby said.
Marcel Feldmar was born in Vancouver, moved to Boulder, ended up in Denver, went back to Vancouver, moved to Seattle, and ended up in Los Angeles. He is married with three dogs, and enjoys fancy cocktails. He is also a coffee addict and an ex-drummer for too many bands to mention.
Marcel attended the writing program at the Naropa Institute (otherwise known as the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics) and moved through a few college creative writing courses in Vancouver (Canada). He was distracted by music for a few years, but finally decided to trade in the drumsticks for a pen, and proceeded to write his first novel — The Devil’s Jukebox. After the book writing block was removed, the words started to flow. He is currently working on a more adult tale that falls into a similar style, which has been called “Paranormal Pop Fiction”, but evidently he is also starting to work on ideas for a sequel to Keys To The Sun.
Links
AUTHOR PAGES:
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/TheAuthorMarcel
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/8022413.Marcel_Feldmar
Twitter: https://twitter.com/mochalouder
BOOK LINKS
Amazon: https://amzn.com/1519680732
Createspace: https://www.createspace.com/5916102
Marcel attended the writing program at the Naropa Institute (otherwise known as the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics) and moved through a few college creative writing courses in Vancouver (Canada). He was distracted by music for a few years, but finally decided to trade in the drumsticks for a pen, and proceeded to write his first novel — The Devil’s Jukebox. After the book writing block was removed, the words started to flow. He is currently working on a more adult tale that falls into a similar style, which has been called “Paranormal Pop Fiction”, but evidently he is also starting to work on ideas for a sequel to Keys To The Sun.
Links
AUTHOR PAGES:
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/TheAuthorMarcel
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/8022413.Marcel_Feldmar
Twitter: https://twitter.com/mochalouder
BOOK LINKS
Amazon: https://amzn.com/1519680732
Createspace: https://www.createspace.com/5916102
