The Hidden Portal: contos, #1

By Ricardo Almeida

Embark on a riveting journey through the enchanting tale woven within the pages of this gripping narrative. "The Chalk Circle Chronicles" unfolds the extraordinary life of a two-year-old protagonist, hungry for adventure and a refuge from the chaos of a troubled home. From the mysterious figure of Lysum Mortimer, whose unexpected appearance saves lives, to the peculiar chalk circle that becomes a portal to a realm of safety and wonder, every twist and turn in this story captivates the reader.

As young Ethan navigates the tumultuous waters of his parents' broken marriage, the narrative takes unexpected turns, introducing us to a world where secrets, sorcery, and strange symbols converge. Miss Mortimer, the eccentric neighbor with a penchant for timely interventions, becomes Ethan's anchor in a storm of family turmoil. The chalk circle she introduces, a doorway to her study filled with wonders, becomes the refuge Ethan never knew he needed.

The narrative skillfully combines elements of mystery, fantasy, and heartwarming moments, as the protagonist seeks solace in Miss Mortimer's study, surrounded by peculiar sketches and a cast-iron pot perpetually burbling on a hot plate. However, the tale takes a dark turn when tragedy strikes, shattering the comforting sanctuary Ethan had grown to love.

With vivid descriptions and an intricate plot, "The Chalk Circle Chronicles" keeps readers on the edge of their seats, yearning to unravel the secrets of Miss Mortimer's study and the magical chalk circle. Will Ethan overcome the challenges that threaten to erase the magical doorway forever? Dive into this spellbinding narrative to uncover the mysteries that lie beyond the broken teapot and the symbols etched in chalk.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ricardo Almeida
• Release date: Nov 19, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223250951

Book preview

Table of Contents

The Hidden Portal (contos, #1)

One Saturday morning when I was two years old, I woke up hungrier than I had ever been.

Down the hall I could hear my parents snoring off their hangover.

They wouldn't be up until past noon at least.

I vaguely remember climbing over my half-claps to babygate and waddling down the hallway

to the kitchen.

I twisted the little black knobs on the stove just like my parents did.

The nose scrambled eggs appeared.

Instead, the stove made a mean, hissing noise in the kitchen filled with the nasty smell

that I didn't like at all.

The smell kept getting worse and worse and I had a feeling that I would get into the

worst trouble of my life and my parents found out.

I went back to my room to play with my blocks, hoping that the problem would just magically

go away.

Five minutes later there was a loud knock on the door.

My parents grumbled all those four little words that they had told me never to say.

And then I heard my mother sniffing.

She said the house smelled like gas, whatever that meant.

My father staggered out of the bedroom with his jeans and shirt half on and yelped when

he made it to the kitchen.

Those indoors flew open.

I crept downstairs to see what was going on.

How'd you know?

My father said breathlessly to the shadowy figure on our front door stop.

No, the kind me feel my boys saw it confused.

No what?

I'm a lysum mortimer from the end of the block.

I was just dropping off these cookies that I baked to welcome you to the neighborhood.

No incidents or not, a lysum mortimer had saved all of our lives, and not for the last

time.

Two years later came the first of many played shattering furniture breaking screaming matches

between my parents.

I was crouched down on the closet with my hands pressed over my ears, but the sharp

knock sounded as loud as somebody rapping on my own skull.

I tipped out of hiding and I opened the door.

Hello young man, I'm a lysum mortimer from the end of the block.

I'm in a bit of a pickle and I could use your help.

The woman on the door is stuck with short and stocky, with frizzy brown hair, bright green

eyes and round frame glasses.

She wore an old-fashioned black dress with a wide belt, instead with one hand on her

hip.

In the other, she held a small red and notebook.

I had never seen her before but for some reason I knew her voice.

Okay, I smiled.

Behind me the battle had stopped.

I felt my father's a damp hand on my shoulder.

He had been washing the blood off his knuckles.

If it isn't our favorite neighbor, he sneered.

What can we do for you?

Well, I started a new recipe before I noticed that I was all out of sugar.

Could I