The MacKenna Saga

By 1997  I had attempted over a dozen drafts of ideas for a Science Fiction series of my own.  On the third day of  the Condor-Con convention in San Diego, I found my attention riveted on an amusing conversation between a group of five self-proclaimed alien hunters. They were in the midst of a heated discussion about what if anything Area 51 holds, the supposed aliens at Wright-Patterson, the Dulce Papers and the granddaddy of all the alien conspiracies, Roswell, New Mexico.

          I listened until someone behind me said, “They all sound a bit off-center, wouldn’t cha say?”

          Right away the brogue caught my attention. I turned and stared an elderly man.  The first thing I noticed about the old gentleman was his stature. Just a bit shorter and I would have thought I was being addressed by a leprechaun. His eyes were a mischievous, luminous green, his smile merry and infectious. His full head of dark red hair made me jealous and yearn for my youth.

         I shrugged. “Everyone's entitled to their own opinion.”

         “What are your thoughts about visitors from outer space?”

         “I have a far different idea about life beyond this world.”

         He winked, pointed and said, “I overheard you speakin’ ta that man earlier about human life on other worlds.”

         I winced. “I thought I’d been more quiet.”

        “Not so you’d notice, and me age hasn’t affected me hearing.”  He laughed in a way that put me at ease.

         We fell into a conversation , and I have to tell you, the brogue of the Emerald Isle has always fascinated me. Shakespeare may have written English masterfully, but it took the Irish to make it musical. After an hour of listening to this man’s stories, he came around to his point.

           “If you’ll be stoppin’ by the place me grandson and I are rentin’ ‘til the end of the week, I’ll be sharing with ya some records of people from outside this world. I promise you ‘tis a worthy trip for a tale worth retellin’.”

            “What’s the catch?" I snickered. "How much will it cost me to see these records.”

           The old man gave me a patient smile, no doubt developed by dealing with other belligerent skeptics such as myself. He pulled out a business card and wrote an address on the back. “'Tis the chance of a lifetime lad. I’ve approached three other authors and I’ve been laughed at in the same manner. You’ve ‘til Friday and then we’re gone.”

           He rose and I watched him turn the corner and disappear.

Ventura Arresgado early  development