Paean to the Muse

 

I should be terrified. Eric's fatalistic mood overrode sensible fear. What he sought couldn't wait; he must see Cambris even as she arose from the crypt.

Pebbles skittered down the incline, kicked up by the nervous pirate guide who called himself Sulla. His shaky torch cast manic shadows on the archway. Bearing arcane runes on its lintel, it grew out of the rock like a Star Trek transporter accident. 

"This is as far as I go," Sulla growled. "They're in there, right enough." He brandished a sword given by Count Rotbone as a sigil of safe passage. It didn't give him much confidence. 

Eric peered into the gloom. Small grates high above admitted dusty light, helping the night roamers guage the lateness of evening. "That wasn't the agreement. The Brides know me, but some early riser might not. Now get in here."

Grumbling, Sulla followed Eric onto a lumpy, rolling plane. Massive foundation tiers stood wreathed in mist, not all of it natural. A segment formed itself into the first of the huntresses. She glided toward them, eyes squinted against the punishing remnants of daylight. She did indeed recognize Eric, and shrank away with a fangy snarl of loss. Now her eyes fixed on Sulla.

Eric kept sight of the girl while addressing the pirate. "We're okay. Just another minute or so."

"Bugger off, matey!" Sulla dashed for safety, slicing at invisible threats.

From deeper darkness appeared the Brides, only one in original white, being first in the hierarchy. They surrounded a barely breathing Eric. The one in black stretched out filigreed arms, causing him to flinch until he remembered.

"Emmy. . . .always good to see you." He accepted the embrace, which he had taught her back on Earth during a supreme leap of faith. It all began with inheriting the family secret. Though Emmy was without speech, he'd gained her trust before setting her free. She'd promptly embarked on a quest to reunite with the other three, culminating in locating a portal to Outworld. Now all four had a permanent home. 

Flax-haired Yelena spoke no English, nor did Mirjana with her touch of the Orient. Both watched the tick of his neck pulse. He'd probably never feel quite safe around them.

"Hail, young Eric," Cambris said. "What grave import drives you to our very lair?"

"I'm relocating here for good, before they break my door down and force me to join the masses going over a cliff." 

"I know of what you speak; yet what place shall you find here?"

The million dollar question. Eric could stay in Team Dan's shadow, profiting like they did with his exotic Earth mystique. He'd never be a super hero, but he'd waste away without some kind of purpose. 

"Perhaps with us," Cambris said, smiling at his alarm. "Not as one of us. Recall how you painted our likeness." The portraits flanked that of Count Rotbone, painted centuries earlier. 

"Portrait painters are a dime a hundred. Besides, I'd feel like a glorified camera."

"Then you shall paint the fantastical, with me as your muse. Attend." She set a brisk pace, gown flowing, ever upward into forsaken reaches of the castle.

A secret wall  panel opened into an old wizard tower. Charts and scrolls occupied cubbyholes above a cauldron. A wood and straw cot had moldy blankets folded beside it.

"Yon subject," Cambris said from the open window. When Eric joined her, she gazed out at vast expanses of haunted forest. "See how Luna sails silver in tattered cloud, come once again into my dream this night. Through dusted pane aslant the wall, glint on taloned wing, hooks overflow the endless sky."

"You really paint the mood." Eric sat at the worktable, which was piled with notes and cryptic tools. "A wizard's tower. I'm seeing it blue by night; moldering by day in blurred orange and gold, flies droning in and out. Timeless and forgotten."

"Then plan on passing the nights here, as we cannot protect you when the day star holds sway." 

"It's perfect! I'll be a painter of the macabre. And I'll put your paean to Rotbone Island on the back."

"Rotbone? He is a drunken fool."

Eric ventured to the window as cloud overtook the moon, bringing preternatural light to Cambris' eyes. "Then I'll attribute the poetry to you. You'll be immortal! I mean. . . ."

Cambris laughed, fangs gleaming with the returned moon. "You must be close to your muse, young Eric. I shall arrange it. No more are you the poor cousin from the home world." 

Join Rotbone's crew? He'd be his own man overnight, notorious, minus trouble with the law. An image assailed him: a costumed dandy, pet of the Brides.

"You have doubts. We shall visit the news upon Team Dan."

She knew exactly where to thrust. Eric made a mock toast. "To the painter of the weird and his undead muse." 

Filter Effects

 

Unfiltered views show full strength colors designed to set the mood. Here it's the setting sun on near clouds, with a horizon tinted blue from the overhead sky. Here's the effect of tinting with violet:

Now the sun is lower, muting the colors and reducing detail. Likewise, adding yellow-orange might provide a type of luminescence seen after a rain, but you risk turning the blue horizon green. For such complex moods, it's best to go all original. 

Shopping List

 

The shuttle came out of stealth mode low over Guangji province. Commander Moast settled into the mist from a waterfall, his passive scanner reading a focused beacon coming from the objective. He stepped down the wing onto spongy moss, switching on his suit's deflector shield. The expected trouble came while crossing a blasted stretch of collapsed buildings. Hits sparked off his energy screen. He fired back at the servo drone with his needle gun, which blazed small rounds from a magnetic rail launcher, at much higher speed than ordinary cartridges. The mech soldier jerked with internal explosions, toppled onto its froglike face. 

A rangy group of armed men boiled up from a pile of overgrown rubble. One of them jerked his helmet clear with an angry swipe. "Dammit, Moast, do you know how much those things cost?"

Moast raised his visor. "Looks like he didn't get the message. I presume you're Fletcher."

"Lord king of Guangji!" Fletcher dismissed his gunmen before leading the way down an oil-smelling incline littered with old branches. The smelting operation sat idle, having lost its workforce. The two men passed massive melting vats outside a field office, where they took opposing seats at a steel desk.

Fletcher's iron gray buzz cut lent strength to his craggy face. "I'd sure like to know your insurance policy, coming here alone like this." He uncorked a clay jug and poured into tin cups. 

"Nuclear holocaust," Moast said, "if I don't check in with the ship's AI soon." He passed a wrist scanner over the cup. "Pear brandy with no cute additives." He sipped the fiery brew.

Fletcher put booted feet on the desk. "If the Chinese did one thing right--before their bioweapons program blew up in their faces--it was to corner the market for rare earth metals. What's your preference?"

"Yttrium and Promethium. My AI is crafting a new element, one that exists for a fraction of a second."

"Purpose?"

"The hyperjump system. It takes eleven seconds to power up in between. That's a long time if you jump into a dangerous area. Her idea cuts that to a tenth of a second."

"Wow." Fletcher marveled, bug eyed, but not for that reason. "With all your galaxy hopping, here you are back at alma mater. Now--show me your trade."

Moast handed over a black rectangular pod. "Millions of flying microbots. They infiltrate, then go up in a burst of intense heat."

"And if it's a fuel or ammo dump--el kablammo! You got a deal, pardner." Fletcher kept his eyes on Moast as he took a fortifying swig. "You know, if I could get to New Earth, this could become a regular run."

He referred to the Mars colony. "Don't forget your compromised DNA. I took a dose of Antivax to protect me from particles you're shedding." 

Fletcher finished his cup. "Damn those Architects."

The name had come to replace Illuminati, which the perpetrators didn't like. After exterminating ninety percent of the population, they'd enslaved the rest. Someone had to grow food and run the solar power plants. But they underestimated the number of heavily armed preppers. Now the Architects were hunkered in fortified bunkers, rulers of nothing, watching their vaunted utopia devolve into thousands of warring little fiefdoms. 

"Your AI," Fletcher said, "sounds pretty smart. I'm sure it could fix the DNA thing." He pulled a Colt automatic. "Whatcha think?" 

The starship Orchidia's avatar materialized, having insisted Moast wear a holo-emitter for the purpose. "Inadvisable." Fletcher quickly put the gun away. She rotated to face Moast. "Etymology of 'whatcha' required." 

Moast laughed at the gaping Fletcher. "She's a black hole of knowledge. Always learning." 

Disodeous Summer

 

The four principals of the horror show unwound in the break room, still in costume after the live taping ended at midnight. Ed's sportcoat draped his chair, where he sat huddled over coffee and a notebook. His latest article for the ladies mag was morphing into a sort of dis-ode to summer. Which he hated.

The dwarf Hecabano counted himself a kindred spirit, hailing as he did from the frozen Yaglukk region of the Outworld. Ed, though, tended to let little things get to him. "Pray, Master Ed, how does summer bring you such discord?" He frowned at Wicca in her black stage dress, currently on a Raiders kick. The music of Paul Revere rocked the pad in her hands. 

"Where do I start?" Ed glanced at the vampire Cambris. "What's your take on gettin' hot and sweaty?" 

"I do not sweat," Cambris replied in sepulchral matter-of-fact. 

"So then," Wicca chimed in. "What have you been scribbling over there?"

Ed scanned the list. "How about poison plants. And fleas, mosquitos, and tunneling mites." He stood up and raised his T to show three welts on his abdomen. "There's more on my arms and shoulders. How does something microscopic raise so much hell?"

"Avoid that wood pile," Hecabano advised, "where you play with the ants and termites."

"Yeah, well. . . ." Ed eased back down. "Only two more months of this summer nonsense, then it's the start of the holiday season."

Cambris raised a brow over a blazing gold iris and pupil. "They have set it back so overmuch?--to September the first?" 

"Sure. They can't wait to import the European specialties like the choco-booze bottles Wicca likes to swill. Before then, it's too hot."

Talent agent J B Bigmon wandered in. "Great show, people. I especially liked when Cambris threw the flaming skull at the swamp guys."

Filming it through a scry orb had made it possible to capture Cambris' image. "Hey--I'm steppin' out with Bunny. But first, an upload of my special ladies!" 

"Never again," Wicca muttered, recalling Bunny's stellar showing in the Wicca Lookalike Contest.

Bigmon bent beside her to film his beaming face next to her scowl. He went around to do the same with Cambris, mystified when her image didn't show up in the file. "How does she do that? Ed, you gotta clue me in on these special effects. They must be costin' us a bundle." 

Cambris' glowing eyes followed him out when he left. 

"Forget it," Ed said. "You know the rules, Cambris--bad guys only."

Now Ed was favored by her predatory gaze. "Ah, but he is beefy, and has disdained that horrid-tasting poison being foisted apace on the populace." 

"That's the spirit! Wax poetic for me, so I can finish this article with a dash of style."

"Here's a thought, Ted." Wicca smirked. "Let that reporter matron interview Cambris directly, and cut out the saddle man."

"Middle man," Ed corrected. "Cute." 

Hecabano leaned close. "She will need to be watched. You have enough experience at babysitting vampires to write a learned treatise."

"What is this, horned one?" Cambris eyed him sideways. 

"Oh, nothing, Mistress Cambris. I merely reminded him of the need for a chaperone."

Wicca turned up the volume. "Ooh. . . .this one's my favorite." The Raiders performed Where The Action Is. 

Happy 4th of July Weekend

Happy 4th of July!  Tell us what you are doing.  Anything planned? Going to take a break from packing boxes for our move and go out of town.  So much to be thankful! Any good movies lined up to watch?

 

So many movies and books to get into if you have a break.  Or maybe have something on in the background while you write or paint, or continue your project.  I know I need some background noise to keep my mind focused as I write.   Whether it's music or natural sounds outside such as birds or crickets to frogs at night with the windows open.  

One movie I find intriguing is this one.  Just fits our moment in our country. It is a very good movie to check out.  Two of my favorite actors.

 

Hope all have a blessed and safe weekend!  Keep on the creativity, keep on your dream. You will get there.  Please recommend us.  Thank you.

Finding Creative Time

   

Good Monday Evening!  Been a few busy months as we get ready for our move.  However that is no excuse not to be creative as well productive.  As a writer and artist I find ways around it all.  Do you have a  place of serenity to let your mind go. When our son takes a nap I sit outside on our porch with a view of the front yard. It is a beautiful spacious yard.  A rain shower may pass on by.  Carolina wrens built nests in the nest boxes above.  Bunnies scurry on by and birds, so many birds.  Here I can see the world go by.  Since we live by a road,  the traffic is occasional.  I finally heard that old vintage antique car squeal by.   So much to see and inspiring I spent many summer afternoons, sometimes in 95 degree heat.  To stay cool, I drink an iced tea or some other beverage.  

Sometimes things happen in our day like the baby bunny our dog flushed out.  So adorable.

As you can see we've been cleaning up the yard getting our house ready to sell.  Next is the attic, as we have lots of shelving and still our main floor has three rooms.   We took a couple weeks break and now getting geared up to keep on cleaning and packing.  Our new house is being built as I write this. It has a roof, walls, plumbing, air ducts and so forth.  Still I find time to sift through the gaps and be creative. Even if it is a page a day I write.  Book is going great, making it consistent.  

At the end of a day being a parent, a wife, managing the homefront and so forth, I feel like this kitten. Totally wiped out by the day.  

Our move is getting closer each day.   How do you find ways to keep on task?  Is it as busy as mine?

The Master of Wasting Time

 

Medium-size brown ants converged on top of a tree stump. Their target was a nest of termites Ed had cracked open. They efficiently entered the tunnels of the tasty treats, dragging them out, carting them off to a horrible fate. 

"Creepy," decided Bonnie, visiting from the Outworld, alumna of a chemistry lab. "I'd just hose the whole thing with bug spray."

Ed set aside his pruning saw, swigged coffee from a thermal mug. "And miss all this free exercise?" The owner of the condo property was happy to get it done at no cost. "Now check out my latest invention." He stepped over to a plastic table and dipped a bubble wand into a jar of milky fluid. He blew a baseball-size bubble, watched it drift over trees in a gentle but unusually cool June wind. "Notice anything?"

Bonnie squinted until the bubble was too small too track. "It never popped. What's in that stuff?"

"My winter formula tweaked for summer. In addition to sugar and syrup, you add the clear part from a raw egg. That's why it turns milky after the first week."

"Say no more," Bonnie said. "Egg sticks to a plate like glue. The albumen keeps the bubble membrane from drying out."

"Silliness," ventured the vampire Cambris, swathed in her special anti-sun suit. She regarded them from behind welding goggles. "Is it fair wonder that I am the ant to your termite?" 

"Hey, that's good." Ed picked up the mug and saluted. "I was hoping this nature spiel would make you wax poetic. Not that you need any inspiration like I do. That lady from the women's mag wants to interview me again, and I'm all used up for material."

Bonnie laughed. "Round two of your crackpot philosophy?"

Wind rustled trees like the wash of surf. Having paused his sweaty labor, Ed pushed down the sleeves of his sweatshirt, suddenly chilled. "What's that they say about a cold day in June. . . .hey, that's pretty lame. Help me out, ladies. Anything interesting happen today?"

"Well," Bonnie began, "this guy at the Quik Mart got a little fresh. Maybe you could--"

"Perfect! We'll do word origin!" Ed dialed up the studio's resident gold cyborg, and her instant web access. "Queenie, what's the origin of 'fresh' when used as an insult?" He grinned at Bonnie and Cambris. "I've been called that a time or three."

"Fresh," came Queenie's voice. "Fresh off the boat. Uncouth."

"Oh-kay," Ed said as the ladies grinned back. 

"Not yet assimilated into society. Taking boorish liberties. Synonymous with 'masher': unduly cornering victims with unwanted--"

"Switching gears!" Ed waited for Bonnie to regain a straight face. "On Gilligan's Island, Mr Howell calls a guy a 'cad and a bounder'." 

"Cad: an academy student; a lower class pretender. Bounder: one who attempts to leap into a higher social class."

"Now we're rockin'." Ed signed off. "That reporter oughta be dazzled by my new material." 

Cambris reached unsuccessfully for a bubble Ed launched. "She should interview the gold one, who has not the time for this frivolous wastage."

"Maybe the reporter does," Bonnie said. "Ed has an appeal for older women."

Ed grimaced. "Well, that line of material is one big waste of time."