A Creative Year during Covid

 

How has the whole year treated you? How have you coped?   If you published works  this year, congratulations. I am still working on book three, now at chapter seven. Almost halfway and getting to the next part.   Making sure characters are strong and express themselves as they should. I look at lots of photos of inspiring things.  Thus, something captivated me in one of them. A new character was born.  Anything is possible in a creative mind.

The last few months have been rough topped with putting our son back into school for about seven more days till the summer. In the meantime I've found ways to work around the schedule to write, write, and write.   It's been a full year since we've retreated to our homes during the covid and things just keep getting crazy.  How does your niche keep you occupied in the storm of things going on around us?  Do you have something that diverts your attention? I either write or read someone else's work.   I can go anywhere in my mind.  I think of a time when there were no worries and concerns that sets me at ease.

Oh by the way, thought my diet was pretty healthy, but scaling back to loose some mere pounds during the pandemic.  Back to lean proteins and greens or vegetables. 

Moving soon and filling up boxes as much as we can.  The groundwork is already happening and our new house will be ready.   Going to miss this yard, this house.  Our garden, gotta empty the half barrels to take them with us.   Change is good, as we are going a bit more north in Georgia.

So tell us what you are working on tonight. Help yourself to some coffee, or an espresso brownie and tell us what your project is.  I hear someone wants to write a book, a poem, or try some drawing.  Maybe you just want to enjoy the company. 

   

A Meeting of Minds

 

"Open servo panel L65." Commander Moast, inverted in his EVA suit, hand-walked another sixteen inches along the hexagonal tunnel. A slot emerged, ready for its processor to be replaced with a hybrid alien design. It was the whole reason for this second jump out to Epsilon Eridani, though not a reason he shared with the Consortium. 

The first mission came at the behest of aliens hunted by a predatory nihilistic machine race. The starship Orchidia had followed their directions to a wormhole between dimensions. A black hole bomb had sealed the invaders on their own side: 'nuff said. 

The slot retracted. "Integration complete," said the AI into his helmet receiver. "Request simultaneous test of cognition."

This was a new attribute. Previously, she had to rapidly shift between tasks, but the alienware gave her a more humanlike ability to multitask. Millions of times faster, that is. The goods came from Epsilon's planet Aegir, where the aliens hid the remains of the only enemy ship they'd managed to destroy. Moast intended to have first crack at the bonanza. .

"A game, then." Moast floated backwards to the next interlink. "Give me a running readout of the star while playing a word game. Just to make it interesting, add any questions about humans you may have." A joke which she missed, because she had no end of questions about the irrational humans. "Ready? Give me a word, and we'll take turns expanding it."

"The word is TERN, a type of sea bird. Equatorial rotation is 11.2 days. Query: what was the allure of Gilligan's Island?"

Moast inserted the current packet. "Well then, I'll stretch your word to STERN. Take that! As for that old sitcom, people liked to see how many different ways Gilligan could screw over the castaways."

"Word expansion is CONSTERNATION. You lose. Spectral class K2 indicates an orange dwarf. Query: why was Gilligan not imprisoned?"

So far so good. She even had attitude, what with the "loser" crack. The first task was efficiently laid to rest. 

"That would defang Gilligan and defeat the comedy."

"Apparent magnitude3.73. Analysis: the unlikely tolerance of Gilligan's errors, along with their dreary predictability, ultimately defeated the premise."

"Don't forget how much we like to laugh." Another thing she'd never figure out. 

"Solar mass 0.82. Query: why was it overwhelmingly males portrayed as deficient in intellect?"

Moast launched himself toward the exit junction. "I suppose it was a holdover of chivalry toward women. Later it became a coordinated attack on the family structure, especially the father figure."

"Right ascension 0.018 arcseconds. Observation: yet your civilization survived despite the resulting world war." 

"Sure. We also had family shows like the Waltons and Little House." Moast reached the core exit vestibule, which served as an interim chamber for sterility. Climbing out into a passage, he removed the helmet. Orchidia's avatar materialized nearby. The wide-eyed anime waif of before was now more realistic, but somehow off. 

"Results of upgrade: quantum error rate is reduced from 1.2 percent to 0.4 percent." 

Quite an improvement over early quantum machines with their error rate of 3 percent. The problem stemmed from the concept itself, in which a third state  beyond zero and one was merely a sophisticated guess at what the next digit would be. 

"Query, my dear. Can you now figure us out?"

"If you refer to your unpredictably branching thought process, layered between logic and emotion, then I lack the necessary paradigm." Task complete, she simply disappeared.

"Oh well. It seems we're still short on the social graces as well." 

Fireflies

 

The first task is to overlay a scene with violet film to make it later in the day. Then add firefly light for a twilight touch. From a 10x16 acrylic.

The Pass-Through Phenomenon

 

"It was a most bizarre case," I reminded as we entered the lab. "And here we are again. What devilment is afoot this time?"

"Ah yes," Holmes mused. "The Case of the Frozen Monkey; Professor Charmon's experiment in teleportation. He forgot the earth's movement and rotation. Thus, the poor simian found himself briefly in orbit, a most chilling proposition."

Tall stacks of storage batteries lined the passage to the reaction chamber. There, a large white screen dominated a space humming with infernal gadgets--at least in my opinion. The fundamental laws of time and space ought not to be tampered with. 

The professor came out of his office, both hands extended to us. I was obliged a left-handed handshake. "Holmes, Watson--I'm glad you could make it. Once again I seek counsel outside of my immersion in physics. I cannot accept the outcome of my experiment."

Holmes regarded the wild-haired, bespectacled researcher. "I understand it involves a search for alternate dimensions."

"Quite so, and we would expect an infinite variety of worlds. But they're all the same! The law of statistics makes this impossible."

I hovered uncomfortably close to the portal. "Harrumpf! My very hairs are standing on end before this gateway to the river Styx!"

"Hardly  from fear, old boy." Holmes approached. "I daresay it's the electric  potential about the screen, eh Professor?"

"Ey? Oh yes, yes. Now then, are we ready for a quick look 'round?"

"Good heavens, man!" I objected. "After what happened to the monkey?"

Charmon shook his head. "It's quite safe, Doctor. As expected, the site is recognizable by certain landmarks.We'll be right here, only in a different reality. We cannot stay long due to the foul air. I need only select one of my stored settings, though I hardly see the point. There is scant difference in the blighted landscapes."

I could practically hear the gears churning in Holmes' mind.

"Is there a world," Holmes asked, "in which there is some type of mass media?--a newspaper, perhaps."

"I saw something skittering about in world number six. I'll set the dial, and away we go."

The screen didn't change from its bland white. Incredibly, the professor walked right through it. We followed hesitantly. 

The place was indeed bleak. Gloom enshrouded tumbledown structures, as colorless as the wasted grass. A scant breeze did little but stir up noxious fumes. We all took to covering our mouths with a handkerchief.

Holmes held out a hand to collect some floating flotsam. "Ash. Perhaps this world is volcanic, or suffered some man-made calamity." He spotted movement. "There! It appears to be a paper." He rushed up a low hillock before it fluttered out of sight. 

I kept a nervous eye on the glowing gateway behind us, fearful of its collapse ere we escape this charnel house. 

The detective walked down, still reading. "I have news for you, Professor. You have merely traveled to our own future." He leafed through pages. "An asteroid called Apophis struck the planet in the year 2029, laying waste to over a third of it. In spite of this, there's a world war going on. It seems nothing will ever bring us together in common cause." 

Charmon coughed in the bad air. "I knew it would happen. The pass-through phenomenon!" He explained for our benefit. "Alternate realities vibrate at extremely small increments to ours It's easy to pass right through the dimensional potential into time itself." He looked glum. "We've not much of a future, it seems."

"But surely," I pointed out, "there is plenty of time for science to deal with a mere space rock. Think of what we'll accomplish in over a hundred years!"

Holmes let the paper drift away. "You're forgetting the nature of politics, dear boy. Money is better spent getting re-elected, and buying favors from the arms conglomerate. The wonder of it is that we make it that far."

After a bout of gloomy reflection, we went back into the gateway. I looked back one last time. A pair of noisy flying machines screamed by overhead, powered by some means I could not fathom." Humpf! You've got the money for those at any rate." Distant explosions prompted me to hastily depart. 

Easter Eggs Then and Now

 

The upper right is how most remember the old days of egg dyeing: the smell of vinegar, the wire egg holders, dipping them according to how dark the desired color was. Don't forget the wax pencils for areas that didn't absorb the color. You could also make two-tone eggs, half and half. Then there were the baskets. Most had shredded plastic 'hay' of green or yellow. Jelly beans, chocolate bunnies and yellow marshmallow chicks rounded out the recipe of this appetite wrecker (forget lunch). 

Hiding and hunting for them was also an adventure, but watch out for squirrels--one was seen gnawing on a plastic egg to get at the candy inside. Lastly, there were the prized ones to be saved. Decades later, you could take this one out and gently shake its feathery weight, but no sound emerged from the bit of dust inside. 

Small Accent Picture

 

The image area of this 6x9 would normally be cropped, but by including the mat, one gets a better impression of how it looks when displayed. The frame is slightly darker; too dark would make this idyll scene look imprisoned. From a photo of my aunt's property in the Carolinas. A huge amount of liberties was taken with the subject, but that's half the fun. 

Lemmings

 

Tonight we visit a world fast becoming a suicide cult. Fact has given way to feeling; reason has fallen to hysterical parroting of the party line. Apathy is no longer an option, because they're coming to your town, your street, your house. Conformity is the rule in a society where the individual is a rebel who must not be tolerated. Future archaeologists will scratch their heads while sifting through the rubble, grateful they missed that hard left turn into The Twilight Zone.

Chester relaxed on his mist-shrouded back porch, his haven since retiring from farm work. Not that he'd had a choice--some trillionaire had bought all the farm land. His new hobby, writing stories, required more work than he'd bargained for. Currently it meant stepping back to practice creating a mood. He eased back and forth on the sofa slide, listening to sounds outside the protective screens. Damned mutant mosquitoes. 

The screen door creaked open, then slammed shut as Earl came out. He operated a small heating oil business being squeezed to death by reams of new regulations. Plopping onto the sofa, he almost caused Chester's coffee to spill. 

"What's shakin'?" Earl glanced at the notebook. "Still writin' fairy tales?"

Chester set his cup aside. "I'm working on mood right now. Hear that bird?" A lonely two-note call echoed, a defiant declaration of life. "Here's my take on it." 

Earl read the passage. "Beyond the haven came the chickadee's TSVEET tsveet call." He handed the notes back. "Yep. That's a chickadee all right." Next he presented his own handwritten flyer. "I thought you could look this over, Mr English Major."

"Let's take a look here. . . .'Thirty dollar special. We'll spray a thin coat of oil on your lawn to destroy over-wintering insects'." Chester shook his head. "Who are you fooling? This is a way to dispose of used oil without paying a recycling fee--and making money to boot! City hall will shut this down quick."

"Well, shyte it all." Earl squinted at a humanoid shape loping past the tractor shed. "You heard anything on the news about weird stuff goin' on?"

"Not a thing. Not the earthquakes, the high altitude spraying to block the sun, nothing. But word is getting out from people leaving the big cities. It's a war zone. I'm starting to understand why Homeland Security bought a billion rounds of nine millimeter some years ago."

Earl made a tongue razzy. "Conspiracy nuts. Hey, you watchin' the game tonight?"

"Bread and circuses," Chester said. Earl didn't get it. Just then, four members of the friendly local national guard came out, masked to the gills and in full camo. What little flesh that was visible was covered with sores. 

The leader consulted his pad, stared at Chester. "Your health passport has not yet been activated."

Chester shrugged. "I decline to follow the masses over a cliff, that's all. I can still buy food on the web, buy gas at the pump, and see internet doctors."

"Not anymore. Your assets are frozen until you comply."

Gunfire sounded along the north ridge.

"Maybe I better go," Earl said, obliged to squeeze around the unyielding soldiers. "Got a wife to protect somehow. Guess I'll throw rocks at anything that breaks in. Got no guns, honest."

Chester grinned. "Think about all the movies where aliens attack. Actually, all they'd have to do is wait for us to do it ourselves, then move right on in." He sniffed  moist decay on the breeze. "Is this fog ever gonna lift? It's been three days."

The leader ignored it. "Your appointment is in three days. Don't miss it. And be careful what you write about--you could be classified as a domestic terrorist."

"Says you," Chester muttered when they'd gone. They didn't know about his food and weapons stockpile. He cautiously opened the screen door on his end and whistled. A misshapen monstrosity appeared out of the gloom, greedily snatched at the offered sausage biscuit. It seemed to have a distant memory of the rifle. 

"Tell all your fellow passport holders," Chester said. "We've got work to do."