Faces Not in the Mirror

 

Talent agent J B Bigmon paced the studio break room, not sure what worried him most: braving the Quantum Dream Project, or preparing for it with help from two equally dangerous ladies. An android and a vampire, of all things, who never came out of character. He still had no idea what the android chick looked like inside that gold armor. Maybe that was a good thing, since they really threw themselves into their acting. 

Cambris swept in under the late night fluorescents, bearing a tall paper cup. Bigmon marveled at hair so black it sucked lumens out of the room to power its blue sheen. She offered him the cup.

"The beverage you requested, Agent Man. Your producer Ed says 'It's considered fashionable to make the scene with 7-11 coffee'."

"That's only if it's yours," Bigmon said, popping the lid for a sip. "Sure you don't want anything?"

Grey eyes narrowed appraisingly. "I have on this eventide seen to my necessity. I am told you seek my advisement." 

Bigmon opened a bag of chips she regarded with a raised brow. "Still won't eat in public? I gotta admire the whole Shakespeare vampire shtick."

"The what?"

A gold-tone android came in, wearing a black punk 'do. "It denotes a comedy routine with pseudo-Hebrew slang."

"Ahhh!" Bigmon spread arms approvingly. "Queenie, I don't know how you guys did it, but that scrap between you two wrecked the studio. Best ratings week we ever had! But I wanted to rap with you gals before I go traipsing off into Munster land. Only I get a sense you don't get along."

The android definitely had a provocative streak. She raised a mirror which failed to reflect Cambris. But it did draw a hiss and fang show. 

Bigmon guffawed. "How do you do that? It's a trick mirror!"

"I am an impossibility," Cambris informed. "One who is yet is not. Only a living brain can be fooled by my violation of natural law."

"Magic does not exist," Queenie intoned. "I shall duplicate the anomaly." Sure enough, she faded from the mirror. "I have selectively altered the path of light around my form."

"At what cost," Cambris insisted, "to whatever foul brew fuels your gears and springs? Agent Man--retrieve the second glass from yon drawer." Bigmon did as directed, noting the absence of Cambris in both. Queenie, however, reflected in both.

"The effect is necessarily unidirectional," the Bot queen pointed out.

Bigmon grinned. "Then how does Cambris do it? This is high class special effects!" He put the mirrors away. Studying the ladies over his cup, he came to a solution. 

"Look here, ladies--there's a guy who went in the Gilligan's Island holosuite and got bit on the neck. There was this episode where Gilligan turned into a vampire in a dream."

"Silliness," Cambris said.

"Infantile wish fulfillment," Queenie agreed.

Bigmon took a hurried gulp of coffee. "You don't get it. I'd feel safer if all three of us pay a call on the Munsters."

The ladies deigned to look at each other. He had them.

"This is gonna be epic!" Bigmon crowed. "A toast!" He offered Cambris a sip, but she did the fang thing again.

Stormy Sky: yellow filter

 

This 6x8 acrylic has been posted before, but the mood is altered by a yellow filter. It lends the scene the look of a rainy day in summer. Making prints of existing pictures, altered with new interpretations, is a good way to expand your collection. 

Cynics Inc.

 

The Seafood Shack fronted a harbor street wreathed in bright mist. Ed and Patsy cast early morning shadows on street puddles as the sun speared through, its light throwing dancing ripples across windows. 

"What are you doing?" Patsy watched Ed pull a flyer off a stop sign; it was one of the ubiquitous 'we buy houses' come-ons from the hardship profiteers. 

"You'll see Maestro." He poked fun at her stage costume, a tuxedo jacket and skirt, worn for tonight's standup routine on the horror show. When they went in, Ed waited for curious eyes to dismiss them, then taped the flyer on the wall of their booth. Now the profiteers would get in trouble for unauthorized fishing. Or phishing, as it were. 

Patsy slid in, tossing thin blonde hair behind her. "Ed, you're an even bigger cynic than I am."

"It's the only way to go. Optimist types are always getting disappointed. But when something good happens to us, it's a pleasant surprise. Like when I won the studio contest last week."

"What was that about?" Patsy made room for the menus set down by the waitress. Ed had his usual catfish, slaw and hush puppies. The slender Patsy had more of a thing for tuna salad, the least adventurous luminary in the seafood pantheon. 

"It was picking out a Roman name. I went with Optimus Maximus Superbus. You can't get more ostentatious than that."

"Ha ha! The initials of which are O M S, to which I say--omg!" 

"Yeah yeah." Ed swigged his lager. "I'm looking pretty good for this week's jelly bean count."

"About that. . . ." Patsy toyed with her ice. "You signed up a guess of 685. I went with 684, and Hecabano did 686. Hee hee!" 

"Wise guys!" Unless Ed hit it dead on, he'd just been torqued out of the running. "I'll just get J B to guess 683."

"Whoa, that's a load of poopal. . . .uh. . . . incontinence!" 

"Why not just say bs?"

"Huh? I thought that stood for bachelor of science. I'm from the Outworld, you know." 

Watching this byplay, the waitress commented to a co-worker. "Ever seen such a cynical pair? The girl acts like she's from another planet."

The Dressing Room

 

This illustration once went with a story on the old Disqus writing network; can't recall what it was about. As an art note, it represents a combination of pencil shading for the character on the right, along with horizontal half tones for the helmeted figure on the left. The center figure is pen, ink, and pencil. Some familiar scenes from the comic franchise have been miniaturized as wall posters, this being the Wicca Horror Show. Left to right: Hecabano, Wicca, JB Bigmon. I also posted it on Art Show in various stages of completion, about six in all. 

Quantum Dreams

 

Jakers followed Dr Berens down the Vintage Wing of the sleep clinic. As pricey as the insomnia treatment was, Jakers had sprung for the full package, which included a special extra based on his choice of sleep environment: a season of Gilligan's Island that never filmed. 

"I still can't understand how it's possible," Jakers said as they turned a corner. 

"Quantum computer," said the man with a disturbing resemblance to Chris Lee. "It analyzed shows, cast, locations, then predicted where the series was headed. You've seen animated films so real you had to do a doubletake. This achieves full reality. Let's face it--people got tired of watching Gilligan blow the rescue chances, and all the bullying from hostile tribes. The season opens with Wrongway Feldon landing his biplane. As 'king' of a neighboring island, he has access to shipping lanes. He's brought along goodies like portable TVs and coffee, but won't help rescue them because it could jeopardize his own utopia."

"What about hostile tribes?"

"Feldon gives the skipper an old Army Browning automatic. He mows down some invading headhunters, and that's the end of that plot line."

Jakers winced. "You call that comedy?"

"It reflects what viewers would do if stranded on an island." Berens opened a door to the Gilligan Suite. It was uniformly bare save for a cot and end table. 

Jakers walked, but went nowhere. "What the. . . ."

"Treadmill, Mr Jakers. You can explore your surroundings in the hologram world. No matter how far you go, only the background moves, just like in video games."

"Ingenious." Jakers settled onto the cot, noted the stores in the table: coffee, water, a candle tripod, snacks. "Cozy. I should be able to sleep if it's all you say it is."

"When the program starts, you'll be in the hut shared by the skipper and Gilligan. They'll react to your speech, but otherwise won't bother your repose."

"It sounds like quite a distraction."

"Only enough to tire you out and get you relaxing."

Jakers got started right away, the time being ten p.m. The sudden shift was startling. There was the skipper at his disk, sharpening a knife by candle light. Gilligan lay in his hammock reading a comic. Wind rattled the bamboo and fern frame. Through a chink near the ceiling, a distant blue horizon lay under scudding black clouds. 

The skipper looked up. "This isn't keeping you awake, is it, Mr Jakers?"

"Not at all. I think I'll go for a walk."

"Don't go far," Gilligan said. "Storm's coming up."

Outside, palm trees rustled and swayed. Jakers couldn't believe it--here he was on Gilligan's Island. Nearby were the other huts. Mrs Howell, in bathrobe and head wrap, came out to douse the communal torch outside her door. Here was a chance to test the program. 

"Evening, Miz Howell."

"Mr Jakers! What brings you out in the cold?"

"I don't know how to put this; it seems Gilligan has a secret thing for you."

"That's preposterous! I'm old enough to be. . . ." She backed off the age thing. "I mean. . . .the dear boy! But there's no future in it. I'm married, you know." 

"Yes, well, good night." Jakers went back inside and made coffee. Gilligan had dozed off, and the skipper watched Hogan's Heroes, the light flickering on his face.  Jakers slid under the blanket, warm and cozy against the gathering storm. He listened to wind and rain, set his coffee down, suddenly drowsy. 

Was it a dream, or just the program? Gilligan was gone, and the skipper slept in the hammock below. The rain had stopped, and silvery clouds sailed past the ceiling chink. As his eyes adjusted, Jakers saw a shadowy figure by the shutters. He got up to investigate.

"Gilligan?"

Gilligan came into the candle light, a shape from a Saturday horror show. "Good evening. I am the vampire."

That episode had been one of Jakers' favorites. Now it had intruded here, but was it dream or hologram? With a cry of alarm, he shouted the "safe" word that ended the program.

Some time later he awoke in the familiar confines of a barren room with Berens looking down at him. 

"Had yourself quite an adventure, I see. How did you hurt your neck?"

Jakers touched the twin sore spots that had scabbed over on his throat. "This is dangerous, Doc. I'm dropping out. Send me your bill."

Berens followed him out. "It's all relative, you know. The experience relies on your thoughts as you drift off into the dream plane. Want to get better acquainted with Ginger and Mary Ann?"

That stopped Jakers' headlong flight. He turned. "Are you saying that's possible?"

"Anything is possible in quantum dreams."

"I'll, uh. . . .risk another session."

Berens clasped hands contentedly as Jakers walked away. Another five grand in the bank. "Bread and circuses. Give the masses what they want while the walls close in."

Inspiration Reel

 

Good evening fellow writers and artists.  It is a cold winter night, even though the day was a nice 65 degrees. I miss my outdoor office at times.   What is your office/ studio like?  What are you working on currently, or are you just dabbling with a brush or a pen, or with a phone or laptop?  Hope it is a productive night!

Ways to Redirect Creativity

 

Everyone needs a restart, whether it be creating a manuscript or artwork.  Carry a journal or sketchbook in  your pocket or purse.  It's a freedom to get out the static by reorganizing the mind.  Since many are homebound it becomes a bit more of a challenge keeping up with our mental health.. Our social media platforms for our socialization has become the strange norm of keeping up with friends and family.  I still use the phone to a friend or family and let them know you are thinking about them.  Covid has affected us in so many ways with a rippling effect that hasn't stopped.   

Journaling has always been a way of self discovery and pulling out more details of a story, a particular character for me and gets the creative mind in gear.  Nevermind the grammar, it's just you and the spiral bound notebook and a pen.  Write out first thing in the morning with a quiet place for five or ten minutes.  Try to get three pages down.   Write out your concerns, events of yesterday or whatever suits your venture in journaling. 

Or try a photo, any photo and describe it. A photo is worth lots of words.  Freewriting is what it is, put anything in there. If writing is not your thing, try the sketch pad and dub it morning sketches.