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Flash: With the Moon Watching Other Places

Woman in Forest

Original Image Courtesy of Neill Kumar of Unsplash
Cropped by Erin Penn

Rating: Mature

With the moon watching other places, the lake at the end of the world captured the far lights and milk of the heavens in a pool of midnight black. The pure waters reflected the stars, joining Helio and Gea in perfect union. Henna waited in the fir trees watching the unmoving starlit water.

For the last four moonless nights, he had come and the forest nymph lips lifted in a small smile as the male’s new habit continued. Gods and men preferred to protection on nights Luna did not watch, for without Her light a soul did not have a guide through the dark into the Future Day. The male strode clothed in plant and animals from the path forest animals had beaten to the water.

His linen shirt and leather pants were quickly stripped. Henna tried to restrain her gasp as the man stood skyclad. He half-turned to her stifled sound. His body rippled with lean muscles. He was the most beautiful mobile being she had ever seen. She could feel his eyes search the shadows of trees, but she stood her ground motionless. The night was deep and the forest by the lake was hers.

One or two human hunters made it this far in their ranging. Gods had sometimes crossed the lake in their boats. But no village was within two days walk of the lake. Rarely did Henna see humans or other creatures not of her forest and she could not say if the male was either god or hunter.

He was clever. She had not been able to find his encampment the night she was bold enough to follow him. His eyes may be human weak, but his hearing was as sharp as tree’s ears. She knew not why the forest was hiding his home from her; how he commanded the loam and pines not to whisper his secrets to her. Henna had been tempted to send a songbird to a sister nymph to see if others knew of such magicks, but such action might mean sharing her male with someone and she could not bring herself to risk losing him just yet.

The man dove into the star water; widening circles, rippled, doubling, tripling the light. Assured of his diversion, Henna made her way closer to the area he had released his clothes. This night she meant to see his face and know him god, human or nymph. She yearned nymph as only such a being could she lay with; all else was forbidden.

Sinking down into the moss struggling to tie the forest to the lake, Henna blended in two body lengths from where his garments were discarded. Her red hair darkened from tree bark to garnet stone. She willed her skin to change from dappled light to sand sparkle. Then she drank in the sight of the male and waited.

He stepped from the water dripping black diamonds. Her hazel eyes followed the glittering rivulets flowing from his darkened tresses over shoulders bear-broad, a chest boulder smooth, abs rippling like rapids to a manhood as stout and thick as oaken root. His face, she must see his face, but he turned his back to her while he wrapped his waist-length hair around his fists and squeezed out drops of light.

Please, she begged Gea silently, may his eyes be stone or sapphire, earth or air nymph. Water and wood were female. But his beauty was so great she knew they would hold the fire of gods; no human or sprite could be so perfect. His face fell into shadow as he picked up his clothes and made his way to the stones where she hid. How had she forgotten he laid on stones to dry before redressing?

He collapsed among the stones beside her, stretching out among the moss. Frozen to immobility, her position let her see only his feet. She feared discovery.

Nymphs were playthings of the gods and thralls to humans who found them. Even male nymphs were either hard emotionless creatures or fickle capricious beings, depending on their element. Why had she been so intrigued? For hundreds of years the pines and deer had been her companions. To seek out a male, however beautiful was madness.

A hand caressed her butt. Henna knew her bare back cheeks looked like smooth stone and she had seen the male stroke the stones around him as he waited for the moss to absorb the water from his monthly swims. The hand dragged the other way, leaving a trail of lighting and fire behind. Another stroke and she felt her legs move slightly apart asking for attention deeper in her being. The hand stilled and she could feel his eyes bore into her camouflaged back, making out a female shape where none should be. The hand spread over the smooth pretend stones and pushed. Warmth and flesh rebounded into the calloused hand.

The male’s hand left her butt-cheeks for a moment and Henna tried not to moan from the loss. She could not keep the sharp yelp of surprise from escaping when the hand returned with a sharp smack. The sensation rippled up her spine and release her breasts from their illusion. Her glamour entire fell as her whole body tensed then released like water from the second slap.

The feet she had been staring at disappeared as the man moved. Henna tried to move as well, but two hands then grabbed her ass lifting it and slapping it both sides soundly. Dew emerged from her crevasse and her legs willingly rooted into place. The moan she had been holding back all night emerged as the male rubbed both sides of her ass and slowly sunk his trunk into her opening.

When she tried to twist to look over her shoulder to catch a glimpse of his face through her mass of hair, the male grabbed a hank and pulled her face forward. As he started to work his way in and out, trembling took Henna like a tree in the wind. First one then another eruption burst from her like pine cones in a fire. The male did not stop, but caught her closer to him as he wrapped one arm around to tease a nipple and the other arm braced him on the moss-covered boulders.

A whisper in her ear announced, “Ah, now little one. Some heaven”

Gea, please let his eyes be stone or sapphire was her last thought before the stars captured in the lake exploded back to the skies for an endless forever and night’s blackness claimed her.

(words 1,100 – first published 1/27/2013 ; republished new blog format 6/12/2016. Originally inspired by a photo on the Breathless Press site; picture is no longer available so recreated it using an unsplash.)

Book Review: The Good Fight 2: Villains

Book Cover for The Good Fight 2: Villians

Book Cover from Amazon

BOOK BLURB ON AMAZON

The Good Fight 2: Villains, an anthology from the Pen and Cape Society

The second anthology from the authors of the Pen & Cape Society contains eleven all-new tales from the wrong side of the law. The proceeds of this collection will benefit long-time comic book author James Hudnall, who has fallen upon hard times, losing a foot to diabetes and becoming homeless. Bad things can happen to anyone, and the Pen & Cape Society will help where it can. They may write about villains, but they’re a pretty heroic bunch. The anthology includes stories by Nick Ahlhelm, Scott Bachmann, Mike Baron, Drew Hayes, Ian Thomas Healy, Hydrargentium, T. Mike McCurley, Landon Porter, R.J. Ross, Cheyanne Young, and Jim Zoetewey.

 

MY REVIEW

Oh my did the second anthology blow the first of The Good Fight anthologies from Pen and Cape Society away. But then Villains always make the Hero – and these Villains make you shiver in your cape.

“Frankie” (Scott Bachmann) stunned me. I ended with a “Wow” when I finished reading it and needed to walk away a moment. This was from the same man who produced the cute “Bedtime Story” in the first anthology. Coolest/creepiest superpower ever – how does one even begin to discover it … and then continue to use it to replace … everything. Face, eyes, … shudder.

“Goon #3” by Drew Hayes, who wrote the incredible “Out Of Mind” short story in the first anthology, hits it out of the park again. His protagonists are so identifiable.

“I am SKYSTEP” by RJ Ross is from his YA “Cape High Series” and is the first one to really engage me. The relationship between Skystep and the superheroes around her can only be described as “it’s complicated”. Even more complicated than Batman and Catwoman.

“Stripped Down Blues” by Mike Baron (not in the first anthology) … oh my, total … yeah, villains. This could have found a home in a number of different genres. Stick around for the ending.

“Lemonade”, “Here Come the Pain”, etc. Not a single story in this anthology fails to knock it out of the ballpark and past the moon.

Buy it – plus all proceeds go to a great cause. I loved Alpha Flight!

Flash: Scriptorium Meditation

The Etienne Chevalier Books of Hours

Public Domain – Per the British Library
The Etienne Chevalier Books of Hours

The excess pigment pooled off Jonathan’s favorite brush as he touched it against the cup’s side. Now safe, he passed it over the manuscript page to the illumination panel. Three quick strokes blended the new lapis blue with the still wet paint of the background. Large fills were the hardest. If the paint fully set between brushstrokes, a clear line would develop between the old and new paints.

Desert heat increased the difficulty. The pigment in the cup constantly needed adjusting with additional liquid and binder. After the noon sun had burnt off the last of the night cold, the parchment absorbed water as fast as he applied it. Once, the paint had dehydrated on his brush before he could transfer it to the page.

It could drive one mad.

Which, Jonathan chuckled to himself, is exactly the opposite of the results he was hoping for.

The painting was to keep him sane between skirmishes. A mediation to take him away from the here and now. Many of his fellow brothers of arms had their own ways to escape the boredom and terror. The few who didn’t fell into a dark place where only the terror circled.

He reloaded the brush. After an inhale and exhale, he followed the outline supporting the capital letter.

Abruptly, a siren sounded.

Jonathan steadied his hand, pleased to see no paint went outside the sepia lines he had inked yesterday.

The sound dragged him away from his artistic center; the solider part of him translated the shrill noise to “incoming aircraft”. No doubt their new lieutenant will be rushing them into bomb shelters.

… And there’s the second siren for the tail tuck. Shelter time.

The feral-warrior imbedded in every man’s head since Neanderthal times snarled, until the solider which boot camp had programmed into him slugged the lizard-mind. Jonathan pushed them both aside, staring at the manuscript page until the art spoke to him again.

Reviewing the page being painted, Jonathan estimated he could take a break in six to eight minutes. He dipped his brush to continue. Really, the enemy could at least do their runs when he was on-duty. Quite rude of them to interrupt his off-duty hours.

A head topped with rustic red hair poked inside the doorway. “Private Swartz, didn’t you hear the siren? We need to get to safety.”

“On my way, sir, just cleaning my brush.” Jonathan started filling in the final area he wanted blue.

Verbally assured, the lieutenant continued his hurried walk.

Too much paint had dried on the brush, creating lumps above the portion of the brush tip. Jonathan swirled the brush in his water glass. He glanced around the abandoned adobe building he had appropriated for his recreation time. One of three buildings located in the crossroad they were guarding. Millions of feet over thousands of years had hardened the unpaved paths. And only three families though it worthwhile to live here.

Uncle Sam thought it an excellent location for an inspection station.

Wonder who has the guns today? Haven’t heard the planes yet. Flying too high, or still a ways off? Well, we all will find out who is on duty as soon as the shots are fired. Manuel and Sebastian had very different approaches.

Gently squeezing the water from the horse hair, Jonathan brought the brush to a point. He took the cap off the binder and added just a touch to the pigment cup. Quickly resealing, the artist wiped the outside of the container. The binder was sticky. Then he added a little more water to the pigment.

The brush was dipped, twisted, and compressed in the cup until the pigment amassed throughout the fibers. He brought the brush to the parchment just before the last moisture left his previous stroke. The grumbling of engines became audible.

The ground trembled as Manuel let loose the anti-aircraft. Trust Manny to wait until he could see the whites of the enemy’s eyes. Dust drifted from the ceiling of the clay structure, but Jonathan’s make-shift fly crafted from one of his blankets kept the dust from falling into the wet paint.

Jonathan sighed.

If Manuel was firing, the run was for real. The spic didn’t like giving away range to anyone. The guy was a miser with bullets; he only shot when in danger and if he thought he could hit. And he was even stinger with missiles.

After capping his pigments and cleansing his brush, Jonathan reached down to lift the cover he made with four small feet. He carefully positioned it over the manuscript where it would hold the parchment down without touching the paint. Satisfied he had done everything to protect his art, Jonathan ran to the shelter.

Sebastian had been watching and opened the door for a split second. Sebastian or Manuel always was by the door; if the guns fell, the backup needed to be activated.

“Painting?” Sebastian smiled.

Jonathan nodded at the needles in the doorkeeper’s hands. “Not all of us are lucky to have portable art.”

“I got extra.” Sebastian kicked his yarn basket. “I could teach you.”

“I might take you up on that tonight. Painting sucks once the sun has set now that the lieutenant insists on blackout conditions. Seriously that man needs a hobby.”

“Scared he might start crucifying mice like the last one?”

A deafening exchange of the aircraft and anti-aircraft exchanging munitions prevented a verbal response, so Jonathan nodded. Watching your superior officer make little crosses and execute rodents for treason was terrifying beyond anything else in Jonathan’s experience. And Jonathan had done some stupid-ass, shouldn’t –be-alive-now shit. Sanity was precious.

(words 940 – first published 9/3/2013; republished new blog format 6/5/2016)

Other Cool Blogs: Magical Words May 9, 2016

Hand Of Woman Is Pulling Fire Alarm On The Brick Wall

Image Courtesy of num_skyman at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Inciting Events

 ConCarolinas starts tomorrow; the convention which was my inciting event to stop thinking about writing and start actually doing it. Going through life you may have several inciting events – times when the phrase “So things continued as they had been until such time as they no longer did” would appear in your autobiography.

Two major events may occur in a story – the inciting event sets to story in motion while the key event draws the character into the story. In many genre fiction stories these two events overlap. In my recent “The Telling of the Myth of Hariti“, the inciting event is when all the villages in all the world no longer could handle the loss of their children. The key event is when the elders approach the Buddha, drawing him into the story. Until he entered the story, no permanent change took place.

To learn more about inciting events, read the May 9, 2016 Magical Post by Faith Hunter: The Inciting Event.

Other good posts on this subject include:

WRITING EXERCISE: For your present work in-progress (WIP), define your inciting event and your key event. Do you have both, are they the same event, and where are they located in your book?

READING EXERCISE: For your present read in-progress, can you figure out where the incident and/or key event in the book occurred? Did you become more or less engaged when the event milestone occurred?