It was a warm day, but not a hot one. Carrying the bag of tools, the mapping equipment and the supplies was an effort, but not an extraordinary one. The quest had almost become routine. Almost.
Endless searching. They couldn’t say that anymore. They’d finally found it.
Now they could step through.
She had seen the old movies, heard the old stories. Working alone, in the desert with all the parts she could scrounge she would create her own gateway. The power was not there right now, but it would come. She was Noah for the modern age. She had faith. She would travel, she would survive.
The right light was the key. The creator dabbed a brush, then flipped the next creation off the dock. As the page touched the water it transformed, dropping another creature into the mix. “Perhaps more gray for the next one. Maybe more teeth?”
Was there danger? Of course there was danger. There was always danger, but the sins of my past made it worth the risk. I climbed. I reached. I was dizzy with the pheromones of death floating around me. I had tunnel vision. I could see the light. I moved toward the light. I reached for the light. The light so bright. The light so beautiful. Sinking forever into the dazzling light.
The scorching, raging pain of burning myself reaching for that beauty. I fell. I am scarred.
I will reach again.
My children we must persist. Our road is long, our way winding and difficult. No matter the cost, we will pay.
The Circle may stand against us. The Weavers seek to undo our works. We will break his chains despite our opposition. The world will shake and sunder. We are the coming of the truth.
We shall not bend. We shall not yield. The cursed ground shall not hold us. Death will not stop us. We are bound to free him. We are bound to save him. His chains become our weight, and we shall bear it.
Carry the light of the secret moon with you. The Crimson Crescent shall win out. The Chained God shall be free, and with him, so shall we all.
We have seen what the traction league has come to. We watched the battle for survival and the losses suffered by those who chose to simply fortify the mountain in place. We have combined the great engines and the mountain. We shall be safe in our fortress. We shall rule the sky.
We must haunt him.
Wake him. How can we haunt him if he will not awaken to see us? Touch him.
We cannot. There is a barrier.
Shake him. Move the barrier. Quickly, our time is short.
We cannot. The barrier defies us. He sleeps the sleep of the exhausted. He will not acknowledge us.
Perhaps he is shaken already. Perhaps his struggles outweigh us. We must move on.
We move on.
It’s a simple word. An easy concept. The act of keeping something within limits. The process of preventing the expansion of a hostile power. Light knows that Darkness needs to be held in check. It’s not a new idea. It’s been practiced and attempted for longer than people know. Those who don’t study history and all that.
Darkness feels Light straining to enter unwanted places. Corners exposed, shadows shifted and a new vision of place and purpose. Darkness slips away and fades as light expands, but then creeps around and steals back into unwatched rooms and back alleys. Shadows always slide in unnoticed.
Sometimes it’s not so easy. Sometimes the darkness pushes limits. Puts a strain on boundaries, forces the pressure to build. Light pushes back. These forces battle unseen. The fight rages in secret back rooms, penthouse suites, shopping mall corridors and occasionally in hotel basements. Daunting, dangerous and fiercely contested these battle rage with the only true victory being the safety of those who don’t know.
That is our place. That is our purpose. The cleaners.
Light and Dark may rage and storm. Battles may be won or lost. Our only mandate is secrecy. Patching the walls to replace the char of a light blast. Repainting the ceiling to remove the stains of dampness. Unwinding the stray threads shimmering in a curtain, trying to dampen the effectiveness of a simple defense for Darkness. Sometimes mopping up liquified darkness and replacing carpet…
I know that being a pro in the field of writing – any writing – requires the ability to write on demand. Deadlines must be met. Words must be produced. Nobody will pay you for the fanciful ideas floating in your head until you write them down (or draw them, or paint them, or build them). Waiting for inspiration is the direct path to never selling anything. Writing takes practice. It means repetition and expansion and edits among many other things.
I often quote a very famous author who has a slick statement about inspiration. “I don’t have a muse, I have a mortgage…” is a great quote. It’s easy to say. It’s hard to back that up.
I am far more attached to my mood than is good for anyone who wishes to be successful as a creative artist of any kind. The combination of creative drain from my day job, my inability to focus on a single kind of creativity and the things that happen in my day to day life often mean I am drained and just have no creative juice left to flow when I get to the keys.
I want to include some kind of declaration here about how I intend to do more, be better or whatever would fit, but the truth is that mood matters. I have made many declarations like this in the past and none of them have ever pushed me past certain barriers. Schedules, task lists, extensive notes are all wonderful and helpful things but none of those produce inspiration. There’s no spark. I’m going to keep struggling along in the best way I can. I’ll keep looking for that moment when a story leaps fully formed from my head, into my fingers and directly through the keys. Mood matters.
What inspires you?
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