Writing Prompts for Fiction and Inspiration for Journaling!

WritingInspiration

It’s been a long time since we’ve put out some writing prompts. Here are a few tidbits of inspiration for those who love to write stories, and those who love to journal. Cole did an outstanding job on these, and I’ve been remiss in getting them out there.

Eventually, I’ll get some writing prompts of my own out there, but in the meantime, here are the last ones that NC Saul did for me. For anybody who’s new, some previous writing prompts can be found here and here. Some memes I had fun making, and that could also serve as inspiration for journaling or fiction can be found here.

Enjoy!

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Sounds like a nugget for an exciting fantasy adventure!

Sounds like a nugget for an exciting fantasy adventure!

This is a nice prompt for either journaling or a literary novel.

This is a nice prompt for either journaling or a literary novel.

And another fantasy adventure!

And another fantasy adventure!

Breathtaking, isn’t it? The beauty and mystery of the world is an eternal supply from the Muses.

Breathtaking, isn’t it? The beauty and mystery of the world is an eternal supply from the Muses.

Can you weave a tapestry of words about your life?

Can you weave a tapestry of words about your life?

I love me a good travel adventure, and always come up with some amazing stories when I’m following some happy trails!

I love me a good travel adventure, and always come up with some amazing stories when I’m following some happy trails!


9 Original Fantasy Writing Prompts!

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Here are some writing prompts for May. Most are fantasy. All are original. Hope these work to spark the magic of inspiration!

Enjoy!

If you’d like to see more original writing prompts from Free Flying Press, click here.

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Memes and More Memes!

This one is fun. I used Canva for this one.

This one is fun. I used Canva for this one.

Hey y’all,

As I said in an earlier post, I got to making lots of memes to promote my existence here in this world and in cyber space. I think Cole and I came up with some pretty awesome images, and thought it would be cool to share some of our collection in the blog. 

These memes are original in the pairings of images with words. Many of the quotes are from those who are wiser and more experienced than I - not to mention famous. Unless the author is unknown, I always credit brilliance where it is due. And of course, I didn't take the pictures. But many are quotes from my work, and in one meme, my perspective.

These are some favorites of mine as well as those pinned often on Pinterest. I don’t know how all of this will shake out, but for the sake of passing on some good advice, I recommend Canva as a great place to design memes for free. My second choice is Quotes Cover, which is where I got started. I was pretty limited with how I could design the image and where I could put words on Quotes Cover. I think Canva makes a cleaner, more pristine image, so I use it all the time now. But I had to figure it out and have somebody show me a little of how to work that site. Both sites are free to work with, which is always a bonus. That said, I hope y’all enjoy the images and feel free to share them on your own social media – especially those that have Free Flying Press on them. ;)

Canva. Personally, I would contact improv with my shadow, with moments of tango. And you?

Canva. Personally, I would contact improv with my shadow, with moments of tango. And you?

This meme is one of my favorites, but it wasn't pinned as much as I would have liked. Made it on Quotes Cover.

This meme is one of my favorites, but it wasn't pinned as much as I would have liked. Made it on Quotes Cover.

This meme is one of Cole's. I think they worked with Adobe on this one, but I'm not sure. I was also surprised it didn't get the Pinterest love because I think it's lovely.

This meme is one of Cole's. I think they worked with Adobe on this one, but I'm not sure. I was also surprised it didn't get the Pinterest love because I think it's lovely.

This meme I used to promote my work, Ella Bandita and the Wanderer. Made on Canva. I hope the model doesn't take offense I used her face, because she's beautiful.Just in case you are intrigued, this quote is also in a free download because Part 1 is…

This meme I used to promote my work, Ella Bandita and the Wanderer. Made on Canva. I hope the model doesn't take offense I used her face, because she's beautiful.

Just in case you are intrigued, this quote is also in a free download because Part 1 is a freebie.

Made on Canva. This meme may get some Pinterest love yet.

Made on Canva. This meme may get some Pinterest love yet.

This bit of awesomeness was made by Cole.

This bit of awesomeness was made by Cole.

I made this on Quotes Cover.

I made this on Quotes Cover.

And I made this meme on Canva. I also altered the color from my computer to make the blue deeper.

And I made this meme on Canva. I also altered the color from my computer to make the blue deeper.

This meme is by Cole, and the quote is out of Ella Bandita and the Wanderer. It makes me wonder if people are scared of sex, bondage, or both because I'm surprised this didn't get a lot of attention. And no, this doesn't imply a bondage scene. You'l…

This meme is by Cole, and the quote is out of Ella Bandita and the Wanderer. It makes me wonder if people are scared of sex, bondage, or both because I'm surprised this didn't get a lot of attention. And no, this doesn't imply a bondage scene. You'll have to wait for the second novel to get something like that. ;)

This meme was much loved. And I'm proud of this one!

This meme was much loved. And I'm proud of this one!

I reused this picture to make a different meme. I'm fairly proud of it too.

I reused this picture to make a different meme. I'm fairly proud of it too.

It shouldn't surprise anybody that this was a big hit. I couldn't have made this meme so graceful without the tools on Canva.

It shouldn't surprise anybody that this was a big hit. I couldn't have made this meme so graceful without the tools on Canva.

Meme made on Quotes Cover. This was pretty fun!

Meme made on Quotes Cover. This was pretty fun!

Quotes cover meme. This one surprised me. It was pinned a lot.

Quotes cover meme. This one surprised me. It was pinned a lot.

I'm proud of this meme, and I'm proud of the attention it received because it was personal, and especially because the quote is not out of a novel I wrote. This is advice I've given many friends and family when a relationship falls apart. I came to …

I'm proud of this meme, and I'm proud of the attention it received because it was personal, and especially because the quote is not out of a novel I wrote. This is advice I've given many friends and family when a relationship falls apart. I came to this conclusion over the years after experiencing my relationship disasters and observing others. The kind of catastrophe that happens after somebody has given everything except their blood to make someone happy - and more loving - only to have that blow up in their face when their beloved leaves.

Cole. This meme got some Pinterest love - which was well deserved, I believe.

Cole. This meme got some Pinterest love - which was well deserved, I believe.

I was pretty disappointed this didn't get much attention on Pinterest. Maybe the word "Loneliness" put people off. Made on Quotes Cover.

I was pretty disappointed this didn't get much attention on Pinterest. Maybe the word "Loneliness" put people off. Made on Quotes Cover.

This meme is one of my first attempts at making a writing prompt. Made on Quotes Cover.

This meme is one of my first attempts at making a writing prompt. Made on Quotes Cover.

This meme is one of Cole's first and it's one of my favorites. I love the ferocity of it, but those on Pinterest did not. I guess a woman with a bloody sword may be off-putting.

This meme is one of Cole's first and it's one of my favorites. I love the ferocity of it, but those on Pinterest did not. I guess a woman with a bloody sword may be off-putting.

This meme is one of my recent writing prompts, and I'm proud of it too. It's gotten some respectable attention on Pinterest. But again, I was surprised it didn't take off in a spectacular way.It's also part of collection of writing prompts if you ca…

This meme is one of my recent writing prompts, and I'm proud of it too. It's gotten some respectable attention on Pinterest. But again, I was surprised it didn't take off in a spectacular way.

It's also part of collection of writing prompts if you care to check that out here.

Cole. Isn't it fabulous!

Cole. Isn't it fabulous!

One of my early ones, and I still think it's one of the funniest. Making myself laugh is a real joy. Made on Quotes Cover.

One of my early ones, and I still think it's one of the funniest. Making myself laugh is a real joy. Made on Quotes Cover.

So there y'all have it. There are many more. I hope y'all enjoyed viewing these as much as we did making them! It's a lovely creative pursuit to make some memes!

Peace,

Montgomery

 

 

6 New Original Fiction Writing Prompts!

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They just keep on coming, these writing prompts! Get them while they’re fresh and while the floodgates are open. I may have a dry spell that lasts months after this! Then again, maybe not.

These could inspire suspense, coming of age, romance, fantasy - because after all, isn’t everything fantasy?

If you’d like to check out earlier prompts that are strictly fantasy, click here.

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My Sweet Home Away From Home - On the Road # 32, Part 1

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It is absolutely excruciating to read this particular letter of my DIY booktour/roadtrip in January 2006. I had just come to Santa Cruz due to Lili, the Rock Lady, who I had met on the ferry. I ended up staying in Santa Cruz for 6 months, and it was one helluva ride.

This is one instance where I let my romantic side interfere with my common sense and my intuition.

Before making a decision on where to live, I stayed a night in the main house where Janna and Fred lived. I woke up in the middle of the night with this oppressive feeling of some dark and heavy bearing down on me. I could hardly breathe and it scared the shit out of me.

That was all I needed to know. But I moved in anyway…

Big mistake. Huge. I did end up in a good place, but it was a crazy ride to get there.

Hey y'all,

I really meant to live in Santa Cruz, close to the beach. 

I’d seen a place with deer running through the yard and the roommates - Meg and Christopher - were about my age and in a similar phase in life. They were very cool. 

There was lots of light, and I liked the old farmhouse feel of the place - even if the landlord was an alcoholic, lived on the property, and sat in his oversize pick-up with his elbow jutting out aggressively, drinking cans of Bud and glowering at the house. 

To make matters worse, he had relatives wringing their hands in anticipation of his death so they could get their hands on his money.

“He (the landlord) has been mad at me ever since I turned down his marriage proposal,” said Meg, as she showed me around.  “Maybe he’ll fall in love with you, and I’ll be off the hook.”

Given that he was eighty-plus and had stalker tendencies, I sure hoped not. 

I really liked Christopher and Meg, and had pretty much decided I’d love to live with them.

But I went ahead and came to see this place that was fifteen miles into the Santa Cruz mountains because I had an appointment. 

And I keep my appointments.

“When you see James Dean on the left, take a right on Alameda…” said Janna over the phone. 

I hadn’t met her yet, so my first impression was from her voice. 

If caramel had a voice, it would be Janna's. 

Her accent, breathiness, and tone of voice pronunciation bring to mind a flow of smooth, thick liquid sugar. 

Oddly enough, her girl's girl voice is easy to listen to and she has many fascinating stories.  

In her late fifties with three grown sons out of the house, she is not in my phase in life. 

After driving through the Redwoods on Highway 9, I saw the mural of James Dean on the side of the Brookdale Lodge - which is supposed to be haunted - on the left and made an immediate right on Alameda…

I really meant to live where the action was, but I could not resist this place...

As I write this, I’m sitting here on a mini-stage built within a half-circle of redwoods. 

I smell smoke coming from the stove, burning wood from the main house. The house was built in 1907 from virgin redwood, crammed with antiques, photos, artwork, and knick knacks. 

Out back is a pool built during the 1920’s, I suspect. 

On the north/northwest side of the pool is the cabana with bathroom and laundry room. 

On the west side is the studio where Erin lives and behind that is the “secret garden.” 

On the south-central side is the main house, behind it the cathedral-stage of redwoods, and behind that…is my space. 

I live in a tiny house on the north/northeast side of the property, but I get the most sun.  (This was before tiny houses were a thing.)

It’s uphill from the creek, and groove on the constant trickle of water - it's like those meditation tapes that people play when they need to chill. 

On one side of my place is the chicken and rabbit coop. 

The rooster is lazy about cockling in the morning, and all the chickens are in cages except for Cadbury, the breeder mama bunny. 

She got out and still runs free, much to the chagrin of Erin Rose and Janna. 

There is a light breeze blowing, the wind chimes are gently tinkling a harmony. 

I also hear the chirps, peeps, and cackles of birds as beams of golden glow are streaking through the woods to light up this place nestled in the woods. 

“We took out all the Douglas firs when we first moved in,” said Janna.  “And the redwoods just shot up from there.”

“This place is very magical,” said Travis, Janna’s eldest son.

He wasn’t exaggerating; I feel like I’m living inside a fairy tale.

Welcome to my home away from home. 

I live in the “playhouse” of this property, but I call it the hobbit house. 

It’s the size of a shoebox, not even big enough for a double bed, but it gives me autonomy. 

There is a huge window Janna recycled from an old schoolhouse on the south side of the building and when I walk out the door, one of the first things I see is that cathedral of redwoods kitty corner from my slice of personal space. 

I have to go to the main house to go to the bathroom and use the kitchen, but I have the run of the property with my rent. 

“This place was like Sleeping Beauty’s castle,” Janna said. when she described the forgotten cabin that had been empty for years at the time she and Fred bought it. 

The people who live here could also be characters out of a novel.

“We’re an eccentric family,” Janna said.

First, allow me to introduce Erin Rose, the caretaker/adoptee who posted the ad. 

Photographer, recluse, keeper of Cooper, the ugly cat, and would-be catcher of Cadbury, the runaway rabbit, Erin Rose made his new home here a few years ago when Christian, Janna's second son, told him his mom could use some help. 

He has since become a part of the family and Janna’s best friend. 

Sometimes it's difficult to tell who takes care of who, or what.

“People actually got offended when I said Chief likes white animals a little too much…(Yum!) in the ad,” he said. 

He’d also described  chickens, roosters, numerous rabbits (including Cadbury, the breeder), along with Chief, a big white dog, and Cooper, his road-scrapping tomcat.

To be continued…Remember Cooper, the road-scrapping tomcat.

Peace,
Montgomery

 

Didjeridu Magic - Now There is Something to Write About!

InDidjInUs2019

InDidjInUs2019

It was love at first sight. Or first sound, really. The first time I heard the primal drone of a didjeridu, I was at Esalen in Big Sur. The Wednesday night jam was a weekly event amongst the tubs where the spa was enclosed.

The sacrifice in the view of the cliffs over the Pacific Ocean were more than compensated for with incredible acoustics.

Somehow a didjeridu, a saxophone, and a trumpet made an effective and peculiar trio. But it was the didjeridu that did it for me. The mysterious tones of the didjeridu played into the amplifier of a clawfoot tub soared through the chamber, and I was hooked.

InDidjInUs 2019 - Ondrej Smeykal

InDidjInUs 2019 - Ondrej Smeykal

That was before the didj player did his rounds for a sound healing up our chakras. I had never experienced music that could be felt, physically felt as the musician played it around me.

Then I was really hooked.

Every time a didjeridu was played, I got excited.

The best New Year’s Eve I ever had, a didj was played as we approached midnight. Even though the headlining band was playing on the top floor, I knew I was in the right place to call in the New Year.

InDidjInUs 2019 - Lewis Burns on didj with dancer Adam and singer Jamie

InDidjInUs 2019 - Lewis Burns on didj with dancer Adam and singer Jamie

I especially love to dance to the didj. That tone brings out something buried deep in me. I move in a more thorough, embodied way that gets to all my parts. It’s catharsis in its purest form.

Beloved is one of the more beloved music festivals around Oregon, focusing on sacred music and higher consciousness. It’s lush and decadent, and very Arabian Nights with its exotic trappings. I went one year and had tickets to go to the next.

Then I heard about InDidjInUs a few years ago.


I couldn’t believe there was a gathering centered around the didjeridu. The thought of 4 days of non-stop didjeridu music made my mouth water.

Everybody loves Mama Emma!

Everybody loves Mama Emma!

The website and Facebook page was so vague, yet so specific, I wondered if it was only for didjeridu players, not didjeridu listeners or didjeridu dancers.

It also seemed that there was some kind of struggle going on about the values of this gathering. One man made very clear that they were not about a typical “festival” party atmosphere, and they’d appreciate it if the festival partiers would go to Beloved instead.

Beloved was on the same weekend.

I asked on the Facebook page if dancing listeners were able to come, or if this was only for didjeridu musicians. Ycats (Stacy spelled backwards) answered that a dancing audience was most welcome.

I didn’t hesitate. I gave away my tickets to Beloved and went to InDidjInus. It was one of the best decisions I ever made.

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That first InDidjInUs, I went to sleep and woke up to the vibrating drones of didj being played somewhere near. My energy field shifted during that time, and my time there was a profound experience in healing.

I knew I loved didjeridu in music. I had no idea how diverse didjeridu could be when it came to making music.

But one of the most surprising benefits to making such a sudden switch was the genuine sense of community that InDidjInUs provided.

A lot of festivals focus on “community” and “tribe” and “getting woke” and whatever else you can think of that sounds transcendent and cool.

But this group really embodies the essence of community - with the good and the bad, especially when it comes to figuring out conflicts and the fallout that entails. Most of these people I only see once a year in the community that gathers for InDidjInUs.

I just finished my 5th InDidjInUs, and this year was the best one yet. Again, I was in need of healing. Having space when I needed it, and community when I needed connection was crucial, and then there were the various jams going on as well as the stage performances.

Anyway, I included some short clips of the amazing and gorgeous music I enjoyed this past weekend.

And if that’s not something worth writing about, I don’t know what is.





















3 Ways to Love Yourself AND Get Past Writer's Block!

Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay

Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay

I started writing for Medium a couple of days ago because:

1) I can get paid and I like getting paid and,

2) I have the freedom to write about anything and everything I want, and… still get paid. Which I like. A lot.

I can’t do that on this blog because everything I’ve read about blogging recommends getting specific in my topics.

Besides it’s evolved to cover writing prompts, novel excerpts, and resurfacing my On the Road journal sent to my friends when I was on my DIY booktour/roadtrip.

In other words, this blog is all things Indie Author oriented, and that can be very limiting.

Then it occurred to me that the article I wrote this morning could be useful to writers for writer’s block.

The article was originally titled: 3 Ways to Self-Love After a Breakup – Or for any other reason you feel like dog s***.

Since love and creativity draw from the same well, it made sense to include it here.

Besides writers have relationships and go through breakups, and one of the unfortunate side effects of that is…writer’s block.

So here is that list of some of my favorite self-love, self-care, feel-goodies that have been very effective at getting me out of my funk…and out of writer’s block.

By the way, these tips work for everything – not just breakups and writer’s block.

1. DANCE

I mean dance your butt off for at least 1 hour. This to me is the most powerful of everything I recommend.

Dance, besides being really good for your body, releases those endorphins that make you feel all is right in the world.

The more your cut loose, the more you shake it, the more likely you’ll get to bliss. And you want to get to bliss when you feel like dog s***.

The easiest is to dance in your living room or any other space where you can let go to your favorite playlist of beloved dance songs. And if you don’t have one, make one. Make several.                     

**My personal recommendations to include in your dance playlist songs that are dominated by percussion/drumming and/or didgeridoo. There is something cathartic about dancing to those instruments that is truly transformative.          

If you live in an urban area or artsy town that has an Ecstatic Dance – also called 5 Rhythms or Soul Motion – I strongly recommend you start going on the regular. Ecstatic dance sets, if done right, are created to move energy and generate emotional release.

Another option is if there is a lot of live music – go out and dance in a crowd. I’m not quick to recommend dance nightclubs because the darkness and the vibe often make me feel alienated and alone in a crowd.

On the other hand, I’ve had some great dance offs in nightclubs. I guess it depends on what your jam is. If that works for you, go for it.

But you may have to wait until happier and healthier times to do that.

In these days of the Coronavirus, it’s best to stick to outdoor dance parties or your living room.         

2. Hiking or Walking

What this really comes down to is get outside and move your body.

Ideally, you live someplace close to lots of beauty of forests, streams, and waterfalls. If you can, get out in that beautiful nature and allow it to heal your heart and so

If you can’t, find the prettiest neighborhood in your town with lots of trees and flowers and bushes and plants and walk around.

Hikes naturally take longer; but if you’re neighborhood walking, go for at least 45 minutes.

Do not stroll, walk briskly with long strides and swinging arms and breathe deeply through your nose to take in all the scents.

3. Shaking

Now, it’s time to get a little freaky because this practice makes you look crazy to the casual observer.

That said, it’s worth it. 

To deliberately shake your body is amazing therapy.

Everything we experience is stored in our bodies - everything from the beautiful to the ugly.

But the ugly adds up. By literally shaking every part of your body, you’re shaking it OUT OF YOU.

It works even better if you speak gibberish afterwards – sounds that make no sense and form no coherent words for a minute or two.

This is the part that makes you look insane. But it works.

This was a crucial practice after my breakup.

I went through a period of feeling numb and disconnected. 

I became acutely aware of this when I went to a Tantra Festival where everybody else was in a warm, touchy-feely, happy space and I wasn’t.

Things shifted after one workshop, when the facilitator started the dance practice with a several minutes of shaking followed by gibberish.

That one practice alone made me feel alive again.

Below is a video that shows a basic shaking practice that isn’t too mortifying (although the narrator does a little gibberish towards the end).

Go ahead and cut more loose and find other Youtube videos for some ideas. Be sure to put “shaking practice” in your search.

So now you have a few of my secrets.

Now that you’ve physically processed your “stuff,” put your butt to the chair and start writing!

The Camel Who Passed Through the Eye of the Needle - On the Road #31

This particular letter from my email journal of the DIY booktour/roadtrip in 2005/2006 has nothing to do with that trip. Right after I had landed in Santa Cruz, my godfather, Bill Demetree, passed away. He was a very pivotal figure in my life, so much that I was compelled to write about him to my community in Juneau, Alaska who had never known him. Same thing with Hurricane Katrina in New Orleans in the fall of 2005, I felt like a piece of my soul had broken off. Anybody who cares to read about that, click HERE.

Other than that, enjoy this ode to one of the great humans of my life, who inspired me to always remember the high road in the decisions I make in my life.

Hey y'all, 

I remember a few years ago, in that first year after 9/11, when many were paralyzed by fear of travel and becoming the tragic victim of a terrorist attack. Of course, the press did their part in to keep it that way, and a friend of my mother's came straight out and said it.

"I'm tired of being scared."

"Don't be afraid of life," said Mr. Bill Demetree in his usual, soft-spoken way. 

Isn't it funny how the truly wise man gives himself such a quiet presentation?

The world lost a great man today.

It seems like on my epic booktour/roadtrip, even death is a part of the journey...

I've been struggling to find the right way to describe Mr. Demetree. He was one of those old family friends - only by lack of blood are not a member of the family - who are so close. 

He was extremely supportive and loyal to my mother during some of the worst times of her life – the divorce from my father, the years she took care of Mimi (my grandmother) after her stroke, and of course, these last ten years after my mother's aneurysm.

Mr. and Mrs. Demetree were always there. 

Mr. Demetree prayed every day for Mom during the weeks she had been in a coma for weeks. We didn't know if she would live, die, or suffer some awful purgatory between life and death.

Mr. and Mrs. Demetree were there with us regularly, at the hospital. My memories of that time are unclear, but I’m pretty sure he kept vigil with us on the day of her surgery.

In these times when there are many who speak of doing the right thing, Mr. Demetree was the man who actually did.

Deeply religious in his Catholic faith, and with an integrity not even the devil himself could question, we felt confident that the spiritual connections of Mr. Demetree would carry some weight.

He was in business with my father and grandfather, and later my brother. Oddly enough, I think it was through business that Mr. Demetree came into our lives. Yet beyond business, he was also a friend. 

Anybody who knows the men in my family would agree that they made strange bedfellows to be sure.

But one thing that struck me about Mr. Demetree was the balance he managed between standing up for his beliefs, speaking out for doing what's right, alongside an attitude of non-judgment for those who listened to his advice, yet did not take it. He maintained his relationships with those who chose to live differently than he. 

The roles he played - business partner, friend, and even counselor, he was a man who led through action not word, always setting the highest example of dignity, honor, and integrity.

There's a saying that they don't make them like that, anymore...and frankly why the hell not? 

Those of us who had the privilege of knowing Mr. Demetree...let those seeds planted by his example grow in our minds, hearts, and souls. 

Let us become better people for the experience of having known a such a splendid human being. 

"It is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than it is for a rich man to get into heaven." 

Said by: Jesus Christ, Source: The Bible. I don't know which book or verse, but I remember that adage clearly from memories of Catholic School.

Personally, I always thought that was harsh. But if there is a rich man who will, that man is Mr. Demetree. 

It has been many years since I've considered myself a Catholic, but I have never considered Mr. Demetree to be anyone other than my Godfather.

He will be missed. 

Montgomery  

PS.  And yes, I'll be there for the funeral.

Narcissus Must Die. Long Live Narcissus

By Christoffer Wilhelm Eckersberg — Self-scanned, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=50060345

By Christoffer Wilhelm Eckersberg — Self-scanned, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=50060345

Narcissus must die.

Long Live Narcissus.

Narcissus was a hunter, but his distinction was that he was the most beautiful boy in the world.

He was the son of the river God Cephissus — who was the son of Oceanus and Tethys — and the water nymph, the naiad Liriope — who was likely the daughter of a river god.

Thus Narcissus was born from the essence of water, the grandson of Titans.

Although Narcissus was mortal, he was touched with the divine and blessed with immaculate beauty by the goddess Aphrodite herself.

Dazzled from the power of such exquisite comeliness and allure that belonged to Narcissus, people lost their good sense and large pieces of their dignity whenever he came near.

They would gasp in wonder at the perfect symmetry of his features, the strength and elegance of his form, and the grace of his movement.

They would whisper that he must be part God and would elevate to Olympus when he left the world.

Narcissus found the excessive admiration tedious after a time, and found his admirers irritating and beneath him.

There was nobody who could inspire Narcissus to love; he was so disdainful of everybody around him.

He was notorious for spurning the would-be male lovers who tried to seduce him, those men driven by lust and desire when confronted with the physical perfection of his form.

But there was one, Amenias, who believed he had what it took to succeed where others had failed.

He loved Narcissus for his beauty.

But Amenias also loved himself enough to recognize his value.

Although not as beautiful as Narcissus, he was very handsome. Amenias was also wealthy, educated, strong, and advanced in the erotic arts.

He knew that as a whole, he was more than equal to recommend himself to Narcissus.

When Amenias came to woo Narcissus, his would-be beloved was exceptionally cruel in his rebuff.

Narcissus handed Amenias a sword and suggested he make good use of it.

Humiliated, Amenias used the sword to slay himself on Narcissus’ doorstep, praying to the gods to avenge him for the dishonor.

Aphrodite heard his plea, and was enraged.

This was the most appalling affront to everything she held dear — love, passion, desire, lust, beauty.

She regretted blessing Narcissus with the power of immaculate beauty because he had done nothing but abuse and debase his gift.

On the other hand, the Goddess of Love and Beauty had to consider the possibility that it wasn’t in the nature of Narcissus to love other men, as men loved him.

Perhaps what he needed was feminine love, from one who might remind him of his mother. Aphrodite knew just the girl, the wood nymph Echo.

Echo fell madly in love with Narcissus the first time she saw him hunting in the woods.

She was a beautiful, spritely, and mischievous being. She followed Narcissus every time he came in the woods, which was often.

Echo was very adept at hiding in the rushes and amongst the trees, as she trailed behind him.

Over time, Narcissus became aware that somebody always followed him through the forest, and one day, he determined to find out who it was.

“Who’s there?” he called out.

“Who’s there?” Echo repeated.

“Come now,” Narcissus cajoled. “Show yourself to me.”

“…Show yourself to me,” Echo called back.

Frustrated, Narcissus thought another minute, and then decided he needed to bait this being who trailed him every day.

“Let us come together here!” Narcissus called out, and spread his arms wide as if to receive.

Overjoyed, Echo came running out of the trees, ready to jump into the arms of her beloved.

“Let us come together here!” she repeated.

Instead of catching her in his arms, Narcissus laughed at Echo and turned away.

Heartbroken and mortified, Echo ran sobbing through the woods, her grief making her disappear until there was nothing left of her but a disembodied voice doomed to repeat what was said on the open air until the end of time.

https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Echo_and_Narcissus_by_Rupert_Bunny.jpg

https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Echo_and_Narcissus_by_Rupert_Bunny.jpg

Watching from Olympus, Aphrodite was beyond livid.

Narcissus had gone too far and must be punished. After meditating on the best punishment for Narcissus, she smiled with grim satisfaction.

“I condemn Narcissus to fall passionately in love,” Aphrodite declared. “And his desire and longing will be his undoing.”

Then Aphrodite transformed into Nemesis, the vengeful aspect of herself.

Nemesis lured Narcissus close to a spring the next time he went hunting in the woods.

As soon as Narcissus looked in the water, he fell to his knees. He had never seen such a beautiful creature in all of his life, and he was suddenly consumed with the most ravenous lust and desire.

But when he tried to touch the beautiful face, the water rippled and his reflection was distorted. Narcissus suddenly knew he was looking at himself.

He lamented and refused to leave the spring.

Suddenly, Narcissus understood the yearning and the senselessness of those who had admired him all his life, for he was now overcome with the same emotion.

The problem was that it was impossible to make love to himself. The longing that would never be sated drove him to madness.

Suddenly, he decided there had to be a way to fuck himself and that always started with a kiss.

He was Narcissus, the son of Cephissus and Liriope. He was of the essence of water.

Thus leaning down to give himself a kiss, Narcissus fell into the spring and drowned.

Unfortunately, one thing Aphrodite may not have considered was the effect Narcissus would have on humanity once he wasn’t confined to a physical form.

The spirit of Narcissus spread far and wide.

Nowadays, anybody could be infected with an excessive love of oneself, a fixation on one’s own glory, and a conceit that one believes themselves above others.

We have all been rendered a little more ridiculous as a result of the disease of the psyche. And you don’t even have to be good-looking to be afflicted.

Craigslist New Year's Eve, Part 2 - On the Road #30

Image by Ryan McGuire from Pixabay 

Image by Ryan McGuire from Pixabay 

Alicia was exactly what you would expect from a woman who had built her social life around the Internet and who was not a total psycho-freak.  

She was a kind, warm, sweet woman, and so shy it hurt. I could easily see her being petrified in any social occasion where she would have to step forth and put herself out there.

"I got hooked on chat rooms back when you had to pay for them," she said. "My credit card bill was at least 300 bucks a month because of it."

And that was when Alicia met her best friend, David - the guy who wouldn’t stop messaging her until she met him for a drink.

David was the only good-looking man in the room, not that handsomeness did him any good. On paper, he seemed all right. He was an artist and a carpenter.

But anger emanated off of him in waves. I was uncomfortable being in the same room as David, and if others hadn’t been there, I would have made my excuses and left. 

In short, his story was such that David had been married twice and begat three kids upon his wives by the age of thirty-six. He was in the throes of an ugly divorce from his second wife.

“David was stupid with that one,” Alicia piped up. “They had problems from the first week on.”

And here’s the kicker. He met her through Match.com.

I never met someone who actually married somebody they met on a dating site.

(Remember this was New Year’s Eve, calling in 2006. Online dating was fast becoming the norm, but it wasn’t yet.)

So why did David marry the Nightmare on Match.com?

He had no problem answering my question. 

"She had perfect tits," he said. "And cute freckles."

He said that with a straight face and his bestie, Alicia, backed him up.

"She fit his pre-conceived idea of what he thought he wanted," said Alicia. 

So why did Freckles & Tits marry David?

"Biological clock," said David.    

David suspected that his soon-to-be-second-ex-wife was about to become a lesbian.  

"She had a friend who looked like a lesbian and Freckles & Tits swore she wasn't," he continued. "But now she's hanging out with another who also looks like a lesbian.

David paused.

“After New Year's I'm not drinking and I'm not having sex anymore."

In this room of motley strangers, everybody looked at David like he was nuts. I thought it was the first sane thing he’d said all night.

"I need to heal from all this," said David. "This month I decided that Jesus really is my lord and savior and to let him into my heart.”

Oh hell. Never mind.

"You won't heal if you don't have sex," said Alicia to David, the voice of reason that David lacked.

To the rest of us, she explained further.

"The problem with David is that he can't find girls who can separate sex and love, especially with him. They take one look at him and peg him as the boyfriend type."

I wonder if David would have fallen for Alicia if she hadn’t been so motherly. On the other hand, Alicia was pretty matronly. Since perfect tits and cute freckles were enough of an incentive to ignore problems coming out of the gate and actually GET MARRIED, I doubt David had the sense to be attracted to depth and character.

And then there was the man of the hour...our host, Mike.  

When I later told this story to a friend, she asked me if Mike had been attractive.

"No.”

No, Mike was anything but attractive. He had a vague resemblance to Mitch McConnell.

To be more exact, Mike had no chin, a prissy mouth that he pursed throughout the night, a doughy face, and the soft formless body of a man who took no advantage of the outdoors that Colorado was famous for.

But his lack of good looks paled in comparison to Mike’s personality. Bitter, rude, unpleasant, pompous – I could go on and on. But the truly sad part was that Mike had no idea how disagreeable he was.

In the original Craigslist post, Mike had said several friends were coming over. And there were no friends there because…drum roll…he didn’t have any. I’m pretty sure the date that had fallen through was also a fiction.

After a couple of hours, I could understand why. I knew I never wanted to be around Mike again long before we called in the New Year 2006.  

According to Mike, he had no friends after 5 1/2 years in Denver due to the manipulations of his evil ex-wife. 

A woman he had been married to for only nine months, she'd tried to kill him twice – according to Mike - and had used him as part of an immigration fraud scam she had going on with her family.

I don’t know how this happened, but I ended up telling a story to this group – the first chapter of Ella Bandita.

Mike extrapolated from that.

"You want inspiration?" he sneered. "Generations of dysfunction and evil run in my ex-wife's family."

That was a good moment to smile and nod.

Mike also claimed more horrible first dates than everyone in the room combined. He was also an aficionado of which internet sources were good, and which ones were awful.  

It was a shock to my system being in a room full of people whose main source of social interaction was through a computer. 

David and Mike exchanged horror stories of shrewish con-women, heifers, bitches, dykes, and other undesirable and highly suspect females they had met while looking for love online. 

Mike really wanted to talk about his psycho marriage and his ugly divorce all night, and he interrupted conversations that were enjoyable to do so.  

He also had this beagle, Dakota, that was so hungry for affectionate attention, it was pitiful.

"Love me," the dog’s eyes pleaded as Dakota humped people's feet. "Please..."

"Dakota!"  Mike would shout.  "Dakota!"

“He has a foot fetish,” Mike would explain to his guests, two of whom were allergic to dogs.

The courtesy of putting the dog away didn’t occur to Mike. And Dakota wouldn’t listen in his relentless search for someone at that party to take him away.

Because I’m pretty sure that’s what that dog wanted.

Eventually, midnight happened. We called in the New Year, and all of us hot-hoofed it out of that house by quarter past twelve.

By the time I got back to my hotel, it was around 1am – that had been a long, sober drive back. The bars were pouring out and people were cheering, hooting, and hollering Happy New Year in giddy, drunken joy.

Lesson learned.

If I’m ever in an unfamiliar city for New Year’s where I don’t know anybody, I’m going to bite the bullet, down 2 or 3 shots of tequila and party down.

Because that was the weirdest New Year’s Eve of my life.

Peace,
Montgomery

To read Part 1 of Craigslist New Year’s Eve, click HERE.

Discipline, Baby!

GiveYourselfSomethingtoWriteAbout-Discipline1.jpg

So yesterday I went to a les-bi writers meetup that I’ve belonged to for at least two years, and had never attended an event.

I had joined because I liked the focus on queer women writers.

Even if most of what I write isn’t queer – at least not directly – I still appreciate narrowing the field to create community between an intersection between identities. Being lesbian/bisexual is a specific way to be in this world, and being a writer is no less specific.

Besides realizing that I just enjoyed meeting new people for the first time since I left my now-ex-fiancee, that was an excellent cure for writer’s block.

I’ve hardly written anything original, except for writing prompts in over 2 months, and lately, I’ve been borrowing from dialogue excerpts in various novels to get a jumpstart on those.

Gotta love those breakup blues that result in creative blocks!

Anyway, the event started with a writing prompt. I picked it and what came up was something that had been lacking in my world – discipline.

Discipline makes a dry subject to write about, so instead I turned discipline into a character study. The end result is that I finally wrote SOMETHING NEW, DAMMIT! 

Besides being totally excited that I just wrote something fresh, I was pleased enough with the piece to share it here. Because all writers need discipline to do what we do.

Discipline.

It’s such a dirty word because it’s so necessary.

If Discipline were a woman, she’d be a rail thin, long-limbed, tight-lipped clichéd librarian type with angular features and humorless eyes.

But she gets the job done.

She gets up at 4:30 AM to meditate, eat a light breakfast, workout, shower, and dry her hair, only to put in a tight knot at the base of her neck.

Her hair is chestnut brown and her eyes are a flat hazel.

She would then dress primly and properly for her day job, which doesn’t necessarily have to be a librarian, but would have to involve DISCIPLINE because that’s her jam.

All her appointments are timed impeccably.

Any client who is not on time will lose time with her for her to welcome her next appointment, no matter how much money or power is involved. She does not tolerate lateness because she is never late herself.

Never.

Her clients are rarely late for their appointments with her.

For an hour lunch, she only spends fifteen minutes eating.

The rest of the time, she power walks around the park or gets some work done on a personal project that she does for love and giggles – like maybe writing a novel.

She will later work on this project for exactly two hours that night after work, before cooking and after dinner.

Even if she has a partner/lover/husband/kids or all of the above, nothing can sway her from her 2 hours of personal time on her project.

It is quite likely though, that Discipline is a child-free woman.

Kids are too messy and too demanding for her strictly-adhered to schedule. They have too many needs, and are prone to getting sick at the most inconvenient times.

Discipline has few girlfriends, because most women are frightened of her.

GiveYourselfSomethingtoWriteAbout-DisciplineBesties.jpg

She has one best friend, who is as organized, driven, and focused as she is. They bonded over their mutual impatience and disdain for fluffy, flaky types.

If they aren’t roommates, Discipline and her bestie meet for dinner or a show at least once a week, and they talk on the phone at least twice a week. Like most besties, they text back and forth just about every day.

When Discipline has a lover, you can bet she is kinky as all get out, a merciless domme with severe red lipstick painted on her narrow lips.

She is efficient in how she doles out punishment, and of course, discipline. Orgasm is always guaranteed. For herself as well as her lover.

GiveYourselfSomethingtoWriteAbout-Discipline1 copy.jpg

She prefers to dominate the dominant types. Power gives her a grim satisfaction, and the thrill makes her flesh tease and tickle.

Discipline always goes to bed between 9 and 10 PM, after a cool shower where she flosses and brushes her teeth.

The last half hour of waking is reserved for the reading that she does solely for pleasure.

Her choice of novels are those that will transport her to another world of adventure, mystery, and the erotic for those last 20-30 minutes before she relaxes enough that her eyelids grow heavier and heavier.

Then she turns out the light and collapses under the covers and falls asleep within minutes. Her slumber will last somewhere between 6 ½ and 7 hours.

During that time, she will reach the vivid dreaming REM at least three times.

Then the alarm will sound at 4:30 AM and her new day begins.

I aspire to be more like this woman, but I know that will never happen. But that is how I see Discipline. Even a few crumbs of this would make me so much more productive.

For the record, I did get back to work on the Shepherd and the Courtesan. If you’d like to see a segment of that work-in-progress, click here.

Dumb Ass Luck for a Happy Holiday Season - On the Road #29

Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay 

Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay 

Hey y'all,

Yeehaw! Did Santa surprise my stocking this year!

For somebody who has not planned squat for a book tour, things sure keep falling into my lap, and all I have to say to La Fortuna is Grazie, Senora!  Grazie, grazie, grazie!!! 

But I get ahead of myself...

I'm in Colorado, the state of my college alma mater, to visit a college friend, and she threw her Christmas party right after I got here. 

Since Kelly is immersed in the corporate world of computer software and telecommunications, she invited many folks she knew from work. 

One of them, Anne, had an organization of sixty people, if you include all the contractors - which she didn't. 

With a thick Scottish accent and a blunt, fiery attitude, Anne is known as an aggressive leader that scares the shit out of most people in her company.  

"She's the devil," Kelly said.  

 Anne is often heard yelling at the top of her lungs in her office.  However, unlike a lot of slave-driving bosses, her staff has the option of yelling back, which they often do.

But to reward them for all their hard work and being such good sports about tolerating and dishing out verbal abuse, she does something to surprise her team every quarter.  And this quarter, she surprised them with me. 

Gotta love those holiday parties, when everybody's half drunk and networking.  She and her lover showed up "in drag," in that they were dressed up for the holidays.  I told her what I was doing and she suggested I come and do a storytelling with her group. 

"I haven't come up with anything fun for them to do this quarter," she slurred.  "But you have to make it a team-building experience.  How much do you charge?"

Given that I'd been doing this for free, plus book sales, I didn't really know how to answer that.  I remembered Brett telling me that beginning storytellers charge $75  and told her that.

She pssshawed that.

"You need a manager, honey," she said.  "I was thinking more like $500." 

To tell a story?  Why sure, I would love to. 

Okay, I had to get a little flexible and make it a team-building experience.  And I had to set my ego aside to do it. 

I told Chapter four and gave six teams their own set of questions for them to construct a story around it.  In other words, a bunch of computer techies had to switch to their right brain and get creative.  It wasn't about figuring out what I wrote, they had to make it up.

They did pretty damn good, too.  Some of the scenarios they came up with were outrageous. 

Whoever thought that being a writer and travelling storyteller could translate into being a "motivational speaker" for a corporation?

If anybody from ODS should see Sarah Carter, Jean Richey, or (I can't believe I'm actually saying this!) Kevin Krein, thank them for me because I just got paid $500 to tell a story and give away 25 books.

And the exercises we did for the Small Group Communications class helped me think up my own. 

$500 to tell a story?  As far as karma is concerned, I know I deserve it, but still!  I definitely wanna do that again!

Merry Christmas!

Montgomery

 

This excerpt is from my DIY booktour roadtrip journal I emailed to my friends during 2005-2006.

Since this was the holidays, this was at the end of 2005 and I’d been on the road for almost 6 months.

I’d spent a few months in the Alaskan Interior (I lived in Alaska at the time), went back to Juneau for a couple of weeks before heading down into the lower 48, where the book tour was a very different experience.

I was riding high at this time, having a very lucky stop in Ashland right before heading to Colorado. This was every bit as auspicious as the time in Ashland.

If you’d like to read about that experience, here are Parts 1 and 2 of the Fool’s Journey HERE and HERE.

I have such great memories of that time in my life. Especially because it was one of the most challenging and difficult things I’ve ever done.

The Joy of Memes

Funny2.jpg

Hey y’all,

So… I’m making memes now. It was that something new learned this week.

For the record, I’m very proud of the meme that starts this blog.

GiveYourselfSomethingtoWriteAbout.jpg

In my personal life, I’m addicted to Facebook in a love/hate kind of way. My now ex-partner hates it and I wouldn’t say I love it, but it’s become a habit. An annoying habit. Anybody who is not addicted to any kind of social media and does not participate -especially if that somebody isn’t a hermit in a cave somewhere in the Rockies – has my respect.

But I’m a sucker for memes, especially the good ones. It’s such a succinct way to get a pithy message across with words and a visual. Thanks to my flailing in the world of Pinterest, I came across a blog on how to make memes.

Adrenaline.jpg

So I read it, and started. And I think I’m kind of hooked.

If I’m not careful memes will take over and I will stop writing. And that would be a bad, bad thing. Perhaps these are natural growing pains that come with donning lots of new hats?

It’s good for my brain to learn new things. That’s what I’m telling myself right now. I’m overwhelmed. I’m trying to embrace it.

But I loved learning about memes. I made 10 memes on my first day. Self-expression feels good to choose images and quotes – sometimes I even use my own. Or I use an image from the piece of artwork from Ella Bandita with a punch that fits in in a different way, and thus alters the meaning. The possibilities are endless. So what’s not to love?  

EBFireMeme.jpg

The best part is that I already taught something the day after I learned it. My friend and former housemate, Cole is stepping in to help and I taught her how to make memes too. The ones she made were completely different from mine, but fabulous! Maybe we will rock cyber space with our fresh take on things and our memes that go viral.

Or maybe we’ll simply do a great job of getting people’s attention to this website and my stories. Because that’s what I’m really here for, you know?

What about you, dear reader? Do you like to pass the time making memes, finding memes, or both? What are some of your favorites? Let’s have some show and tell, please.

Peace,

Montgomery

PS: Here’s the link to a site that makes it really, really easy to make a meme:

https://quotescover.com/

PPS: Cole found her medium through the Adobe Spark app. And here is one of hers.

PPPS: Technically, memes have nothing to do with writing. But these can also make some good writing prompts. Pick one and do a freewrite. Come on! I dare you.

image3.jpeg

 

 

The Excruciating Loneliness of the Lone Wolf

Image by Eric Michelat from Pixabay 

Image by Eric Michelat from Pixabay

Rot was preferable to nothing.

The Wolf whimpered from his churning stomach and swallowed his retch. He blew snuffles through his nose, lying on his side, hiding in the trees from the men working the fields.

But he wasn’t so deep in the woods he’d miss the sunrise. Blinking slowly, he pulled himself up and shook his head to stay awake. 

He never liked to fall asleep before daybreak.

The chaos of his memories tore him apart while he slept. Joyous times in his life as a man intertwined with the misery of being trapped in the body of a wolf. He never knew whether to relax in sweet dreams or force himself awake from a nightmare.

He would be a boy again learning to forage with his grandfather; then he dug amongst the stench and compost, desperate for something to eat. He would be a youth cooking for their guests while the Bard told stories; then a pack of wolves bared their teeth and growled at him when he came near. He would be a young man traveling with a caravan of nomads; then he fled men raising their rifles to shoot at him, terror making his limbs nimble. 

Dawn was breathtaking in the past week.

The morning colors were always the most vivid in the peak of spring. Those precious minutes of watching the darkness dissipate into shades of pink, orange, and amber violet gave him the only peace the Wolf would know that day. 

Only after the sun came up would he allow himself to sleep. The torment of his dreams caused him less anguish under a bright sky.

The sequence of dreams always ended with his grandfather, and he came to him as the Wolf. The old man looked at him with sorrow, while the Wolf was always angry when they met. He was also ashamed for being such a fool, but he still felt betrayed by his grandfather.

If the Bard hadn’t propelled into those dreams, he would have left the girl behind in No Man’s Land. 

“Why?” the Wolf asked, always the same question every night.

“Just follow your heart,” the Bard replied. “And you’ll be all right.”

“How can I do that when I don’t have it with me?”

“Your heart’s always a part of you.”

His grandfather never elaborated and the Wolf would awaken to his throbbing hollow space. His limbs ached as if he’d been running for hours, and there was often a rank taste in the back of his mouth.   

Whenever Ella Bandita came to mind, he pushed the image away. Thinking about her made the vile course through his veins, and reminded the Wolf that he couldn’t change his predicament. 

Every night he howled to the moon, and every morning his first instinct was to stand on two legs. But he could never keep his balance and dropped four paws to the ground.

His lupine form remained a stranger to him. 

He didn’t like his fur. Being unable to touch his skin frustrated him. He felt his potential for strength, but didn’t know how to use it. 

Subtle noises distracted him and his sense of smell was torture. Knowing prey was around him always and being unable to hunt it down nearly drove him to madness on some days. He had speed, yet still couldn’t catch the smaller animals. 

His instincts were both natural and bizarre, and the Wolf was left to scavenge in the compost piles to stay alive. He was amazed he could keep the refuse down. The thought of being this wretched creature for the rest of his live filled him with despair. 

He thought about the village all the time, the Bard’s cabin a haven now beyond his reach. 

The Wolf often fell asleep hoping the agony of his dreams would kill him. But he always came to in the late afternoon, and his waking hours were much like those before had been. 

On this morning, the Wolf gazed into the rising sun as long as he could keep his eyes open, pleading for anything to change.            

He fell into the blackness of sleep without dreams, waking up to heavy limbs and a reluctance to move. 

He knew something was different when he opened his eyes and yawned. He had a sense of wellbeing that had been missing for a long time. 

Finally, his fluttering ears brought him to the recognition of music. 

Somebody was playing a fiddle nearby.

Of Course, That's Who She Was

Image by Engin Akyurt from Pixabay

Image by Engin Akyurt from Pixabay

The girl from No Man’s Land would have looked a downtrodden prostitute in her tattered skirts were it not for her walk. Hers was not the gait of desperation. She had the long stride strut of a man.

One glimpse and his body became a traitor to him yet again, his longing for her more brutal than ever.

The Wanderer didn’t realize he was following her until a large black carriage caught her attention. 

A quartet of horses pulled their burden with a high-stepping trot, the open box exposing the four noblemen inside.

The cape of one soared outside the carriage, its extravagant length sweeping along the wharf.  The gentleman’s face was hidden with the likeness of a skull, and the Wanderer realized it must be All Hallows Eve. All the occupants were in costume, their faces covered in masks.

But their voices were loud, their accents rendered uncouth from drink.

The carriage stopped before the most raucous tavern on the wharf, the sounds of merrymaking ringing from inside.

The Wanderer raised his brows.

Surely the gentlemen wouldn’t dream of going inside. This was the place for those who lived and worked on the wharf, not for the guests of a fancy dress ball. But the garbled discussion about the fun that could be found on the wharf confirmed they intended to do exactly that. 

The Wanderer shook his head and snorted.

The noblemen looked absurd stumbling out of the carriage, tripping over the capes cascading to their ankles. When they lifted their masks, they uncovered bloated features and bleary eyes. But the tallest of the four was the last to remove his, the grinning violet demon replaced with a handsome face.

The Wanderer immediately recognized the type of noble he resented the most. 

He suspected this was a man whose pride exceeded his ability. Even his beauty betrayed that kind of vanity. Sharp cheekbones sliced the midline of his face, full lips curled in derision, his chin at a high tilt.  His dark brown eyes were empty when he looked at his friends, his contempt for them thinly veiled. But he still followed them into the tavern.

The Wanderer saw the girl watching them as well. 

Her eyes glittered as she stared after the billowing cape of the handsomest nobleman, her thick teeth gleaming when she smiled. She didn’t hesitate before she followed. 

The Wanderer’s throat grew tight and the churning in his belly surged the taste of bitterness to his mouth. 

“Go home…”

The call of his heart was endearing in its gentleness. 

He tried to capture the lightness of spirit he had from his vision of going back to the village. 

But the memory of the girl was seared into his flesh and the thought of her with the arrogant nobleman made him burn.  The Wanderer found himself in front of the tavern before he knew where he’d gone. His stomach clenched and the throbbing of his heart was agony. He tried to will himself to turn around and go home. 

Instead, he pushed through the doors.

The revelry inside knocked the wind out of him. 

Seamen were everywhere, both fishermen and pirates. There were also vagabonds, conmen, craftsmen, and merchants. All of them drinking together in the riotous brotherhood of men, the only women in the tavern were serving wenches and prostitutes.

The former were comely with blouses laced up their middles, generous breasts pushed against their necklines, arms muscular from carrying mugs of ale, most holding three to a hand. Others carried snifters of high spirits, their balance impeccable as they held their trays high and pushed through the crowd. The wenches were adept at avoiding unwanted touches, leaving room for the night ladies to move in.

The prostitutes’ faces were garish from powder and rouge, their flimsy gowns cut low to the waist. They stalked for the amorous embrace, their sharp eyes prowling for the look of lust, a mouth turned down from hidden sadness, boredom crossing one face in the company of friends.  Those were the signs the night ladies sought out before sidling near their men and smiling with a suggestive wink.

The Wanderer couldn’t move at first. 

The shouting and singing merged into a loud buzz ringing in his ears, his nose assailed with the smells of sweat, liquor, and cheap perfume. 

Then the mass of bodies became a rolling sea that drew him into its storm, and he found himself winding through the crowd.

The Wanderer was grateful nobody was in costume, for that would have been too much to withstand. He was surprised to find an empty stool at the bar. Before long, he had his seat and a frothing pint before him, leaving him free to scan the room.

The fancy dress quartet was easy to find. 

The florid tavern keeper kept them separate from the mêlée, settling them at a large round table on the stage and gesturing to the prettiest of his wenches to serve them. 

She seemed cheerful with her dimpled cheeks and a round face framed with copper curls. But she had a taste for the vulgar. 

The noblemen roared when she pulled a match from her cleavage and struck it against her teeth to light their cigars. The stoutest of them smacked her bottom, chortling at the loathing that marred her features.

The wench made her way to the counter and waited until she was loaded with snifters and mugs. Then she disappeared with her tray into the latrine, smiling when she came out and returned to the table onstage. Her tone was playful as she urged her honored guests to throw the spirits down their throats, for there were more to come. She smirked after they drained their snifters and bowed with a low curtsey.

The Wanderer laughed with everybody else in the tavern. 

But the noblemen had no idea of the crude joke played on them. 

Revelers cheered the feisty wench, tossing coins on her tray and pushing notes down her cleavage. The tavern keeper waited with raised brows as she made her way through the crowd. He placed more drinks on her tray and pointed to the stage, but his severity relented with the grin he couldn’t suppress. 

The wench made a show of a loud sigh with longing gaze to the latrine. But her revenge was enough and she sashayed to her premier table.

Finally, the Wanderer spotted the girl from No Man’s Land leaning against the back wall of the stage.

She grinned when she looked at the serving wench delivering the fresh round of drinks. She had appreciated the prank as much as everybody else in the tavern.

But the girl still planted herself in the line of vision of the handsome nobleman, making herself a caricature of provocation with her elbows hooked around the railing and exaggerating the arch of her back. 

With her beggarly garments and disheveled hair, the pose should have been ludicrous.

At first, the Wanderer shook his head, embarrassed for her. He wasn’t surprised when the nobleman glanced at her and flicked his eyes away, his mouth curled in a sneer. He was legions above this girl in his station in life. He knew it and didn’t bother trying to hide it with genteel modesty. 

But his hauteur didn’t affect the girl in the least. She continued her vigil.

The Wanderer frowned. 

Her intent was clear.

But her eyes were every bit as cold staring down the handsome gentleman as when she had looked at the Wanderer. When the nobleman glanced her way again, she grinned with a hint of disdain. An expression her target recognized. 

The nobleman scowled and turned away. He even made an effort to converse with his friends. But the girl had gotten under his skin. And his company grew more tedious with each round of drinks.

The Wanderer knew the handsome nobleman felt that gaze penetrating him from the tension in his back and the rise of his shoulders. 

But the nobleman couldn’t resist the lure of her stare and looked back at the girl again.

Her grin had spread into a smile, her large teeth gleaming. A spark of fear lit up his dark brown eyes for a moment, and the handsome face paled. 

The smirk disappeared from his face when the girl threw her head back and laughed. He turned towards his friends again, but his determination to ignore the girl didn’t last long. After a few minutes of trying to engage with the drunken louts around him, the nobleman looked back at her.

Her blue eyes glittered and she leaned her head to one side, her chin tilted in much the same way as his.

His ale suddenly distasteful to him, the Wanderer struggled to get the liquid down his throat. It wouldn’t be long before the nobleman succumbed and left his friends to go to her, his fascination more apparent each time he turned her way. 

He had to hand it to the girl. He had never witnessed the arrogant seduced through insolence. But the thought of the girl with the nobleman left the Wanderer seething. His fingers were white gripping his mug, and he downed the bitter ale until there was none.

The Wanderer hadn’t noticed the drunkard slumped next to him until the other hiccoughed, the spasm jerking his elbow into the Wanderer’s side. The stranger mumbled a garbled apology, glanced at him with reddened eyes, then his head bobbed to his mug. 

Irritation swelled inside the Wanderer. 

The raucous noise and putrid scent of spilled ale, watching the woman he desired seduce another and being elbowed by a stranger were more than he could tolerate. 

Deciding he’d had enough, he slid off his stool.  

“That one’s back in town,” the drunkard muttered. “She’s the devil, she is.”

The Wanderer stopped and peered at the man slouched over his mug. He wasn’t facing the stage, but instinct told him the drunkard spoke of the girl he followed.

“Pardon me, Citizen,” he said, touching the slumped shoulder and pointing towards the stage. “Do you know that girl?”

The drunkard’s head jerked up and his eyes cleared for a moment as he looked between the Wanderer and the girl. His face was white. 

“Hell no!” he shouted. “And you don’t need to know Ella Bandita either!” 

The drunkard slapped him hard on the chest before slithering off his stool and weaving through the crowd, shouting at the foolhardy lust of stupid young men. 

But the Wanderer hardly noticed.

The room started to spin at the sound of her name. His vision blurred and his knees buckled. The Wanderer gripped the edge of the counter to steady himself, the shaking in his thighs beyond his control.

Ella Bandita. Of course, that’s who the girl was from No Man’s Land.

The Bard’s stories meshed with images of the girl from the woods, intertwining until his mind was a kaleidoscope of memory and legend.

The Wanderer held his breath and prayed she had not heard. He looked towards the stage.

The girl was staring at him.

Even from a distance, the Wanderer saw that muscle twitching in her jaw.

The Fool's Journey, Part 2 - On the Road # 28

Image by Pexels from Pixabay 

Image by Pexels from Pixabay

Hey y’all,

Since Sun and I got a late start from Eugene, we didn’t get far.

Sun suggested we stay the night in Ashland because we’d have a place to crash there - a friend who she had met at EarthDance in September working in his kitchen 

She didn’t tell me her “friend” was the Knight of Cups. I also thought she had a girlfriend, but hey! Sexuality is fluid. 

Since Sun had made 0 book sales on my behalf, I was agreeable to a free place to stay. I also learned yet another lesson in getting what you pay for, but more on that later.

Again, I don’t regret giving Sun a ride because she had great stories, it was another chapter in this grand adventure, and awesome things would come of it. Just not in the way I thought they would.

Before we went to the Knight of Cups, she also turned me on the luscious Jackson Well Springs, a lovely place to soak and sauna naked at night. I wouldn’t have found this wonderful place without Sun.

She ran into another friend from her time in Taos, and ran off to have tea with him.

Finally we made it to our crashpad and the Knight of Cups.

His name was Matava. I’m pretty sure he named himself. He was originally from New York. But once he had awakened to a higher vibration, Matava donned loose, flowing garments to indicate his enlightenment, and made his living with exotic cuisine and Ayurvedic smart drinks.

I think he was a caterer with a New Age edge. 

I had to admit his tea was excellent. But I doubt it made me more intelligent. As far as his healthful cleanse cookies were concerned, they tasted funny - probably because they didn’t have any sugar 

Sun and Matava got reacquainted with a lively discussion over the wisdom of human design and Chinese astrology. Matava consistently referred to the Chinese and Western astrological significance of his absent housemate. I don’t remember her name, but she was at least 10 years older than he and owned the house.

“She’s a Fire Horse AND a Scorpio,” he said. “She’s very Scorpio.”

I suspected that meant he’s her lover who pays no rent, and the Fire Horse Scorpio gets pissed off with her errant Knight of Cups on the regular. 

And then Sun started disrobing.

Like a lot of Pacific Northwest hippies, Sun dressed in layers of heavy sweaters. As she and Matava animated over all things New Age, Sun took off one heavy sweater after another, along with her leggings and woolen socks until she was down to a t-shirt and loose, flowing skirt and bare feet. She also contorted her body in visually appealing stretches that thrust her ample breasts into the limelight.

When Matava slid down to the ground in a bent-knee crouch, Sun followed suit, with her long skirts making a pretense of modesty. Once they overlapped their big toes and gave each other that look, I knew exactly where this night was going.

But I was exhausted and it was time to crash at the crashpad.

Matava had made up a massage table in the living room for me to sleep on and I was out within minutes.

Unfortunately, exhaustion didn’t render me deaf. The High Priestess, Sun, elevated the Knight of Cups, Matava to the state of the Lovers, and woke up the Fool who had given her a free ride. I was tempted to make some noise to disrupt the high vibration of their coupling, but why? 

From what I heard, it sounded rather average.   

The next morning, Sun hinted that she'd forgotten how much she liked "Matava's company," with the implication that she could hang in Ashland even though a storm was coming that we would be wise to beat.  Then we hit Evo's Cafe.  The High Priestess went to the market to replenish the supply of ass-wipes for the Knight of Cups.  The Fool checked email and pulled out my tarot deck and started shuffling, wondering how I was going to gracefully extricate myself from this situation.

Upsidedown Temperance asked me for a reading, even though he had no money.  One of the eccentric, homeless youth that has found some sanctuary in the most tolerant coffee house in the affluent arty community of Ashland - home to the Shakespeare Festival every summer - took a seat and I gave him a reading, which he interpreted for himself.  Once Sebastian had satisfied his need to talk about his neglected talents while he had someone's attention, he left the table after a couple of hints.

A well-preserved, nicely groomed black man with a shaved head and pretty face at the table on my left who had observed the interaction of the reading, started up a conversation.  His speech was as refined as his looks, so I gave him a brief rundown of my story and explained that the cards were a gimmick I used to get people's attention to the book.  He then asked me what I thought it meant that the cards got people's attention.  What did I think people were seeking?  Of course, I didn't know. 

"They're looking for that third voice," he said. 

His name was Amien and he had moved to Ashland from Santa Rosa, California just six months before.  At fifty-two, Amien had had many lives, as a professional dancer and an artist, he had designed sets and done the lighting for many productions, and although settled was in chrysalis for his next life incarnation.  He encouraged me to do a storytelling, although he preferred philosophy and science fiction.  The noise of the cafe distracted him after a couple of minutes, so Amien suggested going by his cottage and doing the storytelling there. 

"It's very peaceful, I'll make some tea, and it'll be much better."

Never, never, never go off with strangers, always said my mother, the Empress.  You may come across the Devil, maybe even Death, and then what are you going to do?

But I am the Fool, and I am no longer a little girl.  Amien gave off a good vibe-ration, my instincts told me it was safe, so I went.  Besides, I thought he was gay. 

Besides, it is the Fool's nature to trust.  Will this step send me careening over the cliff or dancing over the rainbow?

If one doesn't trust, one doesn't get to meet the Magician...or the man who makes things happen.

Amien was a highly talented artist from what I saw of the pieces in the mother in law apartment.  After listening to "The Birth of Ella Bandita," he bought two books, offered me his spare bedroom - a good hidey-hole for the Hermit - and said he'd like to throw a party for me. 

"We'll make it very nice, very selective," Amien said.  "So you will meet the kind of people who can help you." 

The best part, it really was no strings.  Amien had his libido and his attention distracted by a sweet young thing, half his age, who led him around by the nose...or the head.  I provided good conversation, a sympathetic ear, and good counsel.    

"It'll be my first soiree," he said. 

Ain't it grand how artists support each other?

That night, he introduced me to the Hierophant, who had the mother-in-law apartment he lived in.  Melody was a teacher, whose daughter also was a self-published writer.  She was also throwing a dinner party that same night, so Amien suggested they coordinate their events and I be the guest storyteller for both parties. 

He helped with making up the flyer/invites, thinking up such refinements as "intimate setting," and "light refreshment provided" and a discreet "Books for sale." 

The party had a good turn-out, and The Fool got to take a turn as the Star, entertaining the Court with a tale.  Emperors, Scholarly Hermits, Lovers, and Empresses made up the audience.

It was grand, but alas not perfect.

As much as the Magician warned the Fool to be selective, I gave a flyer to a woman whose Tower had come crashing down.  He had met her and was surprised that I gave her an invite.

"She strikes me as somebody with a Ramona complex," Amien said.  "I suspect she's missing parts."

He shrugged and said it'll be what it'll be, but the Magician called it.  Just as the Star had told the climax to an audience of enthralled Courtiers, and was forty-five seconds away from the end, a Queen in the audience interrupted.

"There's somebody out in the cold."

Turning around there was the woman of the fallen Tower peeking in the windows, wanting to be let in.  The Fool did, and gathering my wits, finished the tale.  Honestly, it was more disruptive to the audience than it was to me.

An hour later, the Fool realized what a mistake inviting the fallen Tower to the party.

"That's why I consider myself legitimately schizophrenic," she hooted in laughter at her own joke. 

The Magician gave the Fool many a pointed look until there was an opportunity to generously volunteer a ride in the Chariot of my Brown Beast.   

It occurred to me that I shouldn't be compassionate at the expense of others.  After all, this sanctuary was home to the gracious Hierophant and Magician.   

They didn't ask for this. 

"I told you so," said Amien as soon as I came back from giving Julia a ride home. 

Other than that, The Fool took a step off the cliff and ended up with the World in his pocket. 

I love Ashland!!!!

Peace,

Montgomery

 

The Fool's Journey, Part 1 - On the Road # 27

Image by komahouse from Pixabay 

Image by komahouse from Pixabay 

Hey y'all,

I love being on the road.  

As exhausting as it is, I absolutely fucking love being on the road.  There's something about throwing oneself in the path of chance...

Not to mention that being on the road is sweet living at its most distilled. All the sour, bitter, and not so tasty parts are culled from the nectar every time I start up the Beast and ride into the sunset.

Even if there is no sunset, I always feel more and more amazing the further and further I get away from that place where not so wonderful things have happened.

Is it also immature?

Of course it is. 

But to throw oneself in the path of chance is to be the Eternal Fool at the start of one’s journey in the Tarot, leaving myself open to the domino effect of things as they happen.

After Thanksgiving, I left Eugene to go back to Seattle to the bazaar managed by an eighty year old clown at the former elementary school.  

This time it was a waste of time and money, not to mention that Marcia (pronounced Mar-See-Yaa) Moonstar just had to come by my booth to bitch and complain every chance she got. 

Even though she had the benefits of my boom box playing music in her booth because I didn't have batteries and that was the only outlet in the room, the energy vampire still had more juju to suck out of me. 

Mar-SEE-YA Moonstar was a wannabe High Priestess, while she was truly Upside Down Justice because she was also the one making money.

The unfairness of it all got to me. I had to get out of there. I got in the Chariot of my Beast by 2 in the PM, left the flea market early and drove to Portland. 

As soon as I left the city limits of Seattle, I felt lighter and breathed easier. It felt great to cut short the unnecessary suffering of a bad decision and just move on.

The flea market idea wasn't so great after all...

I'd been hearing about craigslist ever since I got down to the lower forty-eight, and I came up with a crazy idea in regards to rideshare. 

"Good at sales and need ride to Denver?" so began my ad.

In a nutshell, I made it clear that anybody who sold my books would get a free ride with no gas money.

I thought what the hell?  It's free to post an ad on this site, so what did I have to lose? I didn’t even expect anybody to answer since I put it up at the last minute.

What enterprising salesman-types would be looking for rides to anywhere?

Well, somebody did answer my post. I didn’t get an enterprising salesman type, but I did get Sun. Just imagine my surprise when my post was answered by another Fool on her own Journey.

"I'm in Eugene and am ready to leave right now."

Yet another stop in Eugene to meet my prospective saleswoman eager for a ride free of gas money.

Sun, nee Susan, was born and bred in the farming plains of Iowa. She was a robust blonde with slightly cocked blue eyes.

At twenty-four, Sun was as cosmic a hippie as one who had come of age in the late 60’s. She spent at least a year living naked and homeless in the island wilderness of Kauai. Somehow she ended up there after flunking out of college due to her activism in things that matter.

Sun recommended herself with the claim that in her gypsy travels of joblessness, she often went door to door canvassing for the Sierra Club for the going rate of 50 bucks a day whenever she was broke. So she would likely be comfortable approaching strangers to sell my collection of original fairy tales.

She'd been road-tripping around the West Coast for two months, but was really compelled to keep her promise to her folks in Iowa and return for visit by Christmas. I was heading to Denver, which was on the way more or less, and Sun had a cousin there she could stay with.

Knowing Sun made me fully understand why those who are just passing through are looked at sideways by those who have put down roots, paid their dues, and accepted the benefits of staying in one place. 

The nomadic don't invest in any one town, therefore how can they be trusted?    

Back in Homer at the beginning of this DIY book tour/road trip, Lia, the woman who let me sleep in the Beast on her property had a saying:

“We are all interconnected.”

How true. And there's nothing quite like giving a stranger a ride in good faith a road trip to prove it.

If nothing else, Sun had great stories and was fascinating to talk to.

Our first hours on the road, Sun showed me a picture of her girlfriend, her “baby” as she called her, and told me all about the paradise of living naked in Kauai.

She had been part of a gaggle of transients who moved their encampment from place to place around the wilderness of Kauai to avoid getting busted and kicked off.

She said it was glorious to l to eat mangoes from trees and not need any money until the day some guy showed up who took a dislike to her. He nudged and nudged until she was exiled from the village.

Even Paradise has a dark underbelly.

But as far as our original agreement was concerned, I often had to remind Sun to talk me up whenever we made a pit stop.

"Oh...yeah..." said Sun every time.

Unfortunately, my enterprising saleswoman had the attention span of a two year old.

She didn’t sell one book. But I don’t regret giving her a ride because the risk of giving cosmic hippie Sun a ride to Denver lead to other more wonderful things.

More to come on my Fool’s Journey in the next email.

Peace,

Mana

Soothing After Nightmare

Image by StockSnap from Pixabay

Image by StockSnap from Pixabay

The Wanderer was shaking, and before he could stop himself, began to sob. 

He felt the girl stiffen and her weight shift.

But he sat up and grabbed her, burying his face in her neck.

“Let me go, Wanderer!”

But he had to hold on. 

He couldn’t see anything but the nightmares and memories still haunting him. The images were slow to disappear. But they did the more he became aware of his surroundings, the hard ground underneath him, the chill on his skin, his rough blanket fallen around him. 

The girl was rigid in his arms, but warm and soft. 

He held her tight, breathing in her aroma. He was surprised when he noticed her folded legs hugging his hips. She must have climbed on top of him during his nightmare. 

Then he remembered.

“Did I hit you?”

“Yes, you did,” she said. “Now that you’ve finally come back to your senses, will you please let me go?”

He strained to make out her shape, but that was impossible in the darkness of his tent. Her smooth liquor voice and sweet pungent smell disoriented him. Only the feel and smell of her made this seem real. 

He wished she would touch him. Maybe then he could stop shaking.            

“Can’t you just hold me for a while?” he asked.

“You can’t be serious. You want me to comfort you?”

“Is that really asking so much?”

“Yeah it is,” she said. “I’m not exactly the comforting type.”

“You woke me up from a nightmare, didn’t you?”

“Because you were screaming and woke me up. What else was I supposed to do?”

The girl sounded as bored and detached as always. 

For once, the Wanderer welcomed the bitter hardness to pulse inside him, anything to make the terror go away. But his rage wasn’t enough. His limbs were overpowered with a violence of trembling he couldn’t stop.

He didn’t know who he despised more, the girl for her indifference or himself for needing her not to be. 

“I’d like to know something about you,” he snapped. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

“Go ahead,” she said. “Ask whatever you want.”

“Do you ever hate yourself?”

He savored the sharp intake of her breath. He had actually gotten to her. The Wanderer knew for certain when she didn’t answer right away, a victory he hadn’t foreseen.

“Well,” he persisted. “Do you?”

“All the time,” she said. “If you must know.”

“I dare you to try something different. You might surprise us both.”

“I have no idea what you want of me, Wanderer.”

“That’s crazy,” he said. “Hasn’t anybody ever calmed you down when you were upset?”

She fell silent, but the Wanderer didn’t push her to answer. 

He regretted his harsh words. The thrill of cruelty was already wearing off and left him ashamed. It was strange talking to the girl without being able to see her. The blackness made their dialogue a specter floating in the abyss where it would be forever suspended. 

“Yes,” she finally said. “Once, there was somebody who did.”

There was weariness, even sadness, in her voice he never heard before.

The Wanderer was surprised by the flush of sympathy pouring into him, even relieved. His compassion brought him back to the man he had always been, whose kindness and goodwill made him friends all over the world, the man his grandfather had raised him to be.    

“All right,” he said gently. “Why don’t you start with that and go from there?”

The Wanderer couldn’t believe it when the girl did as he asked.

She leaned into him and wrapped her arms around him, her head falling to his shoulder and nestling against his neck. She gave a long sigh when he pulled her close, her body melting into his and her hands slowly stroking the length of his back. 

The Wanderer gripped her until the shaking subsided in smaller waves. Then he loosened his arms and they continued to hold each other, their breathing merging and rolling in mirror rhythms. His lungs expanded with the air she pushed out and his breath flowed into her every time he exhaled. 

Then his trembling was gone. 

His face still buried in her neck where her scent was lighter. He inhaled deeply and let his hands roam over her back. 

The girl didn’t resist, returning his caresses with her own. 

Before the Wanderer knew what he was doing, he brought his lips to the flesh below her ear. 

But the girl didn’t pull away. 

He felt the offering she made of her neck, her sighs longer and louder as he nibbled down the canal to the base of her throat. 

In a swoon, the Wanderer collapsed to the ground and the girl fell with him.

Ready for Your New Life, Addie?

Image by Alexandr Ivanov from Pixabay

Image by Alexandr Ivanov from Pixabay

It was exhilarating to contemplate the onset of my wildest dream coming true.

I stared at my reflection in the still water at the edges of the river.

My wide face with browned skin and peasant features, the deep pockmarks and coarse hair that had the texture of straw held back by the kerchief around my head. The broad shoulders, thick torso, muscular arms, and meaty hands, calloused from a lifetime of hard labor.

Within days, I would never look like that again. My eyes would be the only original feature I would carry with me into my new life.

In that moment, I couldn’t imagine what I would look like.

How strange was that since envy created deep memory. I had the face and figure of the Patron’s Daughter etched in my brain because I had coveted her beauty my entire life. Yet when I tried to get a mental picture of what I would look like with her face and my eyes, my mind grew blank.

After an hour at the river, my nerves were settled enough to make my way home. I made a shortcut through the Ancient Grove, and had not gone too many paces before the Sorcerer appeared.

“Excellent diversion today,” he said. “You didn’t let them push you.”

It took me a moment to realize he was talking about the workers in my group badgering me about the identity of the lover who had humbled the Patron’s Daughter.

As unnerving as it was that the Sorcerer always seemed to know the happenings in my day, I shrugged it off.

“After all your hard work,” he continued. “It would be a shame if you ruined it at the final hour by running off in a panic.”

“I’m not panicked.”

The Sorcerer raised his hairless brows slightly.

“Are you sure?”

“People are starting to talk,” I countered. “That means people will start to watch. If she gets caught, I get caught.”

The Sorcerer chortled.

“You underestimate me, Addie. I promise you the Patron’s Daughter won’t be unless I want her caught. She would have been long ago had it not been for me.”

I stared at him.

“Relax,” he continued. “Don’t run away to the Capital City unless you’re confident you have what it takes to be there.”

“I’m ready.”

“Are you sure? You know you will have to flee as soon as you transform, don’t you?”

“Of course, I do. I have a plan for how I’ll arrive in the Capital City.”

“Convince me,” the Sorcerer countered. “When you get to there, how do you enter?”

“Through the eastern gate before dawn. The gate is always open and seldom used. There is rarely a sentry there to check papers, which I don’t have.”

“What do you do then?”

“Slowly make my way to a café on the avenue of theaters. I’ll have breakfast and tea there until the time to go to a boarding house three blocks behind the opera. The house is dull red and has no sign. The landlady loves nothing more than money.”

“And?”

“I ask for a room in her boarding house with a silver coin in my hand, more than enough for a week, even if she chooses to cheat me.”

“Very well. Then what do you do?”

 “I settle in for a bit, and mention that I am looking for a very spacious apartment, suitable for entertaining.”

I almost felt like I was leaving my body as I said that.

The thought of my own room seemed an incredible luxury. I didn’t even know what an apartment was. I couldn’t imagine living in one, much less entertaining anybody. Everything I said didn’t seem real.

“What do you do when she pries?”

“Maybe she won’t pry.”

“Trust me. She’ll pry. A lot of people will. How do you handle that?”

“I don’t answer. I look away from her, turn my back.”

“Excellent. When she offers to show you an apartment or two, what do you do?”

“I act casual, and agree to see them. But I also say I will ask around the area for other lodging because my needs are very particular.”

“Very good. She’ll resist that. What do you do when she asks about your plans?”

“I’ll tell her what I do is my own business. I then tell her that I will pay rent six months in advance to the landlord who will respect my privacy.”

“Perfect. She’ll want you as a tenant and show you her best. What do you do after she shows you her available apartments?”

“I view all the apartments, even if I have my heart set on a particular one. I listen for her particulars and prices of the apartments, and whatever price she names, I offer less.”

“Why?”

“Her first offer will likely be an attempt to cheat me. If she offers eighty a month, I’ll offer fifty.”

“What if she wants a hundred per month?”

“I still offer fifty.”

“Then what?”

“We haggle until I get her price down to no more than sixty to seventy a month, no matter how elegant or spacious.”

“Why do you do that?”

“So she doesn’t take me for a fool of whom she can take advantage.”

“Addie, do you think you’re capable enough to argue her price down?”

I thought of everything I had been through to get to this moment. There was no way I would let that future greedy landlady drag me down.

“Yes, I am.”

The Sorcerer nodded slowly.

“So what do you do then?”

“I’m careful with my money, and resist the overpowering urges I am likely to have to spend it too freely.”

“Why is that?”

“Because I’ve been poor all my life.”

“Why else?”

“To protect myself. As a young woman without family nor papers, I’m likely to be marked by con men and mercenaries.”

The Sorcerer nodded slowly, his expression confusing to me because nobody had ever looked at me like that.

Many years later I would remember his face in that moment, and recognize that the Sorcerer had been proud of me.

“Addie, do you think you can handle my next tryst with the Patron’s Daughter without fainting?”

I blushed.

“You must stay conscious this time,” he said. “Maybe you should fake sick that day and get some rest.”

I looked at him as if he was out of his mind.

“You do understand what kind of patrons they are, don’t you? There is no such thing as being too sick to work.”

The Sorcerer chortled.

“It was very clever of you to suggest the Patron’s Daughter pay you in clothes and jewels this week. I’ll make sure she brings at least one complete ensemble to outfit you.”

I must have looked confused.

“You are definitely ready, Addie.”

“You really think so?”

The Sorcerer nodded and smiled broadly.

“Time will be of the essence that night, so I doubt there will be a chance to express to you my congratulations and say, fare thee well. I’m sure you will fare well indeed, Addie. You have so much ahead of you. You can’t even imagine.”

It was a kindness that the future remained a well-hidden mystery in that moment. I might have lost my nerve if I had had a glimpse of the life that awaited me.

As it was, I could scarcely breathe.