The Unicorn And The Cat

The Unicorn And The Cat — Blue Ink Alchemy

"Tell me a sweet story," she asked me, via instant message. "Please. With cats. And a unicorn." Standing in my friend's kitchen at their birthday party, I thought for just a few moments. I smiled. And then I began. Once upon a time, a unicorn felt entirely alone. The forest was vast, and deep, and beautiful, but it could be so lonely. The unicorn roamed the paths through the forest, following traces of scent and bits of hoof-broken twig. Their first find was a young doe; sweet, but not a unicorn. They next found a stag, white and wise, who treated the unicorn with respect and kindness, but still was not a unicorn. ("Wait. Does the unicorn have purple hair?" "If you want them to!" "Okay!") The stag, hearing the unicorn's story, asked them simply, "Have you asked the cats?" The unicorn paused. They had run into cats before. Cats were furry and affectionate, but could turn so quickly. The unicorn had scars to tell that tale. "I understand your fear and hesitation," said the white stag. "But you must be honest with the cats, and with yourself. If you are nothing but honest, they will never stop helping you." The unicorn, so thankful, went to find the cats. The unicorn talked of how lonely they were, how they wished to just find another of their kind, and how they had been lead here by the stag. The cats were silent for a long time. Then a long, lean, female black cat said quietly, "Follow me." The unicorn paused again. Black cats were said to be unlucky. "Why do you wait?" asked the cat. "They say you're unlucky," the unicorn said honestly. "Then rely not on luck, but on your hooves and my guidance." The path of the cat lead her and the unicorn into a bog. It was smelly and dark and the mire sucked at the unicorn's hooves. The unicorn held their head high to shed more light, and the cat hissed. "This makes it easier for me to see," said the unicorn. "But I am the one who knows the way," snapped the cat, "and your light will not save you from what it attracts. Douse it." The unicorn doused their light, and the sounds of the mire crept in around them. For a long moment, nothing happened. Then something jumped on the unicorn's head! It was the cat! She turned around and pawed at the unicorn's horn. "I will guide us," said the cat. "Are you ready? Are you afraid?" The unicorn remembered the advice of the stag. They wanted to say they were not afraid of anything, and they were always ready. After all, unicorns are pure magic! But that would have been a lie. "I am ready," the unicorn said, "but I am afraid." "Good," said the cat. "Only fools do not fear the unknown. And cats do not suffer fools." With the cat's paw batting at their horn, the unicorn was guided through the mire, down into a gorge crawling with spiders, and over a ravine that had no bottom. Through it all, the unicorn answered the cat's questions honestly, only after asking themselves and being sure of the truth, first. At last, they came to a great glade by a river. In it, the unicorn at last happened across another of their kind! But once more, they paused. "I'm afraid," said the unicorn to the cat. "I have faced darkness, danger, and impossible peril, and here before me is what I seek, and it fills me with more fear than anything that's come before." "How did you survive those things?" The cat watched the unicorn carefully. "I was honest, with you and with myself." "Do this," said the cat, "and you cannot fail this other of your kind." "Is it that easy?" "Yes," said the cat, gold eyes glittering, "and that terrifying." The unicorn blinked. "Why did you guide me all this way?" "This stream has the tastiest salmon in the entire forest," said the cat. "With this in my belly, I will easily become queen." "Why did you not come yourself?" "I could not navigate the mire or gorge or ravine on my little paws. You were most helpful." "But how will you get back?" The cat shrugged. "I will figure something out. I'm clever." The unicorn went to the other, told their story, and was completely honest. After some thought, the other unicorn agreed. They approached the cat. "We will take you home," the unicorn said. "You helped me get here, and meet another of my kind. The least I can do is help win your throne." "You don't want to stay here, after searching so long for this new home?" "I do," said the unicorn honestly, "but I will not leave you so far from yours. That is not how unicorns are." "And besides," said the unicorn, "anywhere there is more than one of us together, we can make a home that rivals any throne. Such is the power of our magic, and our love." "Salmon first," said the cat, "then my throne." "So it shall be," said the unicorn. And so it was. The end.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Flash Fiction: Walking Widdershins

Flash Fiction: Walking Widdershins — Blue Ink Alchemy

The coldest winter winds have teeth. No matter how much down or Gore-Tex you might layer on yourself, an invisible blade slices right through the center of you, pushing a chill into the marrow of your bones. It can be a fleeting thing, a momentary brush against the heart of you by a passing lover with the coldest of fingertips, or a constant howling sensation, a driving force with razor-keen edges that cut through your meat without remorse, leaving you with discomfort bordering on agony. It's a hell of a way to remember you're alive. Somehow, the tent managed to stay up all night. The sleeping bag kept out most of the cold at bay, but you can still feel the latent bits of cold in your bones from last night's walking. You tumble out of the protection of the fabric layers and emerge from the tent into harsh, clear sunlight. It's still cold, colder than anything you'd feel back home, but better now that it's morning. You get a fire going, set out your little steel pot to heat some water, and sit outside of your tent to look towards your goal. The jagged peaks of the mountains are partially obscured by low-hanging clouds. The front is moving over the summits like a living, seething mass of gray. It's odd how something so massive, so ancient, so implacably solid can at once seem closer than it ever has before, and impossibly far away. The mind struggles to process the scale of the mountains in and of themselves, to say nothing of the journey one must undertake to reach said mountains, ascend their heights, and return safely to tell the tale. You know that last part is going to be the trickiest. You pour your hot water into the coffee pot and use the rest to saturate some oatmeal. As you chew on your breakfast, you take an inventory of your remaining provisions. The dried fruit and pressed bars of protein make your stomach growl, but you remember that you have a long way to go. The berries and roots that helped keep the edge off of your hunger are behind you, and ahead is a wide expanse of desolation. You don't know what, if anything, grows on or near the mountains. Mushrooms in caves, perhaps? You close up your bag so you can stop thinking about it. You turn your attention to your breakfast and try to soak up as much sunlight as you can. The clouds give you pause. Undertaking any sort of journey into the wild or the unknown is fraught with perils and subject to uncertainty and doubt. Those who step outside of their comfort zones, away from civilization, and strive towards something distant or inscrutable aren't taking a safe trip. Preparations can be made, certainly, and the more informed the traveler is, the better their chance for survival, but complete safety is an illusion. Keeping one's wits about them is the best safety measure that can be taken, and leads to other measures such as survival gear, maps, rationing, and situational awareness. To head out into the fringes and return safe home is not for the faint of heart or soft of brain. The wind picks up, a herald of the storm front, and you know it's time to move on. You douse your fire, put your coffee in a canteen to be slung at your hip, and scarf the rest of your breakfast. Breaking down the tent takes a mere handful of minutes, but another gust of wind reminds you that time is no longer on your side. If it ever was. In less time than it takes to tell, you've shouldered your pack and are once again on your way. Your long staff picks out sturdy places to set your boots, and before long you've settled into a familiar, driving pace, teeth set in a defiant grin against the oncoming storm. When the clouds engulf the sun and the sleet begins to fall, you begin walking widdershins. Not in tight circles or as part of any sort of ritual. But bearing to your left, slightly away from the direction of the wind, deflecting some of the teeth in those gusts. Nobody ever taught you this was a 'proper' way of weathering storms, but it always felt right to you. There are all sorts of stories and superstitions about walking widdershins around churches or graveyards, and a part of you has been quite curious if doing so would ever land you in some truly outlandish situations. But, so far, all it has done is kept you alive and focused through meteorological onslaughts like this one. You lower your goggles and raise your scarf over your mouth and nose. Through the oncoming freezing rain you still see the mountains. You find your footing, take your step towards them, and bear a bit to the left. You smile behind the woven wool. Widdershins. The cold drives us. It keeps us alive. It reminds us that it is good that we're alive. And when the storms descend on us, and we might lose sight of what we're heading towards, we have to keep heading towards it anyway, in whatever fashion we can. Traipse through the wilderness. Walk widdershins. And leave the mediocre, and the past, behind.

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The following was prompted by Chuck Wendig over at Terribleminds. The image is Lifeless Beauty by Daniel Bosma.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Flash Fiction: Walking Widdershins

Flash Fiction: Walking Widdershins — Blue Ink Alchemy

The coldest winter winds have teeth. No matter how much down or Gore-Tex you might layer on yourself, an invisible blade slices right through the center of you, pushing a chill into the marrow of your bones. It can be a fleeting thing, a momentary brush against the heart of you by a passing lover with the coldest of fingertips, or a constant howling sensation, a driving force with razor-keen edges that cut through your meat without remorse, leaving you with discomfort bordering on agony. It's a hell of a way to remember you're alive. Somehow, the tent managed to stay up all night. The sleeping bag kept out most of the cold at bay, but you can still feel the latent bits of cold in your bones from last night's walking. You tumble out of the protection of the fabric layers and emerge from the tent into harsh, clear sunlight. It's still cold, colder than anything you'd feel back home, but better now that it's morning. You get a fire going, set out your little steel pot to heat some water, and sit outside of your tent to look towards your goal. The jagged peaks of the mountains are partially obscured by low-hanging clouds. The front is moving over the summits like a living, seething mass of gray. It's odd how something so massive, so ancient, so implacably solid can at once seem closer than it ever has before, and impossibly far away. The mind struggles to process the scale of the mountains in and of themselves, to say nothing of the journey one must undertake to reach said mountains, ascend their heights, and return safely to tell the tale. You know that last part is going to be the trickiest. You pour your hot water into the coffee pot and use the rest to saturate some oatmeal. As you chew on your breakfast, you take an inventory of your remaining provisions. The dried fruit and pressed bars of protein make your stomach growl, but you remember that you have a long way to go. The berries and roots that helped keep the edge off of your hunger are behind you, and ahead is a wide expanse of desolation. You don't know what, if anything, grows on or near the mountains. Mushrooms in caves, perhaps? You close up your bag so you can stop thinking about it. You turn your attention to your breakfast and try to soak up as much sunlight as you can. The clouds give you pause. Undertaking any sort of journey into the wild or the unknown is fraught with perils and subject to uncertainty and doubt. Those who step outside of their comfort zones, away from civilization, and strive towards something distant or inscrutable aren't taking a safe trip. Preparations can be made, certainly, and the more informed the traveler is, the better their chance for survival, but complete safety is an illusion. Keeping one's wits about them is the best safety measure that can be taken, and leads to other measures such as survival gear, maps, rationing, and situational awareness. To head out into the fringes and return safe home is not for the faint of heart or soft of brain. The wind picks up, a herald of the storm front, and you know it's time to move on. You douse your fire, put your coffee in a canteen to be slung at your hip, and scarf the rest of your breakfast. Breaking down the tent takes a mere handful of minutes, but another gust of wind reminds you that time is no longer on your side. If it ever was. In less time than it takes to tell, you've shouldered your pack and are once again on your way. Your long staff picks out sturdy places to set your boots, and before long you've settled into a familiar, driving pace, teeth set in a defiant grin against the oncoming storm. When the clouds engulf the sun and the sleet begins to fall, you begin walking widdershins. Not in tight circles or as part of any sort of ritual. But bearing to your left, slightly away from the direction of the wind, deflecting some of the teeth in those gusts. Nobody ever taught you this was a 'proper' way of weathering storms, but it always felt right to you. There are all sorts of stories and superstitions about walking widdershins around churches or graveyards, and a part of you has been quite curious if doing so would ever land you in some truly outlandish situations. But, so far, all it has done is kept you alive and focused through meteorological onslaughts like this one. You lower your goggles and raise your scarf over your mouth and nose. Through the oncoming freezing rain you still see the mountains. You find your footing, take your step towards them, and bear a bit to the left. You smile behind the woven wool. Widdershins. The cold drives us. It keeps us alive. It reminds us that it is good that we're alive. And when the storms descend on us, and we might lose sight of what we're heading towards, we have to keep heading towards it anyway, in whatever fashion we can. Traipse through the wilderness. Walk widdershins. And leave the mediocre, and the past, behind.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Living In A Mixed State

Living In A Mixed State — Blue Ink Alchemy

So, for those of you who don't know, I have bipolar disorder. The chemical makeup of my brain is such that receptors for both higher emotional states (described as "mania" or "hypomania") and lower ones (your classic "depression") are susceptible to inexplicable, unconscious, and sometimes sudden change. In the past, people have described the disorder as "manic depression" and talk of "mood swings", changes in state that can happen over the course of weeks, days, or even hours. When these more frequent changes occur, it is often referred to as "rapid cycling". And then, there are mixed states. A "mixed state" is an imbalance in the brain's chemistry that means multiple vectors of the emotional receptors are in effect. It is difficult for the sufferer of a mixed state to say exactly what they are feeling. There is an upswell of energy and a desire to put that energy into productive things, from chores to hobbies. There is also an overwhelming sensation of melancholy and futility, a lack of motivation and fulfillment that are the classic earmarks of a depressive episode. You want to go do things, to make your world better, to bring joy into your life and the lives of others, but what is the point? This is how I've been the last couple of days. Don't get me wrong, I'm very glad to be writing blog posts on the regular again along with Innercom Chatter, promoting my novella writing, and gearing up to get back into long form fiction in earnest. But I also know, in a mixed state where I overdo exercise and rage against my own emotions and make plans without a great deal of forethought and lose track of essential items and write run-on sentences, that the work I'd turn out would not be my best. I'd have to go back and edit a lot of junk in order to craft the story I really want to tell. But should I be writing anyway? I mean, cutting out crap is what editing is for, right? I should just write. Writing does not happen on its own. Words do not appear on the page by themselves. The writer must write them. I will not finish my shit if I do not write as much as I can, as fast as I can. And yet, my thighs ache from over-exerting myself two days ago with lifting weights. I did too much too quickly. I flew too close to the sun, as is my idiom. Why risk completely destroying my work, or my progress on it, by flying directly into a wall erected in and by my own head? I don't really have a solution that I can point to, no bow with which I can wrap up this little post. I simply wanted to lay out in simple terms what living in a mixed state is like for a creative mind. My hope is that it will be helpful in some way, that perhaps someone later will read this and take comfort in knowing they are not alone. My current plan is to keep working, writing as much as I feel comfortable writing, and try to maintain baseline, consistent productivity I can build upon when I'm a bit less mixed, a bit more stable. And to not do so many reps at once when it's been months since I last even lifted a dumbbell. Seriously. Ow. Image courtesy APA

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Back From The Dead

Back From The Dead — Blue Ink Alchemy

For a very long time indeed, the price of Cold Iron remained at a mere 99 cents, just shy of a full United States dollar. I put my only published work 'on sale', and never rescinded that status. I got caught up in other events, life and love and loss and learning, and that price remained a measly 99 cents, and the book itself went without promotion. Until now. I wish I had some sort of fancy new edition to tempt you with. Maybe some crib notes or a better sample chapter from the sequel, Bloody Streets. But, no. The song remains the same. So, why should you lay down not one but FOUR hard-earned American bucks to read just under 200 pages of what one reviewer calls "supernatural hardboiled fiction"? Well, those three words alone might have sold it to some of you, so by all means... Anyway, things have changed since Cold Iron was first published. Handheld devices are, somehow, even more ubiquitous than they were just three years ago, and the Kindle app is free on any device you care to name. Except, maybe, GameBoy Color or the NeoGeo or something. Point is, you can read it even if you don't own an actual Kindle. But that's just the mechanics of it. What's the essence of it, the thing that I feel should pull you into the tale? Let's start by saying that, despite a "20 minutes in the future" setting and all sorts of supernatural trappings, this story (like all good stories) is about people. The main people here are our two protagonists, Morgan and Seth. Morgan is a female homicide detective working in Philaelphia. Seth is a man of Egyptian lineage who finds himself alive and awake 35 years after his apparent murder while he himself was working as a detective. I'm going to pause in the pitch and say that this is a novel of hardboiled urban fantasy, not an urban fantasy romance. Okay? Okay. Let's move on. So you have Seth trying to figure out why he didn't stay dead. As he does, bodies turn up in his wake, which means Morgan has to investigate. And then there's the things Morgan usually deals with on a night-by-night basis. I make it a habit not to say up-front what those things are, as it's an unknown to Seth at the start, but considering I wrote Cold Iron in the midst of a huge torrent of Twilight's bullshit, you can probably take a wild guess and be relatively correct. That's my pitch for Cold Iron: it's short, punchy, diverse, fast-paced, and it never assumes you, the reader, are an idiot. Why did I bring its price up and start singing its praises again? Well, I'm a writer. And I want to get paid for writing. I have a sequel, Bloody Streets, in need of some cover art and design. I have the perfect photographer in mind, and I'll be tapping the same designer who did Cold Iron, so I know what my budget needs to be. And there is no way I am making that much spare cash as a barista. I do have some Magic cards and role-playing game books to sell, but those are temporary measures, and I want to build something more sustainable, something with growth potential. I also want to do some brand-building, which hopefully will escalate between the novellas, Innercom Chatter, and Coven, later this year. I'm curious to see what will happen. Is a little written entertainment, especially in a genre like this one, worth the price of a latte to you? Find out. And feel free to leave a review behind, too. No matter what it says.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Twenty Sixteen

Twenty Sixteen — Blue Ink Alchemy

I'm not big on New Year's resolutions. I mean, I get the concept. Setting a goal for the year ahead isn't a bad thing in and of itself. Admirable, even. The problem I see is that few people really commit to changing themselves. Gym memberships go unused within a month or two, new diets get abandoned, so on and so forth. I'm not saying I'm some sort of self-help guru, over here, but the reason I don't make big New Year's resolution posts is because I don't want to be caught up in my own hypocrisy. I've had enough of that problem to last a lifetime. I've been 'away' for a while. I've been dealing with traumas both recent and ancient, processing a lot of raw emotions, and committing myself to change, in a very real and visceral sense. And believe me, I get why people stop going to the gym or reach for the Cheetos or cigarettes after a few weeks of enforced misery. This shit is hard, dude. While I've let things like this blog and my novel-writing fall by the wayside, I can say that I haven't been sitting idle. My ongoing process in self-exploration and self-actualization is being chronicled in Innercom Chatter (which has its own Facebook page), and that project is going well enough that I can see it going beyond its individual posts. I've also written some poetry. I suspect I'll write more, as it keeps the wheels greased, at least. And I haven't forgotten about my other writings. I intend to post an update about my novellas, with the aim of getting Bloody Streets up and purchasable by spring. And Coven? It's my goal to have at least a draft readable by beta readers by summer, and a manuscript out to agents by fall. Getting back into the groove with it has been very difficult, and while I know I brought my own momentum to a screeching halt even before my life fell apart, I still think I made the right choice to ensure this story stands out, that it hits readers where they live, and, in the end, will leave them wanting more. There's a possibility for fan fiction or other projects, as well, but I don't know how much energy I'm going to have in the weeks and months ahead, and I'm trying to spend it more wisely. I live with bipolar disorder, crippling anxiety, a nasty habit of overthinking, and massive amounts of grief every day. Corralling the head weasels takes time and effort. I'm getting help, and hopefully will soon manage things a bit more smoothly and give myself more room for projects, but for now, I'm working with what I've got. And I hope you will continue to bear with me. 2016 is the year I take my life back, and finally accomplish what I've been meaning to do since I first read The Cat Who Walks Through Walls. If I were into resolutions, that'd be the one.

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Blue Ink Alchemy