A Muse of Stars – A Short Story

imagesThe lights had started to flicker weeks ago.

He hadn’t paid them any mind; he lived in an older building, it was bound to happen from time to time. Then, as the lights to flicker on a more regular basis, he began to worry. Every time he came into his apartment, the lights would work fine for a second or two. He would wait, however; he knew what was coming.

He had lights in the kitchen, living room, bedroom. Whether he had turned the light on or not, it began to flicker. This would go on for a few moments and then  the clocks began to reset themselves.

His alarm clock, his coffee machine, the clock on his microwave, his VCR. The clocks weren’t reset to simple zero’s. They flashed random letters at him. He would watch all the clocks, looking for some sense in the words, but none would come to him.

Then his stereo would cut out in the middle of a song, his television in the middle  of a movie. The phone was useless, being a cordless. He’d had to go out and buy a rotery phone as anything involving electricity wouldn’t function for long.

The only object that worked was his laptop. He would open it every morning and click open his word processor. It would sit there like a blank eye, looking at him, waiting; and every day it was the same thing: he couldn’t write a thing.

His agent, Susannah Cursewell, was trying to be supportive, but she was loosing her patience. “Berkus, I don’t why you’re blocked, but you have to break down the wall. It’s been three years.”

“I know how long it’s been.”

He was talking to her on a payphone and it was long distance. He kept feeding it quarters. Talking to Susannah cost him a fortune in change every week.

“So why the silence? Your first few books were New York Times best sellers,  all of them stayed at the number one spot for months! And don’t get me started about your last book! You won all the major awards and got worldwide acclaim! Anything you write will sell millions of copies, it doesn’t matter what you write, Berkus! They’ll buy anything you write!”

“I have to write when the words are there and they haven’t been.”

“Look, Berkus. I know you creative types. You have to find your Muse at the bottom of the well. I’ve seen it before.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The well, the well! You know, all you writers are supposed to have a creative well? And a Muse? Someone that guides you and inspires you. Don’t all writers have a voice or voices in their head?”

“You’re making me sound like a lunatic.”

“Not at all, I just know that’s how creative people like you think, how you operate. Me? I’m creative, but don’t have the passion you creative types do. I like money, so I get creative, but that’s all. You, well, you have something in you.”

“Then what do I do?” Berkus asked.

“Honey, you do what you used to do: break down that fucking wall, and find your Muse. All you have to do is look for her. And for fuck sakes, fixt your god damned electrical problem, would you? I want to call you at home like a regular person, not wait for your call like you’re a fucking spy.”

Berkus didn’t think it was that simple. He thought about the wall he would have to break down. The only problem was that he hadn’t known he was building it in the first place. By the time the wall was in place, the last brick in its spot, it was too late.

How did you break down a wall you couldn’t see? How did you go about finding a Muse that had left you? How did he find the well? These thoughts and more were on his mind as he entered his apartment. He was through the door and had locked it behind him before he realised that anything was wrong.

Berkus turned around and stared in wonder. His apartment was full of light, but it wasn’t coming from the lights or lamps in his apartment. It was coming from a woman sitting in front of his computer.

“What the hell is going on? Who are you?”

The woman turned looked up at him. Berkus was astounded by how she glowed. She was almost too bright to look at. “Hello Berkus, long time no see. And don’t you know who I am? You must know, it hasn’t been that long. Or have you found another?”

Her voice was  like the a fire crackling away, full of warmth and heat. The sound of it filled him with heat he hadn’t experienced since he last wrote. He used to feel the warmth in his fingers after typing for a long stretch of time or a particularly difficult plot point.

“You’re my Muse.” He said.

“Yes, I’m one of them. You can call me Jude.”

“How can you be here? How is this even possible?”

She smiled at him and it was beautiful, like receiving a benediction. “Well, I admit, you’ve been a tricky one. The lights didn’t get you inspired to write. You just lived with them as they were. I even tried sending you messages through your clocks. Weren’t you able to make out the words?”

“No, I couldn’t read them. They moved too quickly and made no sense to me.”

“That’s because you weren’t looking clearly. The words said ‘Believe in yourself’. I thought for sure you would write a story about your VCR talking to you but you just continued to stare at the screen. I realzed that the wall you had built around yourself was very large indeed. So here I am.”

“Don’t I have to go and find you? Break down the wall? Find you in the well?”

“Oh, that’s all symbolism, really. Besides, I broke down your wall for you. If I hadn’t, we’d be waiting forever!” She laughed and the sound was like a fire crackling into a log of wood. Berkus expected to see sparks fly from her mouth. “We couldn’t have that have we? We have lost of writing to do!”

“But I have to find the well!” Berkus said.

“The well is inside you, Berkus. It’s just symbolism. All you have to do it put your fingers to the keyboard and write. You have to climb over the wall to get a look at the vast field of green there, the wide expanses of land waiting to be explored.”

“How do I find it? How do I get over the wall?”

“By conquering your fears and writing despite your fear. What is stopping you?”

Berkus shook his head and began to pace his office. Finally, he faced her again. “I’m afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

“My last novel did so well, it won all kinds of awards. What is people expect another book like that from me? What if I can’t do it?”

“Berkus, shouldn’t the fun be in trying? In using your art to discover uncharted territories? You can’t let fear stop you from living your life. You can only try. Write the story you want to write, the one that comes to your fingers. The rest will work itself out in time. You have to write Berkus. It’s as simple as that.”

“I don’t think I know how any more.”

“It’s like riding a bike. You never forget. Now enough of this, here sit down.”

She rose from the desk chair and stood beside it, holding out an arm as if welcoming him to it. “Sit, Berkus.”

He nodded and sat in the chair. It was warm from where she had perched. “What do I do now?”

“Stop over thinking, stop over plotting, let the stories that are in your head out to play on the paper. The well is inside of you Berkus. Let it out.”

Berkus put his fingers to the keyboard and wrote the first words he had written in over three year: The lights had started to flicker weeks ago.

He heard a noise behind him and turned to see Jude with a smile on her face made of flame. “Thank you.” She said.

She grew brighter then and brighter still. Berkus had to cover his eyes for a moment and when he looked again, Jude was gone. Not completely however. His walls were covered in constellations of stars and they shone from the walls of his office as if they were the real thing.

Berkus sat there for a moment, taking it all in. “You’re welcome.” He said.

Then he turned to the keyboard and continued to write under the glow of stars.

Talking to the Sky – Sometimes/Words – A Poem

 

Talking to the SkyHey Everyone!

I’m doing formatting for my upcoming volume of poetry titled Talking to the Sky. I collected all of my poems from 2013. The poem Sometimes/Words was among them, but it wasn’t written in 2013, so it gets cut. I wrote it several years ago, I would say 2009

So I’m going to share it with all of you. Stay tuned for more info on what Talking to the Sky is all about.

Enjoy!

 

i

Sometimes

I steep myself in the words of another

Letting the words rush over me

Around me

In a protective embrace

Consonants harsh and sharp

Scrape along my skin

Vowels soft and yielding

Caress my tired body

ii

I open a book

Any book will do

I feel its pages rife with wisdom

As they slide between my fingers

Slick and wet

Black like oil spills

Across a white expanse

Just begging to bleed

Begging to bleed out the words

So that they can be free

iii

When I am sleeping

I can hear the words

The vowels whispering sweet nothing

The consonants jeering and cheering

Whispering Sweet Whispering

Begging me to look upon them

To open a book

To set them free

To let my eyes look upon them

So that they are given life

iv

I wake

I go to the books

Trying to quiet them

Before they wake the others

Before they wake their dreams

I stroke their spines

To settle them

And listen to their pages

Ruffle Shuffle Rustle

Whispering their words

Like a song or tribal melody.

v

I take down a book from the shelf

A big heavy book

A thick volume, pages

smell of dust and wishes.

I open the book to a random page

Ruffle Shuffle Rustle Whisper

“I do so love tea parties.”

Blond girl down the rabbit hole

“Why is a raven like a writing desk?”

A mad cackle from the man in a hat

I close the book, let the pages talk once more

Whisper Rustle Listen Hustle

vi

I look for another book

Try to find another story to lose myself in

I find a slim book

A thin book of dreams

Wiffle Whisper Muffle Wister

I remember him as if it were yesterday

Fifteen men on the dead man’s chest-

Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!

The Black Spot! It’s the Black Spot!

No, this will not do at all

I close the book, listening for the gossip

Whisper Sister Ruffle Hustle

vii

I search for another book

Like a treasure hunt X marks the spot

I look for another life

To hold in my hands

To feel the ink that slides along the pages

Pulse in my hands

Like a heartbeat

Pulse Throb Beat Pulse Throb Beat

I long to lose myself in the pages

To hide from the light

The bright light that blinds me

Inside the page of books

I am free

viii

I reach for a book

For another life

One with a green spine

I can feel the ink

Throb Beat Pulse

When I hold it, can feel the words

Whisper Muffle Wuffle Rustle

When I flip the book open

Striking red head with freckles

“I am Anne with an e”

I feel something stirring in my heart for this girl

“Can I really stay at Green Gables?”

Yes this will do nicely

I let the pages flip and slip so that they can talk

So that I can hear their gossip

Whisper Sister Muffle Wustle

Rustle Wuffle Whisper Mister

Whisper Whisper Whisper Whisper

ix

I want to stay

Within these pages

These words that

Pulse Throb Beat

Before my eyes

I want to lose myself in the page

Within the heart that beats

Inside this book

The words are calling to me

Singing their singsong songsing

Whisper Whisper Whisper Whisper

x

I slide my finger along the edge of a page

Let the page cut into me

Slide along the grooves in my finger

My finger print breaking open

With an offering

Blood wells to the surface of my skin

Like an oil spill

And the pages begin to

WHISPER WHISPER WHISPER WHISPER

Loudly, so loudly, so loud I can hear

Nothing else

Only the

whisper whisper WHISPER

Of the pages within my hands

Of the words that begin to swirl

like a wind filled with hope

As I hold my finger over a page

And watch as my blood begins to fall

Watch as it drops to the page like a kiss

Like a caress

Of black words along an expanse of white

I am in the words now

The words have become me

Sometimes words any day words

I have found my home

I have found my freedom.

Under the Dome: The Book Came First (But the TV Show Rocks)

Under_the_Dome_Final

I’ve been watching Under the Dome Season One. My first impression still stand: I prefer the book-but then again, I’m a book guy. I will always prefer the book. The Harry Potter films, The Chronicles of Narnia, The Princess Bride; it doesn’t matter which films they are, I will always prefer the book.

However, since watching the first season of Under the Dome aired, I’ve had one line from the show running through my head. It’s a line spoken by Julia Shumway, played on the show by Rachel Lefevre. It stuck with me.

After Dale Barbara saved Julia from dying in an epidemic, she wakes and turns to him. She says: “Was it you? The one who saved me?”

At the time, it struck me as a horribly corny line, but out of the whole show, that’s been the one that stuck with me. Odd right? However, I couldn’t get it out of my head.

So, I asked for the first season for Christmas and got it. I did a little skip of joy inside when I opened the wrapping. Although my first impression of the show was

download (1)

based on a book lovers reaction, now I could watch the season again and just enjoy it. And you know what? It’s pretty freaking awesome.

I’m about to start episode 8 and I love it. I’ve become really involved in the characters, the ever shifting story lines, the sub-plots. the mystery and intrigue. The story has me hooked. I vaguely remember what happens from watching it the first time around, but I missed a few episodes.

Either way, it rocks and feels like we’re watching a Stephen King novel. It’s like a mirror of its literary cousin, three times removed.  The show is different from the novel, almost completely, but Under the Dome the show and the book are awesome in their own way.

I can’t wait to find out what happens next, all over again. It’s like re-reading a book, but in video!

Slainte (To Your Health) – A Poem

Everyone I knew or had knowndownload

was in a large banquet hall.

I was surrounded by those

I loved, even people that I

had not seen in years.

and the hall was filled with

the sound of people talking.

Their voices were like music.

I had no idea why we were there;

it was like I had woken up

all of a sudden only to find myself

surrounded by a Shangri-La of

friends and family.

I was sitting in a throne that

was in the centre of the room.

The party was going on around me,

and I was as it’s centre. It was as if

I was the sun and the people

I loved were the planets.

A woman stood up and

clinked the edge of her cup

with a long, pointed knife.

It looked like a sword.

The room fell silent and

everyone was expectant.

“We all know why we’re here.”

She smiled at me and raised

her glass. She was shining and bright,

like the moon, full of light that

rippled all over her skin

and made her sparkle.

“We’re here to celebrate you.”

She pointed at me and I was filled

with love and contentment.

“We have a gift for you.”

She held up large piece of paper.

On it, I saw myself as I was

when I was younger.

It was a photograph

that had been blown up to full size.

I looked at my younger self

and recognized myself there,

even though I no longer felt

like the same person.

She pulled out something

that looked like a wand.

Waving it in front of the paper,

I watched the photo begin to

shimmer and undulate.

I watched the photograph

settle itself on the paper

as if it were a Polaroid.

When the picture started

to came into focus,

I saw myself as I was now,

holding out two gold disks,

one balanced in each palm.

“Who you were has changed

into who you are.”

She pointed with her wand at

the paper again and it began

to shimmer once more,

When it came into focus,

I saw myself again.

I was standing on a grassy knoll,

looking towards the future,

surrounded by the sun and sky.

The disks from the previous photo

had multiplied and surrounded me.

They were floating in the sky

like several small suns.

There were animals in the grass.

They looked as if they were protecting me,

or offering me guidance on the journey

that I was about to take into the unknown.

“You are not afraid of yourself anymore.”

She smiled again and her brightness

increased until it looked

as if she were made of stars.

She raised her glass and said “Slainte!”

Everyone in the room raised their own glass

and repeated the word.

They clinked their glasses

their neighbours and the room

sounded as if it were filled

with the tinkling of bells.

Light began to pour from their cups

until all I could see was

was the brightness

of the sun.

Cascade and Rose Light – A Short Story

Black-Rose-black-roses-23861419-1440-1752“He will see you now.”

Vilma looked up. The same woman that had shown her to the green room upon her arrival was standing there. Vilma put the script she had been reading back into her bag and stood. “Thank you Ms….?”

The woman gave her a quick up and down glance, taking all of her in. Vilma had been shocked by her brisk manner. The woman had dark grey hair that was cut in a short bob and a face that gave nothing away. She was just shy of four feet tall; for such a small woman, she had an incredibly large presence, almost as if it could not be contained in her small body.

She nodded, as if Vilma had said something. “You get the part and I’ll tell you my name. And I think you will. He’ll like you. Follow me.”

Vilma was led past the set builders; they were making a large cathedral and the air was filled with the singing of saws, the drone of drills and the thudding of hammers. The short woman led her to a plain faced door. When the woman opened it, Vilma gasped.

The office beyond the door was sumptuous. The walls were painted a rich chocolate brown and complimented by dark leather furniture. The floors were made of hardwood and shone as if lit from below. In the centre of the room was a white table with a crystal vase. In the vase sat one black rose.

“You can go in. Mr. Tivanga is waiting for you.”

“Where is he? I don’t see him.”

“He’s waiting for you.”

Vilma nodded and stepped into the room. The woman closed the door and Vilma experienced a feeling of being trapped. Trying to distract herself, she sat on the couch, took the script out of her purse and started reading it. Whatever the behaviour of his assistant, if that was in fact what the woman’s role was around here, Vilma knew that she was getting the chance of a lifetime.

Landing a part in a film by Tivanga was a once in a lifetime chance. It made an actor’s career. People went on to stellar roles, won Oscar’s and worldwide fame. If you were in a Tivanga film, it opened doors for you.

You couldn’t just audition for one of his films, however. You were invited to. Tivanga was notoriously picky and often chose unknowns to star in his films. It not only made their career, it changed their lives.

Vilma was not an unknown actor. She had starred in three pictures to date and done lots of television and stage work. She had been waiting for years to get the Part, the one that changed her career and turned her from passing fancy into a household name.

This was her chance. This was more than a role, this was the role. The only problem was that she had no idea which part she would be reading for. Her agent had called early in the morning three days ago, telling her that he was going to send her a script and that a reading had been booked.

He was strangely excited. Vilma asked him why he was acting so oddly and he answered with only one word: Tivanaga.

So here she was in a beautiful office, waiting to see if her life would change for the better. The script was for a film called Cascade and it concerned a woman who learned a secret about her lover. He turned out to be a high priest of some sort of black magic order. The further she delved into the darkness, the more she lost herself.

It was a powerful piece. Vilma only hoped that she would play the lead; it was the strongest female lead role she had ever read. She knew that Tivanaga wrote as well as directed his films, letting no one else into the writing process. Some interviewers claimed that he wrote as if he were channeling the words.

Hearing a rustling noise, Vilma looked up and at first could see nothing amiss. However, the rustling noise came again, from very close to her. She looked around again and noticed the black rose in the vase on the table in front of her. It was shivering and vibrating. As she watched it, the black colour of its petals began to fall away as if it were shedding the blackness. A vibrant red showed through, growing in dominance until it was no longer a black rose.

Vilma reached out to touch the flowers petals when a deep, gravelly voice spoke. “Please don’t touch the flower.”

Looking up, Vilma sucked in a breath. In front of her stood Carolos Tivanaga in all his glory. He was just as he looked in his promotional shoots: dark hair cut short, coffee coloured skin, bright blue eyes that seemed not to just look out at you but shine. He stood an impressive six foot six. Taking him in, Vilma was breathless for a moment before she extended her hand.

“It’s very nice to meet you Mr. Tivanga. It’s an honour.”

“The honour is all mine Miss Lopez. It’s all mine. Please sit.”

She did so and he pulled up a small chair she had not noticed before and sat down across from her. “Shooting begins in three days. You will have to sign a non-disclosure agreement and shooting will take three months. I look forward to having you in my film.”

Vilma was shaken. “You mean you want me for Cascade? But who will I be playing? My agent didn’t say.”

“Why the lead, of course! Did you not picture yourself in the role? Did you not see yourself in her features? I wrote the part with you in mind. I hope you’re not offended that I took such a liberty with your person. I was inspired when I saw you in Come and Catch Me. You were wasted in that film, but you were the only shining light worth watching. I watched it thirteen times so that I could bask in your light.”

Vilma shook her head. “I don’t have a light.”

“Oh, but you do. It’s why you’re here, why you were able to wake up the rose.”

She looked at the flower and it had grown fuller, more vibrant. “I don’t understand.”

Tivanga regarded her for a moment and then tented his fingers together. “You do have a light inside you. I employ people who shine, Miss Lopez. I don’t employ mere actors. You have to shine brightly and you do. I want to let that light shine through the film, through the celluloid, touching every heart in that theatre. A mere actor can’t do this. They are talking head, meat puppets without strings.”

“I still don’t understand. Why did you mean by waking up the flower?”
“That flower was dead. It was a husk of itself. Yet being across from you for a few moments was enough to bring it back to its full glory. That is your light, Miss Lopez, your shine, your essence. No mere actor has this, but you do. I want to use that, to pull the essence from you through your performance. I will make you a star.”

For some reason, Vilma shivered. She didn’t like the way he was speaking about her and it unnerved her for some reason. However, she knew that starring in a Tivanga picture was a once in a lifetime opportunity. She pasted a smile on her face. “I’d be happy to sir!”

He considered her for a moment and she wondered if he was going to speak. When he finally did, his voice was almost a whisper. “There is something you should know. I don’t usually tell any of my leading men or ladies this. But I will tell you.”

“What is it?” Vilma was frightened now.

“By the end of the picture, you will be a star, yes. However, there is a cost, a sacrifice. By the end of the picture, your light will be depleted. It goes out into the world for others like myself that need that light to live. You will be a star, go on to have any starring role you could wish for. But the light will be gone from you.”

He held out his hands in the air. “On one hand, mediocrity.” He raised his left hand. “On the other, stardom.” He raised his right hand. “Stars don’t come cheap. I can make you one, Miss Lopez. I can change your life. All you have to do is choose.”

Vilma believed him. He was being completely sincere and the fear in her grew until it was clamouring to get out of her skin. “Why are you telling me this?”

“I have never seen someone shine as brightly as you, and you have no idea of your true power. I must have your choice, Miss Lopez. Choose.”

Vilma looked at his upheld hands, what they could give to her and what they would take away. Vilma looked at his hands and knew her what her choice would be.

Dedicated to Vilma Lopez who is a star.