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The Muse

By Fred Warren

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Taron surveyed the enemy lines, row upon row of grotesque, iron-sinewed goblins rhythmically scraping swords on shields, filling the air with the soul-melting screech of metal carving bone. It was hopeless. The Alliance Army was outnumbered twenty to one in an indefensible position, their escape blocked by the sheer precipices of the Glass Mountains. He sighed. This would be the end. So much blood to be spilled today, for so little purpose.
Siri pulled up beside him, struggling to rein in her spirited chestnut mount. The horse, at least, was eager for battle, but Siri’s face was a picture of despair. She knew the odds, what the outcome must be.
“My Lord, the troops await your orders.”
Taron nodded, raising his sword, Illustrion, on high as he wheeled his destrier about to face the haggard ranks of the Alliance. He opened his mouth to shout the order that would send them all to certain death.
Silence.
“My Lord?” Siri whispered, “The order?”
Silence.
Behind them, the goblin army roared and scraped, roared and scraped, roared and scraped.
“My Lord! “What is your order?”
The general’s mouth was a gaping cavern from which no sound emerged.

“Aaagh!” Stan shoved himself away from his desk, pounding his head in frustration. It was no use. He’d written himself into a corner—again.
Charity’s voice wafted down the cellar stairs. “Honey, are you okay?”
“Yeah,” he hollered back. “It’s nothing. I’m stuck again. Blasted writer’s block.”
“I thought so. Give it a break. Come upstairs for a while.”
“In a minute.” He rolled his chair back to the desk and tapped the keyboard. The printer whirred and spooled out the current page of Stan’s manuscript. He snatched it up and read the last paragraph, then he read it again. Maybe seeing the words on paper would trigger a new insight that would allow him to move ahead.
No such luck. He wadded the paper into a ball and flung it at the wall, where it bounced off a poster advertising last year’s Renaissance Festival. Across the room, a scruffy little terrier whined softly and leapt from his perch on the futon to retrieve the errant scrap.
“Don’t even think about it, Squick.” The vet bill for the little dumpster-diver’s last digestive misadventure was still a painfully fresh memory. Squick bounced back onto the futon. At least he was obedient, unlike Stan’s imagination. There had to be an original way to get his story past this latest roadblock. He could taste it, smell it, feel it on the edge of his consciousness, mocking him...
“It’s getting cold, Stan!”
“Coming, coming.”

“Mom made waffles!” Hannah was already halfway through hers, face and hands coated with a gooey mixture of maple syrup and powdered sugar. Seven years old, all velocity and no direction. Stan smiled wearily and plopped down into his chair.
Charity slid a short stack of waffles over to him. “They’re toaster waffles. I’ve got class this morning, so there wasn’t time to get terribly domestic. Hannah, you’re supposed to wait for the rest of us so we can say grace together.”
“Sorry.” Hannah bowed her head. Stan and Charity followed suit. “Go ahead, Hot Dog,” Stan said.
“Grace!” Hannah snatched up her fork and resumed shoveling waffle into her mouth.
Charity glared at Stan. “I wish you’d never taught her that stunt.”
“Sorry, babe. Do it right, Hannah Marie.”
Hannah froze in mid-gulp. She knew her dad was serious when her middle name came into play. She carefully set her fork on the edge of her plate and closed her eyes. “God is great, God is good, let us thank Him for our food, amen.”
“Better.” Stan smeared a dollop of margarine over his waffles and poured a little syrup onto the edge of his plate, so they wouldn’t get too saturated with the sweet stuff. Across the table, Charity was methodically dividing hers into bite-sized squares. Stan grinned at her. Always the artist, even when nobody was watching.
Charity caught him looking at her. “You know I get self-conscious when you stare at me like that.”
“Just enjoying the view.”
She rolled her eyes. “Flattery won’t save you. So, the writing’s not going well?”
Stan rubbed his temples. “It’s my own fault. I created an impossible situation, and now I have no way for my hero to get out of it.”
“Is this the elves versus goblins war?”
“Taron’s Crusade. Yep. It’s the climactic battle scene, the Alliance Army is trapped against an impassible mountain range, and they’re outnumbered.”
“You could have a wizard fly in with a flock of eagles.”
“Deus ex machina. Besides, it’s been done. If I start stealing Tolkien’s stuff, I’ll get the Scarlet P, and my short and undistinguished writing career will be over.”
“Scarlet P?”
“Plagiarist.”
“Oh, I figured they’d just call you a copying copy-pants or something.”
“That would be worse. Plagiarist at least sounds sophisticated.”
“I’m sure something will come to you. What have you got planned for today?”
“Writer’s circle. I’m meeting Davos and Jilly at the Vark.”
“Good. You can cry on their shoulders while they cry on yours. I swear, you three could be triplets.”
“I want the writing to become more than just a hobby. I’m tired of stringing cable, running virus scans, and holding the hands of technophobe baby boomers too lazy to read their manuals.”
“But you do it so well. Somebody’s got to save us poor Luddites.”
“I suppose. Want me to stop by the shop after?”
“Sure. It’s Kids’ Class. The garden gnomes are out of the kiln, and we’ll be glazing them today. Bring a broom.”
“I could bring Squick. If it’s on the floor, he’ll eat it.”
“Very funny.”
“How about I bring you one of those caramel frapiwhatzits instead?”
Charity smiled. “Now you’re talking my language.”


Stan waved at Charity and Hannah as he backed the sedan out of the driveway. He could see a couple of cars already parked in front of Charity’s ceramics shop, MudWorks, a quarter-mile down the road. The shop gave a modest boost to their income and provided a place for Charity to showcase her work. She hoped to pass her knowledge along to Hannah, but their little princess was more interested in hockey than pottery at the moment.
The summer leaves were beginning to edge toward their rusty autumn colors, and the morning was crisp and clear. Stan and Charity enjoyed living out in the country a bit—just west of Minneapolis, within reach of the city’s conveniences, but far enough away that there were still plenty of quiet, open spaces. They could even get lost in the woods once in a while, if they cared to.
Stan spent most of the week inside an office building, leaning over the shoulder of some confused executive or deep inside the guts of a recalcitrant computer, and the greenery around his home was a welcome relief. So was his writing. In his stories, he could be a million miles away on some world that existed only within his mind, where the rules of physics and magic were whatever he chose to create.
He would have come to the writing much sooner, if he hadn’t gotten caught up in the dot-com revolution and the promise, empty now, of fortunes to be made using the new magic of information technology. Knowledge was power, and the global network was knowledge strapped to a rocket. Then the bubble burst, and Stan, and a lot of people like him, ended up as indentured servants to the same corporate bean counters who had been running the world for centuries.
Stan still had his dreams, but this time, he was going to be the one in control. His dreams, his creativity, his worlds of wonder. If he could only get past the writer’s block. He knew he was a good writer, with a great imagination. Why did he lock up when he most needed the creative juices to flow? Why couldn’t he close the deal?

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