THE MUSE

FRED WARREN

Copyright © Fred Warren 2009

ISBN: 978-0-9864517-1-3
Cover design by Grace Bridges

All rights reserved

Published by Splashdown Books, New Zealand

T ARON 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 impassable 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?