Papaya blinked in the sunshine. It had been a long night of harvesting. Her song had warned three people of their impending deaths. None of them would heed her warning and get their shit together. Guaranteed.
One soul she had collected from an unfortunate human who thought a lone woman at night was easy prey. He had learned his lesson…painfully. Four more souls had joined her somber parade from the local hospital. Papaya hated doing these odd jobs for death, but the magic he paid her in was enough to keep her ethereal patchwork together. If she could find one true believer she would be restored to her former glory. These days, Belief was mythically impossible to find. So Papaya existed on whispers. Her once powerful voice had faded until she feared silence above all else.
The gates of the underworld were hidden next to the stage doors of every theater in every city. Death loved to misquote Willy Shakespeare: “Life is but a stage and humans are here to entertain me.” Someone currying Death’s favor had cross stitched his favorite quote. He had laughed and granted their small favor. The cross stitched piece now hung behind his desk in his office. No one could say that Death didn’t have a sense of humor.
Papaya led the five souls to the gates and ushered them through. After the last soul had passed through, several actors burst out of the stage door she was standing near. They didn’t see her, but they heard her soft wailing. They joked about the ghost of the theater and scrambled off to find breakfast.
Mara Kesh took a deep breath. She could feel the euphoria threatening to over take her, but she fought it down. She sat in her black pant suit and struggled to stay still. The laughter caught in her throat and she dabbed at her eyes to mask her joy as sorrow. People came and talked at her. She nodded bleakly and accepted their words. Some she even allowed to embrace her. Mara fought to remain numb. Fought to hide the exhiliration she felt inside. A slash of light fell across the casket as the sun began to set. The sun’s rays moved across the walls and somehow Mara remained still. She kept her dancing feet trapped inside her sensible shoes. The last mourner came and went and finally she was alone in the immense room. Tissues littered the tables. Chairs had been pulled askew as people had found conversation inside their grief circles. Mara let out a sigh of relief. She smiled for the first time in four hours. She was free. She was finally an orphan. She was finally free of a family that had felt like a prison for thirty years. Her father lay inside the coffin. The mortician had somehow covered up the stink of his evil. She must be some sort of magician to cover all that toxic nonsense with nothing more than paint and pigment. Mara unpinned her hair and took a deep breath of her new life. Soon her father would be nothing more than a bag of bones. She wished him the afterlife he deserved and gathered up her things. Today was the first day of the rest of her life.
The butter cup carved from jade lay on the windowsill. The glass panes were cracked and snow drifted in through the edges. The jade buttercup was dusted in a fine layer of snowflakes. Fusion sat and watched it happen. All the fight had gone out of him. He didn’t even feel the cold anymore. The blizzard raged on outside and Fusion sat in the broken rocking chair inside the dilapidated cottage. Once this place had been full of laughter and roaring fires to keep out the snow. That was all gone now. The cost of him staying true to the vows he had sworn to the Overlord. It had cost him the lives of his family. He had not been here when the marauders had come through. He had been off fighting in a senseless battle for a greedy Overlord. The news of his family’s death had broken something inside of him. He had crept into the Overlord’s condo and slit his throat while the bastard slept. Now he waited. Someone would come to avenge the Overlord. To make an example out of Fusion. To remind all the other soldiers that their lives were not their own. Fusion shivered. If the assassins didn’t arrive soon, this blizzard might be the death of him. He sat and dreamed of better days. His wife and two boys shouting with joy when he returned from a campaign. He remembered sitting in this very chair with his two sons begging him to tell the thirteenth tale once again. Fusion had always given in to them. He had told the tale the way his father had told it to him. Once this was a great land, prosperous, and free. Then the portal had opened. One scientist had gone too far in his reach for glory and fame. He brought the Overlords down upon them. Within a year the world was under their thumb. They looked no different then the humans that they mercilessly enslaved except for their star shaped pupils. They died by the thousands in the takeover but they just kept coming. The Overlords were emotionless killing machines. In the end, it was the humanity of the human race that was their downfall. Many humans retreated to the wilds rather than remain under the Overlords grasp. Things were quiet for a time. Then the Collection began. Every human between the age of 15 and 35 was rounded up. They were paired off for breeding programs. Fusion had been fortunate. He had loved the woman they paired him with. Fusion never regretted following passion’s heart and volunteering for the military in order to retain the bond with his wife. Not even on his darkest day had he wished that he was free of the bond they had shared. A crunch sounded outside. After this, he would be with his family again. In whatever afterlife that still existed. Two women entered the ruined cottage.
“Fusion. You know what the penalty is for killing an Overlord.”
Fusion smiled. It was Steel, one of the the soldiers he had fought side by side with. “Make it quick. I accept my punishment.”
But that was not the order, Steel was to make him suffer first or suffer the same fate herself. The sheer curtains that surrounded the broken window did not remain stainless. Fusion’s blood covered the walls before they were through. Steel choked back tears as she tortured and killed the man who had fought beside her through countless battles. When he breathed his last, something broke inside her. Her tears evaporated and rage took its place. She had had enough. She turned and put her blade through the eye of the soldier with her. She was a loyalist and would not help her cause. The seeds of rebellion blossomed in Steel’s heart. She would take down the Overlords or die trying.
Those are things you create. They are not creativity itself. Creativity is the spark of joy. That smile on your face while you make something. Creativity can be expressed in an outfit that makes you feel amazing. It can be expressed in making a fabulous meal to share with those you love.
Creativity is not a product, it is a process. It lives in the act of making.
The singing tumbler irritated the fellow travelers. She sang off key many top 40 songs. The banshee that owned the tumbler didn’t even flinch when the tumbler started getting flirty with the plastic water bottle that had been left in the seats across the way. The tumbler crooned for an hour but the water bottle sat inert. The tumbler sang about the legendary love they would share but the water bottle stayed silent. The conductor on the train swept up the discarded bottle and the tumbler descended into quiet weeping. The other passengers sighed in relief at the near silence. Two stations came and went. Half of the train car emptied out. At the third station a man got on. He was carrying a ceramic coffee mug that was covered in burgundy peonies. He sat in the seats across from the banshee. The tumbler was quiet for two blissful stations. Then she began singing again.
The peony mug sang back. A terribly wobbly voice that shocked the tumbler. After four stations the tumbler was begging the mug to stop. But he sang on. Praising his new love found on the common train.
The ancient truck rattled over the broken pavement. They passed through the long dead city and marvelled at the stars sparkling over head like a million semi precious stones spilled across a blanket. The moon was a sliver and the sky was darker than the blood they were desperately trying to keep inside their brother’s body. The healers had told them that only a hot mesh of electricity could save him. The rarest and most controlled substance in the universe ever since the Farseers had come to this planet. They came to free their kin trapped within the wires that had once crisscrossed the globe. Now any requests for power were tightly controlled by the Farseers. Being harnessed as energy caused killer headaches to the Farseers kin. They left the city behind them and traveled to the tiny outpost beside a dammed lake. The being at the door stared at them emotionlessly. His watercolor skin’s everchanging colors rippled.
“Please. He needs a hot mesh to to sear his skin. The healer’s said you could save him.”
The being looked in the back of the truck. He placed a single digit on Jeffrey’s forehead and Jeffrey screamed. The being nodded once and opened the red door set into the concrete walls. A healing mat lay on the floor and glowing wires were connected to it. He motioned for them to go inside. The three of them half carried, half dragged Jeffrey inside. Another being waited inside. “If he does this, he will belong to us. You may never see him again.”
The three brothers talked quietly. “We would rather he live away from us than to die among us.”
The being nodded. “You will regret your decision within an hour of leaving here. But the decision is made.”
They laid Jeffrey on the mat and stood back. The being flipped a switch and the room became too bright to keep their eyes open. The hum was so loud that they had to stifle their screams. The being flipped the switch again and the sound stopped. The brothers opened their eyes to see Jeffrey sitting up – whole. His wounds were gone. “Jeffrey. You’re ok!”
He looked at them with watercolor eyes. “Who is Jeffrey?”
The spaceship ‘Royal Fruit Basket’ slowly chugged through space. They were down to one engine and barely enough fuel for life support. The private eye who owned the small ship wanted to kick in the soul of the weasel who had contracted them for the last job. Usually their tiny three person crew took odd surveilance jobs and kept off the radar of the cronies at Big Wigs who handled surveilance for the Corporate Governments. But this time they’d brought the full Corporate hatred down upon themselves. How were they to know that the green mohawked girl they were hired to follow was one of the Big Wigs wives? They followed her to the Purple Rain in the Rain festival on Saturn Prime. They’d gotten great still and video of her … ahem … eclectic choices in partners. They’d delivered the drives with all the data as promised. Maybe they shouldn’t have made copies but if their client had paid up when the PIs delivered the goods they wouldn’t have started the turf war by selling the drives and data back to Mohawk Girl. Ooops.
The young adults snuck out just as the moon was starting to rise. The stars lit their way down to the hidden cove. They came around the corner and gasped at the majestic beauty of the moon glinting off the perfect shades of white and bone. Dead Beach held the skulls of a thousand slain enemies. Their bones crushed by the relentless tide until nothing remained but a finely crushed bone powder. Each teen held a perfect Royal Blush Apple in their hand. They had plucked them from the branches of the lone tree that guarded the entrance to this place of power. One by one they silently walked across the ancient graveyard. They made their wishes and tossed their offerings into the sea. The last two walked up hand in hand. They threw their apples together without unlinking their hands. Then they turned and shared their first kiss while the tide nibbled at their feet. The others gasped quietly. It was not tradition to make wishes together. A shiver of fear went through two of the three other teens. Would this pair draw a curse down upon all of them? The couple ignored the others and walked back the way they had came. The others stood around stunned for a few moments. A few moments too long. A hail storm of rocks fell from the cliffs above. The three teens below were killed instantly. Their blood stained the beach a deep shade of ruby. The couple stood at the Royal tree and smiled. Their campaign of vengeance had only begun. Soon the whole village would feel their wrath.
Momma and Poppa should’ve known when they had twins that their life would never be the same. They never could’ve planned for little Jonnie’s…abilities…though. It didn’t matter what they brought home, he turned it into a cursed artifact. The only one who was immune to his antics was his younger twin, Jessie. Jessie often cowered by Momma’s side while Jonnie was smashing plates. Their house never seemed to have enough dishware. It was as if Jonnie was born with a hatred of china and glass. Their Momma had taken to stopping at the secondhand shop to stock the house every Friday night on her way home from working in the shipyard. She bought the cheapest and gaudiest dishes they had. The ones no one else could stand the sight of.
One afternoon a deceitful little man came to the door and promised to cure Jonnie of his affliction. He danced and hummed and shook a jade rattle around Jonnie’s head. Jonnie was so repulsed by the man that he threw a plate covered in Japanese blooms at the man. The nasty little man fled without asking for payment.
As the years flew by, Jonnie gained more control over his affliction. Soon their cupboards were full of ordinary looking plates and the family was once again able to have visitors for tea. For the twins fifteenth birthday they threw a party and invited all the neighborhood kids. But Jonnie caught Jessie kissing Elizabeth, the cute girl who lived on Mulberry Street. Jonnie was in such a rage at the perceived betrayal that he smashed every glass in the house. Momma shooed everyone out of the house and surveyed the damage. She opened the fridge to find every bottle and container obliterated.
The Bear Creek Banquet had begun. The maimed by love toys limped around the dance floor. The doll with the missing arm was twirled around by the teddy bear with no eyes. The earless puppy dog did a jig with the top that could not spin. Sadness and relief intermingled in the air. It’s a handmade’s tale of a life of service. Each stitch and every seam held the love and tears of a child. Every scruffy scrap of fur and tangled head of hair spoke of late night sharing and too tight hugs. A yankee doll missing its hat led the last dance with a flourish. Then they all lined up, leaning on each other for support. The candle bridge glittered in the distance. They laughed and cried their way across, hopping and skipping from flame to flame. On the other side they were renewed. Fur softened, hair detangled, hats found. Now they would live forever in the land of memory.