Conjuring Dreams or Learning to Write by Writing

Conjuring Dreams

or Learning to Write by Writing

By Stephanie Barr

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2016 Stephanie Barr

Discover other titles by Stephanie Barr at Smashwords.com

Dedicated to Stephanie, Roxy and Alex, always.

And the memory of my father

Cover created by Stephanie Barr using photos licensed from Kozzi.com

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Table of Contents

Introduction

The Early Works

Charley

Seeds of Tomorrow

The Mother-Thing

It's Me Again, Michael

The College Years

Operation Terminal Beach

Castles of Sand

A Time of Change

Entering the World of Fantasy

Code of the Jenri

Cauchemar

Windrider

Windmaster

Single Point Stories

Poetic Justice

Precipice

Soulshifter

Captain of the Guard

Stormmistress

Dark of Night

Oblivion

Character Building

The Intemperate Sword

A Familiar Tale

Echo

Back Seat Driver

Masks

Coming Back After a Long Hiatus

Stowaway in Seguin

Second Life

Kismet

Best Laid Plans

Nightmare Blanket

About the Author

Coming Soon: Curse of the Jenri

Introduction

Normally, I don't write introductions. Stories, in my opinion, should be self-explanatory and stand on their own, whether they are 100 words long or a series of novels. They should have characters that compel, scenes that are clearly drawn (whether inferred or directly described), and dialogue one can all but hear, and invoke an emotional and/or intellectual response.

I like to think my stories do that.

But, as much as I love storytelling—the exercise of making up characters and situations and worlds and relationships, then bringing them forward—I've also become somewhat fascinated by my own journey to learn to do so effectively. Why? Because the will and effort to create stories and the imaginative spark, by themselves, are not enough to become a great writer. A writer must also develop skills, not just grammar and vocabulary (though those are important), but also using words effectively, setting scenes and tone and characters. With short stories, one might only have a few sentences to accomplish this.

These stories, even my early more clumsy work, also represent key steps as to how I developed some of the skills I use for my novels (and my journey is not complete). For years, I wrote short stories taking a scene or a notion or a concept and building it into a story. That's what I do, what I love to do.

Unlike poetry (which is what I wrote first), language is less rigid for prose and sound is less important. Characters take on greater complexity and depth, and dialogue becomes critical. However, the elements of eliciting an emotional response, creating a viable picture quickly, and making the best use of language, those needs remain. In a similar way, though short stories use many of the same tools and have the same requirements of novels, the limited word count minimizes world building (at least individually). In short stories, scenes and characters must become crisp and real in a very short time, dialogue cannot be wasted, humor must be handled adroitly, and drama must be compelling and immediate. Much of that is useful in novel writing, as well, but it's imperative in a short story where the window of opportunity is so small.

I started writing poetry and short stories in high school. By the time I took creative writing in college, my professor was already shaking his head at me since I had my own style. You write stories anyone could read, he told me disapprovingly. Well, damn, that was my intention. But really I was writing stories I wanted to read myself and building myself into the kind of writer I would like to read (and, of course, I'm a voracious reader).

These stories represent a large portion of my journey and many seeds that were created in one or more stories were taken and nurtured into novels later on (Code of the Jenri, andCauchemar,). But even if they are independent and never grew into a world of their own, I used these stories to refine one aspect or another of my writing.

I am dedicating this book to the memory of my father, Frank Preston Beck, Jr. Although I've been writing since I was ten or eleven, most of the poetry (what I wrote first) I read over, thought, Hey, not bad, and threw away. It wasn't until I wrote A Cold Wind on the Hill (at thirteen or thereabouts) and showed my father that the situation changed. Although not a fiction lover himself, he made me promise never to throw any of my writing away again. Even the stuff I should have thrown away (which I didn't include in this book).

It is, at least in part, due to him that I began to document my imaginings and learned to appreciate sharing the stories with an audience. Perhaps because of that I continued to pursue writing even after I became an engineer and a mother and had days packed with too many other things to do. I still had to tell stories, had to write, had to write down and save what I did write (even when it stunk).

In his memory, I'm including perhaps the only thing of mine he actually enjoyed, simplistic and idealistic though it was.

A Cold Wind on the Hill

One August morning as nighttime had paled,

Fighting broke out as the peacetalkers failed

And the War had begun that no one would win.

Grieved for His children, He looked on His kin

And sent down an angel to quiet the din.

But no one would listen for he had no right

To sue them for peace when they wanted to fight,

'Til, fin'ly, repulséd, he fled in disgrace,

Quite sick to the heart for the Master he'd face

To tell of the end of the earth's human race.

Yet, though it seemed futile, God, too, had to try

To keep all those missiles from wounding the sky,

But man just ignored Him and forced His retreat,

Weeping with grief for His mankind's defeat,

And for their blind bloodlust he couldn't unseat.

So, man set his guns up, his missiles, his bombs

And sent them all out on one hot August dawn.

Then cities exploded in huge clouds of dust,

While millions were killed in this political must,

Whole nations reduced to just heat-blackened crust.

Now, on a small hill does a lone Figure stand,

With tears in His eyes and blood on His hands.

The land all is barren; the grey air is still,

Which tortures that gentle Soul there on the hill,

As, for once in His life, God, Himself, feels a chill.

I love you, Dad.

1Note that I was greatly tempted to rewrite/rework many of the earlier works that were frequently clumsy or limited in scope, but I left them untouched because they demonstrate lessons being learned and progress.

The Early Works

I remember fondly when I first realized that what I wanted to do—what I would always want to do—was tell stories. Not just write anything like essays or memoirs or reporting, mind you, but make up stories and worlds and people. I had an assignment in high school to write an essay about an ordinary object one could find at home. But I couldn't just describe something; I had to tell a story. Even my poetry tended toward long and epic stories.

The bones of that essay became my first short story: Charley. Though prose, it was only a short step from the poetry I'd written up to that point, the use of the sound of language, the emotional manipulation. Of everything I've written, it is still my eldest daughter's favorite. (I love you, Stephanie).

In fact, most of these early short stories are only a few short steps from the poetry I'd written before. They tend to be simplistic in concept, designed to invoke emotion, fatalistic/tragic (as most of my poetry was) and still tending toward usage of the cadence and the aural qualities of language. They tend to be short on plot and weak on dialogue. Still, even rough and imperfect, I think they still have power.

Charley

The room was a quiet one, decorated with faded toys from decades before and homemade quilts, but neat. Too neat. The bed was made without a wrinkle. Every toy, and there were many, seemed placed rather than thrown in the half-hazard way that children have. One of them, a tattered teddy, sat up almost straight on the flawless pillow, dulled by the same layer of dust that blanketed everything in the room. Even the meager sunshine that crept through the dingy window seemed dusty.

It had not always been so. Long ago, the sun, that now shone half-heartedly through the neglected window, came bursting, a dancing golden haze that seemed ecstatic to play in a room bounding with unkempt toys. It waltzed over the then more vibrant quilts and even shone on a bear every bit as tattered as the one alone in the room so many years later. But the sun never seemed happier, nor glowed more golden, then when shining on Ginny's golden hair. His Ginny.

She had needed no sunshine but brought her own with her golden hair. She brought clear skies with blue blue eyes and spread joy with a smile more beautiful than anything else nature could dream up. Her family called her Dimples and loved her for her laughter, but he knew her as Sunshine for that was what she was.

And, as much as Charley adored her, she had loved him just as much. Since the beginning of time, he had gladly inhabited that comfy place beneath her arm, had gladly given up his looks for her. Like most favored toys, he looked ready for the ragbag with one button eye always just on the verge of falling off and one arm not quite the right color. Mama's hands had mended him times beyond counting, but the worse he looked, the more Ginny loved him.

And nothing else mattered.

Sometimes, of course, she had to leave him behind. When she left, she would place him just so and say, Now, Charley, you just stay right there because I want to find you when I come back. And I'll be right back. Then she would tweak his position, which was usually crooked, and leave the room, but she'd always peek back for one last word, Don't move, because I'll be back. Wait for me. Then she would dance away in that peculiar rhythmless dance that children do and grownups can never copy, but makes them feel young watching.

Sooner or later she would come back and say, Did you miss me, Charley? I'm glad you didn't leave because I just don't know what I would do if I came back and you weren't here. She would pick him up and give him a hug that thoroughly crushed his stuffing before installing him under her arm so she could go about child business.

And he was still there, waiting . . .

There had come a day when she didn't dance and her skin was red with fever. She rolled and moaned, shoving Charley up against her chin when the pain was too much. Mama, it hurts so bad. Make it go away. Mama would wring her hands and the doctor would mumble, unwilling to look at Ginny directly. In a few moments they would leave and Ginny would look into Charley's sloppy face and say, "Charley, I feel so bad. Why do I feel so bad? Will you give me a teddy kiss and I just know it will make me feel better." And, of course, he would. All of his kisses were for her alone, for no better purpose than to take away her pain if only for an instant. For a moment, she would smile, but soon she would be tossing, crushing Charley beneath her as she fidgeted through her uncomfortable nights and days. And Charley was there with her.

Mama and the doctor could leave when her crying hurt them too much, but not Charley. It was easier for them to close the door and pretend that Ginny wasn't suffering, that she wasn't there. It was too difficult for Mama, wringing her hands, to listen to Ginny moan, but Charley did. It was too hard for the doctor to stay and watch a sweet little girl eaten up with fire while he stood helpless, but Charley shared that fire with her. Someone had to stay with her. Someone had to give her teddy kisses. She needed someone—and Charley was there.

Then, one night, she stopped turning, stopped crying, stopped moaning, her skin finally giving up the horrible fever, but no one was happy. Everyone cried. They said they would never be happy again, that there was no joy without their Dimples. They took her frail body away and straightened the room, placing the cherished teddy bear on Ginny's pillow. And closed the door.

And he waited. All of the love a child pours into something can't just disappear. So, he waited.

The rest of the family eventually became happy again, finding joy in a different set of blue eyes, a different set of dimples. There were always more children, more grandchildren. For them.

But not for him. Someone could live without dimples, but without Sunshine? There was a black hole in him waiting for Ginny. What if she came back and he was gone? So, he waited.

Of course, stuffed animals don't have feelings, they're not alive . . .

YOU SAID YOU'D COME BACK.

They are inanimate objects with no more life than a pair of shoes . . .

I don't know what I'd do if I came back and you weren't here.

GINNY!

Teddy bears don't have hearts.

GINNY, I DO MISS YOU WHEN YOU'RE GONE! I DO. YOU'VE BEEN GONE SO LONG . . .

There's no such thing as a living teddy bear.

GINNY, I MISS YOU. PLEASE COME BACK . . . YOU SAID . . .

You wait here, Charley, because I'm gonna be right back.

The button eye, dangling on its ancient thread hangs like a big black tear with no sunshine to touch it. There is a single blonde hair on the pillow beside him, but it doesn't shine.

I LOVE YOU, GINNY.

I'll be back, Charley, so you wait here.

What life is there without sunshine?

I MISS YOU, GINNY.

Yes, Virginia, there is a Charley bear.

Wait for me.

So. He waits.

Seeds of Tomorrow

The figure lying next to him stirred silently, then slipped out of bed without sound, seemingly without even movement. For a moment, she was liquid gold before she solidified beside the rumpled bed. With her slanting obsidian eyes, she gazed at the still form of her sleeping companion, the unknowing Father of her Children-to-be. She smiled.

He was perfect. For centuries, she had waited for just such a man—for him. Waiting for the Father. There had been other possibilities, other men, but none had been perfect. Each had, in some vital way, been flawed, having some imperfection, however tiny, that had made him unacceptable, his blemish revolting in her exacting black eyes. Some were tall and powerful, forceful of character but lacking in cunning or wisdom. Some were brilliant but had no courage. Some were brave but puny. Some did not bear her Mark. All were lacking. So she waited—for him.

She had known he would come. Didn't they always? As many who bore the Mark were, he was dark and nobly handsome, built upon magnificent lines, tall and powerful, but, even more, he had the cunning that had come down from some previous Father, the brilliance of the most accomplished scholar—and subtle, oh so subtle. No human knew of these depths, deceived by his clever ruse of boredom and borderline intellect. They all thought him a moderately successful tycoon, more lucky than shrewd, not realizing that the visible was only a small fraction of his success. No one could have guessed the extent of his holdings or power. Many of those who looked upon him with contempt were really owned by him, all unknowing. But then, humans had forever been fools. She knew. He was brilliant. He was perfect. He was Roland. Now, he was the Father.

With almost affection, she turned his head with a slim golden finger tipped with fingernail naturally black. There, on his throat, was the Mark, imperceptible to all but her. The color was the same as that around it, but as she gently stroked the skin on the underside of his powerful jaw, she felt the thrill of touching that strangely rough skin—her skin.

Somewhen, centuries before, some beautiful maiden, for her Children were discerning as well as promiscuous, had been raped, her maidenhead stolen, by one of the Children. There would be no cruelty, no pain, but, even so, it would be horrifying for her. The maid, shocked by a rape too horrible to remember would forget or—perhaps—die, but the child would survive, would always survive. Every child of every child of her Children for eternity would bear a Mark. It was the Mark of her Children, the Mark of their Blood—and hers.

Licentious and fruitful as her Children were, she had had to wait for just the right descendant. She had had to wait for just such a noble specimen of her Children's children to seduce him, make him the Father. It had been a long wait, but a wise and pleasurable choice. She bent and kissed his Mark, her forked tongue twitching against the rough skin. So pleasurable.

And so easy. Humans, or near humans, were always so easy, so simple to seduce. Who can resist his own Mother? And she was beautiful, her midnight hair hanging to her waist, teasing the eye with its impossible gold highlights. Her ebon eyes shone with a mesmerizing luminescence that came from within, eyes shaped with that seductive Oriental flavor. The black silk dress embroidered with gold thread enhanced her incredible body and peerless complexion that glowed golden. The seduction was over in one moment. One look and he was hers.

She leaned over and brushed a lock of hair from his sleeping face, a look of almost tenderness in her glowing eyes, a rueful smile twisting her lips. So easy. Gently, she picked up her silk dress from the floor and draped it over her lover, winking at the ruby eye of the dragon stitched in the silk. 'Ruby-eyed indeed,' she thought derisively and then softly laughed in a low rumble that was almost a purr.

He stirred slightly, but she was not alarmed; he had exhausted himself. It would be many hours before he roused. Languorously, she slid her hands down her perfect body that centuries could not touch, delighting in the whispered rasp too slight for humans to notice, listening to the soft shush too gentle for human ears to detect as the scales, so finely linked as to be invisible to human eyes, slid against each other. It was only those of the Blood who had the strength to satisfy her—and her need.

Ah, grandson, she whispered, Perhaps, you should die last. That, at least, you deserve. More pleasure have you given me than any has before. If only I could keep you with me . . . but it was only an idle thought. A human of his caliber would never be able to love the Mother while her Children—their Children—destroyed the human race.

So sad. Before, her Children were only to teach, to police, to frighten humans, but she'd slept too long and human memories were too short. Her Children had long since perished and humans had thrived. Humankind had had its chance and had poisoned its own world. Now, humans stood on the brink of self-destruction and would blithely destroy the rest of the world along with themselves. Their time was over.

Now her body was filled with seed for millions of Children—so foolish of human women to waste so much precious seed—Children so different from both parents. Legends of the past, scoffed and forgotten, would live again in glistening scales, rending claws and fiery breath. Her Children.

She whispered to the window and slipped onto the sill, still naked, then turned back. Perhaps, she should keep him . . . but no, he was the past. She would wait for those who would follow humans as humans had followed the races before. She must wait for his successor as she had waited for him.

She sprang into the air on wings that had not seemed there before, and, as she left, she was certain that this one would realize, would figure out who she was, who he was, would recognize the clue she left. When her Children haunted the earth, he would know that he was the Father of her magnificent Children, that he was the most blessed and cursed of men . . .

That he had held the Dragon Queen.

The Mother-Thing

He jerked his hand back as if burned. He hadn't meant to touch her.

He should never have come here. He had known how it would be. He gazed on her with involuntary adoration. She, a