A Gift From the Muse, page 1
Book Description
Alex is a critically acclaimed painter and artist. Their work hangs in galleries around the world. But this new piece needs something they can’t quite capture. Something special. Not just any inspiration will do.
Contents
A Gift From The Muse
Sample of Perihelion
About The Author
Read More
Copyright Page
A Gift From The Muse
The morning had dawned overcast and gray--a perfect day for painting. The wind slipped in off the ocean and caressed Alex over their shoulders as they sipped the first cup of dark coffee on the balcony. They were up early enough that the traffic hadn't started yet, and Alex sighed into the relative silence. They closed their eyes and smiled. Yes, today they would paint something bold and unmistakable. Something the critics could argue over at Alex's next gallery.
Alex's wife Ireah ghosted behind them, bare feet silent on the wood floors. Her white shift rippled down to upper-thigh, showing off a mile of pale, translucent leg. Her skin was so fine and delicate, so sensitive to the sun, and yet she risked it to wrap her arms around Alex from behind, chin resting on their shoulder, breath cold in their ear.
Alex smiled and reached their hand back to cradle Ireah's cheek. "Happy anniversary, love."
Ireah darted around in front of them on the balcony gasping, the shift riding high, her blue eyes so pale they were nearly white. She smiled and tangled her fingers together.
Alex hummed as if they had forgotten a gift and turned back inside the condo. They flashed a grin over their shoulder. "I got you something special."
Ireah huffed, half outrage and half anticipation. She hated when Alex teased her with secrets, but she so loved surprises. Alex finished their coffee with deliberate patience, delighting in the way Ireah danced in front of them. She was too excited to wait, but she wouldn't beg either. One of the delightful paradoxes that made Alex fall for her so hard.
Alex handed her the empty mug. "You'll see," they said. "But first, painting."
Ireah pouted her lower lip out, but she hooked Alex's arm with her own and dragged them through the small apartment--living room staged in teal and white, kitchen with its yellow accents, hallway decorated with Ireah's favorites of Alex's paintings--into the guest bedroom-turned studio.
The first thing Alex had done moving into this condo was rip out the carpet in this room and replace it with tile. Art had a tendency to break free of its confines, splattering on floors, walls, and occasionally ceiling. There had been sliding mirror doors on the closet, which Alex removed right away. The shelving inside now spilled over with paints, canvas, brushes, and oils. Alex had drawers of pigment powders, stacks of tins for mixing, and pallets scattered wherever they fit.
A long white desk dominated one wall, it's surface decorated with old pigment smears and splatters. An array of mixing mediums in a range of viscosities were jarred in a row, their labels straight, but fingerprints of cyan, magenta, and yellow decorated their edges. At the end of the table stood a rack of canvases, all freshly gessoed and waiting for Alex's inspiration. Only yesterday they had been a dozen shades of red, all of them wrong.
And it was red that Alex would paint them today. There was an emotion they were trying to capture, something red, but not just any red would do.
Ireah leaned close to kiss Alex on the cheek, more of a ghosting of lips than contact, and moved into the room. She reclined gracefully on a chaise upholstered in neutral beige, and her pale eyes stared up at Alex.
On the chaise, with her white shift on her delicate skin, Ireah became something more than Alex's wife. She was ethereal and set free. A wild and untameable thing that drove Alex to create more, faster, better.
Alex was slave to Ireah's muse.
It was time to paint.
Alex brought the first canvas to their easel. The white gesso had left a lightly brushed texture behind as it dried, and Alex determined that could be worked into the painting. They would use a less viscous paint to bring that texture through.
The first dash of red on white gave Alex chills. It splattered a bit too like a crime scene and left a voyeuristic impression behind. But that was just the first stroke. Alex obscured the evidence with another distracting slash of black and a delicate reflection below. No, now it was too much. It took away from the red.
Alex pulled the canvas off their easel and replaced it with a fresh one. They considered the brush in their hand, covered in black pigment, and dunked it in a cup of linseed oil. The mug had been used for coffee or tea at some ancient time, and was now coated in years of paint around the rim. A rainbow of reds.
Alex cleaned their fingers on a hand towel. That brush in the mug was the one Alex had used for their last masterpiece, the one whos red she was trying to recreate now. It had gathered immense attention in the gallery as it continued to age before visitors' very eyes, the color starting vibrant and bold, then contracting, almost congealing into a darker state.
There was only one masterpiece in a given brush, which meant it was time to make a new one.
Brushes came in a variety of standard shapes, sizes, lengths, and densities. Artificial fibers had replaced most traditional brushes made with finely trimmed fur and hair, but Alex knew there was no replacement for an expertly bound hair-bristle brush.
And not just any hair would do.
Alex smiled down at Ireah from the side of the chaise, delicate hair shears in one hand. Ireah tuned her face away and offered the beautiful, thick waves that rippled from her head. As Alex's muse, Ireah freely gave of herself as often as she gave inspiration. Alex took their time, brushing Ireah's hair reverently, trimming the edges the way she liked, then they selected a bundle from underneath and with finality, snipped the hair right off.
Creating a brush from a handful of hair wasn't easy, but Alex had practice. They taped the lock tightly together at the end, wrapped it around a few times. Ireah's hair fell down to her mid-back, but the brush only needed to be an inch or so. After the binding, some leather, for a solid hold, then a band of metal around the outside that Alex pinched in two places to ensure a snug fit. The other end of the metal fit over a wooden dowel and a little dab of carpentry glue, another pinch of metal, and the brush was ready for trimming.
Alex lay the hair out on their workbench and brushed it straight. The first cut they made deliberately long, just to make sure. With the finely-honed sheers, Alex trimmed the brush down one careful snip at a time. They applied a gentle angle with a point, and rounded the back end. Every individual hair had to be aligned. Rogue twists or waves trimmed out. And finally the brush was ready.
Alex returned to the second blank canvas. They started with red, painting a swath of color in a block. This iteration was less crime-scene and more vogue. There were passions in red: swirls of wine that lead to kisses in the dark. Darkness only came into the edges of this one, with a spot of bright truth just off-center.
Yes this was a good painting. A valuable addition to Alex's portfolio. But this wasn't the masterpiece they were looking for.
They needed better red.
Alex set the painting aside and loaded the next canvas on the easel. They cleaned their new brush in the linseed oil and considered the drawers pigments available to them under the workbench.
The synthetic silicate glass was too orange. The calcium carbonate too pink. Iron oxide developed with quartz became a delightful deep red, like wine, but it wouldn't age like that painting Alex had done before. Alex could crush and mix a custom batch of color with enough ingredients.
Mercuric sulfide was really what they needed, mixed with a trace amount of chlorine to induce aging, but short of a chemistry lab, it wasn't easy to obtain. And certainly not on such short notice.
But all was not lost. Alex closed the last drawer and retuned to the chase where Ireah had hardly budged after having her hair cut. Alex stroked her cold cheek and stared into her pale eyes, eyes that had always been able to see deeply into Alex's soul.
It was the muse's job to provide. Inspiration, supplies, encouragement. All of these Ireah had done and more. And now Alex asked the muse for her final gift: the perfect red.
It trailed lightly at first, just a drop across Ireah's throat, and dripped onto the chaise. The pigment soaked into the silk immediately, spreading vibrant, living red. Then all at once the rush of color came flooding down Ireah's neck and shoulders. It spread under her shift and stained the white fabric dark. Pigment puddled in corners and seeped into edges. Ireah had never looked more beautiful.
Alex rushed to collect it in a bowl of their hands. They spread it across the workbench--added wax and oil, crushed them together with the old ivory muller. More wax, purified from the bees until it ran clear.
Yes, the color was coming together now. It would only be bold like this for a few days, as long as the linseed oil could keep it wet. Time worked against them now. It was imperative this painting be finished for the gallery.
The new brush soaked up the pigment like drinking in a desert. The canvas stretched toward the brush. The painting created itself--the very essence of the muse speaking through the vessel that was Alex. Nothing existed but the painting, and within the painting everything existed all at once.
And in a rush it was over.
Alex stood back from the work, their heart pounding, breath in pants, the new paintbrush trembling in their fingers. The work was complete, and what a work. The painting Alex had done before, the one that the critics at th
Alex had given themselves utterly to the work of the muse and once again the muse had delivered unto them the most glorious achievement. A new brush in Alex's collection. A new pigment, so readily spilled. There were more paintings to explore in this manner but not until Alex had a chance to recover.
They sat against the drawers in the closet for support, wrists dangling from their bent knees. From here Alex could see both the muse, draped perfectly as she was on the chaise, and the painting positioned like an offering above her on the easel.
Yes, for now the work was over. Alex could feel their energy coming down quickly. Even they couldn't tolerate the touch of the muse for too long.
But that need always came back. In a week or two, maybe a month, Alex would get an itch to paint again. They will slave away over the workbench, mixing up pigments and applying them over and over again to gessoed canvas, unable to tap into the magic now that Ireah had spilled her final gift across her chest and the chaise.
It was never moderated. The muse couldn't help but dive into something head-first. And when it came to her inspiration, Alex was swept away with her.
This had been the final act. The closing curtain.
Without a muse, Alex couldn't paint a wonder like this. A brush only held one masterpiece in it. And a muse, only one gift.
So tomorrow Alex would rest. And next week or next month, when the itch came again to paint, Alex would go searching for a new muse. She had to be bold, someone with fire in her veins and compassion in her eyes. A woman who could match Alex's passion and sweep them away, breathlessly. She had to dedicate herself to Alex's art.
Not just any muse would do.
Sample of Perihelion
I
Kato: Queenship Selvans
Kato fingered the over-starched cuff of his dress blues. The pins on his left breast glinted under the light, and he twitched his shoulders back. Ceren flicked his elbow from her place behind him, and he corrected his hands. Down at his hips, thumbs in line with the seam. He inched his right boot further into the tie-down keeping him in place. He took a deep breath. The women in line to either side of him did the same.
“Relax,” Ceren whispered.
Kato shifted to one side and shot her a brief, narrow eye roll. “Easy for—”
First Commander Reza Ahmadi floated onto the bridge— her boots tapped like a countdown on the composite floor as she slid them into tie-downs. Everyone in the room stiffened to attention. Kato bit his tongue. The first commander said nothing. She faced the assembled lines of soldiers but stared past them at the generated images and display screens of the bridge. Kato resisted the urge to look behind him.
Ceren flicked his elbow again, and he tried to do as she bid. He unclenched his jaw and let his breath out in a slow stream. He couldn’t imagine how she managed to be so cavalier. She was on the shortlist for pilot, but he was the one in knots over a possible bridge assistant position. If his record was strong enough. If his grandmother’s name held enough sway. If his mother’s name didn’t tarnish his entire reputation.
The first commander held her hands behind her back and turned her attention from one screen to another. “Final egress check?”
From behind Kato, a woman seated and strapped at a terminal said, “In progress. Personnel are counted. All outer doors are sealed and locked.” A pause. Then, “Communication with Lempo remains clear. We are ready for egress on your mark, First Commander.”
The first commander spent another moment assessing information on the screens, and her delay crawled up Kato’s spine. In seconds their ship would push off into free space and Lempo’s daughter would come to life. He heard Ceren take a quick breath and hold it. And he guessed at her reaction—the looming possibility of finally attaining a pilot’s mantle perhaps setting her nerves on fire. He knew the feeling.
“Undock and burn rear thrusters at ten percent for five seconds,” the first commander said.
Located at the ship’s fore, Kato was too distant to hear the coupling disengage. The ship’s mass was so great that the powerful thruster burn was reduced to a mild hum. Behind Kato the woman said, “All personnel, prepare for queenship awakening.” Her voice spread through the room and every corridor on the ship.
Then the bridge went black. Kato jumped. Soldiers around him stifled their surprise and maintained formation. The hum of ventilation fans wound to a stop.
Kato saw lights blink back on down the hall connecting the bridge to the rest of the ship. The main spine. The lights shimmered forward, a wave of power that engulfed the bridge and rippled down the body of the ship. Kato swore the entire thing shuddered. Then, an androgynous voice came from every direction at once.
I am Selvans.
The first commander smiled. “Good morning, Selvans. I am First Commander Reza Ahmadi. Please perform a full self-diagnostic.”
Lights blinked in sequence, and a man behind Kato spoke quietly at a terminal.
The ship said: I am fully functional and self-aware.
The woman behind Kato said, “Confirmed, First Commander. Lempo has given us a green light.”
“Very good. Selvans, are you prepared to select your pilot?”
Selvans replied: Yes, First Commander.
Kato heard Ceren let out all her breath. He tucked his right hand behind his thigh and crossed his fingers, knowing she’d see it.
“Do so now.”
A sense of black space bloomed in the back of Kato’s mind. He imagined Ceren feeling the ship, and he knew her breath was coming in short, anticipatory bursts. He felt her chest flutter. The fluid-like gas they all breathed circled around the bridge, around the entire ship—a space-traveling ocean of life-forms. A complete biome.
Kato sensed Selvans drifting away from Lempo. With distance, the mother queenship resolved into a massive sphere. Drones swarmed the surface, shuttling people and supplies down to Earth or beyond. His sense of scale abruptly shifted. Kato struggled to grasp an understanding of the entire interstellar neighborhood made up of a dozen or so of their closest stars.
His mind tried to stretch further, and he cried out. He squeezed his eyes shut and dug his fingers into his curly hair. He felt a hand grab a loop on his belt and tug him down. Then hands on his shoulders, fingers grabbing his.
Kato’s mind zipped down to local space and then snapped back into his own head. He opened his eyes with a gasp of relief. His arms fell slack. Ceren’s cool thumbs stroked the top of his brow, and Kato realized she was speaking. Her voice sounded far away for a moment. Then that snapped back into place, too.
“—ust breathe Kato. You’re going to be fine. Relax, and let her in. She’s not going to hurt you.”
Kato coughed. “Fuck me…”
Ceren barked a laugh and held his head between her palms. “You back with us?”
“Yeah…” Except the lingering understanding of space wouldn’t leave the edges of his awareness. “Yeah, I’m okay.”
“Pilot Kato Ozark,” the first commander said. “Welcome aboard.”
Kato reached for a tie-down overhead, and Ceren helped turn him around. The first commander held a transparent slate that glowed with text. His entire file, no doubt. He monkeyed forward until he could float in front of her, aware that drifting into her would not make a good impression.
“Says here your grandmother pilots Queen Lempo.”
“Yes, sir.” Kato tried to stay at attention. Some sense of knowing teased him, tempted him to look around the ship without even moving.
“I also see your mother—”
“Sir, I have no affiliation with my mother. They wouldn’t have ever let me on the ship.”
The first commander lowered her slate and pursed her lips. “Quite.” She offered her hand. “Then let me be the first to congratulate you.”
Kato pushed himself down another few inches to grasp her hand. He fell into the first commander’s head. Forty-seven, six foot even, cancer survivor, genetic risk for high blood pressure—he tried to wrench his hand out of her grip and failed—previous service record aboard Lempo not without its blemishes but generally positive. However her assignment here was a case of failing upward—a fact she wasn’t proud of in the slightest. Kato sensed an immense respect and loyalty for Pilot Farai. Kato. He couldn’t stop the flow of information. Kato dove into Reza Ahmadi’s years aboard Lempo. In moments, he relived every success and failure; he retained those memories as if they were his. He knew her struggle with— KATO!
