Come down out of the stars. Come down out of that world of metal dreams. Leave behind all thoughts of the hiss of reconditioned air and the mountains of strange worlds, and the tang of chlorine snow. Leave the armor, the swallowing blackness, the coldly burning lights of a thousand suns–all different and unique.
Forget the barren, windswept plains of Blythedrüg and the shivering sands of Marak K’Thee. Silence the howling storms of Harpal Ketan, the throaty croon of underground rock stars and the synthesized techno beat of their pop counterparts. Tell Stardust and Janus to wait a while, to sing different songs to different worlds.
Abandon the cold, black waters of the Mourning Sea, on which float a million candles. Say farewell to the figure on the beach there, who lights one for each friend lost. See the silhouette of a ship in the distance–blue and sleek, its pointed nose yearning for the sky, its very lines curved towards freedom. See all these things and turn away.
Come down out of the stars.
Step away from science fiction, falling out of that blanket of blackness and through the atmosphere as though there was no fear in doing so.
Notice as you fall the cerulean crescent of the ocean, the hiss of chalk as it runs back into the surf. From there the farmlands march up and over the plains of Stolenseam, to the hard black line of the cliffs that go on and on, beyond the rim of the horizon. Look down and see it, looming on the face of that cliff like the prow on some weathered ship, the haggard city of the Sheer.
Sink beneath the marble-lined causeways of Sunsgate, her glistening mansions and elegant gardens speaking of opulence almost beyond reckoning. Pass the opera house, the hum of a practicing orchestra, the gilded statues of muses. Float down the rickety Patchwork Stair, chasing the steps Moira has not yet taken. Descend the dividing line of the Teeth, touching the hand of a walker there. Help a nutcracker find new eyes in a narrow alley, his white gloves mired from scratching in the corners of streets.
Deeper still, to Alonzo who reaches for a slate and chalk that is placed just beyond his reach. To the haunted dreams of a toymaker, to the memories of a young artificer and her Baron. Down, down to the heart of the Sheer and its deadly secret, and two siblings who are running out of time.
The hands lift and set down, trailing stardust until the tails of comets turn into drips of pressurized steam and molten brass. From one genre to another, from one move to another, one house to a new house, old stressors replaced with new ones. Absent? For a time, perhaps; to breathe, to make space on the inside for the words that need to come–but not for long.
I’m back.
The next chapter, narrated by the toymaker, begins like this…
A great fog rolled in from the sea.
~~~
Moving sucks and this is why. I usually get caught up in another genre just to keep being creative but then I leave my primary project on the back burner because it requires more attention than I can currently give it.
BUT I’M BACK. TOYMAKER IS BACK. Regular updates are back starting now.
These kinds of prompts are what I share with my $15+ Patrons (on Patreon) and other, spoiler and secret stuff as well, so you should totally sign up to support me and get to be that person who reads my sci-fi novel or vampire novel someday in the future and goes “Hey WAIT A MINUTE this sounds familiar!”
It’s like being a part of a secret club. And you should be part of it.
Because you’re cool and I’m cool, and we’ll be even cooler together.
