While the dra-mama contrives to get us into another war and congress proclaims it MUST be called back by the president before they can assemble and halt the plans underway to do that, it being a slow, otherwise, news month, I dwelt upon several writing contests.
I also putzed about a number of blogs that concern themselves with writing and such contests. One fellow wrote he was P.O.ed about the contest he was about to enter for the fifth time having editors that liked genre other than his preferred genre, but that he was determined to study and write to achieve an Honorable Mention in the contest.
He was representative of many like blogs, delicate personalities all, with voices.
All of which energized my juices, because, after all, November is nearing and write a novel in thirty days is a contest. I doubt I’ll even attempt it, however nice it might be.
Once upon a time, not too long ago, I read about a fellow that rode a unicorn. He went about the West solving minor problems (to him minor problems) and worried about keeping his unicorns horn filed down to hide it from the profane.
My imagination, in the past week, has surfaced that fantasy western to the forefront – why, I have no clue, unless I’m feeling the urge to write fiction again after so long. Still, I cannot remember the name of the unicorn riding hero, nor, truth to tell, the whole plot of the story.
My fantasy thinking this past week borrows that person. He enters my scene leading twelve souls across the burning desert (high desert, because of the hills involved). He leads them from fresh water spring to fresh water spring for six days. All the party of twelve have been in training as Upper Super Duper Law Enforcement Agents for eighteen months.
The twelve don’t know, and haven’t been told, nor will they be told, that they are competing for one slot to replace one unicorn riding hero, who was killed performing the good deeds of a world wide network of unicorn riding hero’s, of whom there are only twenty authorized.
My unicorn riding hero is nick named Loki. Not that he is a trickster or anything, just that I couldn’t come up with another name to suit me. Loki is a deeply quiet man, just short of seven feet tall, and wide across the shoulders. Self effacing, caring deeply for human life and willing to lay down his life for others – which is a hall mark of the twenty that advise the nations, and act among the people to right wrongs – sort of a Superman without a cape or a Batman without the benefit of regular showers.
The thirteen were outfitted in western town that still maintain horse stables with all the gear necessary for desert travel, but none were given maps or compass. Each received on issue a horse, a mule or donkey pack animal.
(I’ll bring along some more of the story tomorrow. I think. I’d meant to do it in one entry, but I’m the antithesis of Loki in personality and need a few more words)
From the reaches,