The Muse

I ran across this sketch I did several years ago.  I was commuting on a train because traffic on 95 was horrible.  I would drive an hour and a half, one way (on a good day!). I gained many a grey hair with that commute.  I used to get angry at the other drivers.  I soon established a method of coping that I’ll call “Zen driving”.  I had a bumper sticker that said “Your anger makes me happy.”

That sticker helped me with my first divorce.  It helped me to not be afraid of that angry man I had married.

It also helped me through traffic.  Knowing I had that sticker it would make me smile serenely at the angry faces all around me.  

I soon started letting go of all that frustration, ego driven thoughts... I had been calling people really awful names in my mind. It affected my whole body. All that negativity. 

I went a step further.  I started letting people merge when they needed to merge.  Some would smile and wave and it felt great.  It felt great even if they didn’t acknowledge it. Just knowing I had a little bubble of pleasantness surrounding me.  

I was in my happy place.  

This drawing reminds me of that happy place and the time I conquered Northern Virginia traffic.

One Who Feeds - Genitorturers

Thats fuckin right!

😽😽😽❤️❤️❤️

Love Hurts- performed by Joan Jett..  I would totally do her! Btw.., fucking hawt

I am slowly evolving.  I feel for the better.  I am learning about myself in new ways I never thought I would.  

Over the past couple of weeks, I have made some drastic changes.  Some within myself, some with my environment, and some that are...well... more aesthetic in nature.

I am not entirely sure where I developed such a surface hatred for the color pink.  I adored the movie “Pretty in Pink” when I was in school because I could relate to that lower social structure and being outcast.  The preps and the jocks didn’t care for me and I had no love for them.

Maybe I saw the color embraced by the popular crowd that I instantly wanted nothing to do with it. 

Maybe I saw the color pink and felt it was too innocent for my depraved soul.  It reminded me that I was never innocent.  I was wicked and devilish and should always wear black.  

It didn’t bother me too much until I was in my 3 year nightmare with the narcissistic dom.  He loved making me wear pink.  He wanted my hair blonde all the time, and called me “kitten”.  He didn’t want me to express myself.  

If I had it my way at that time, I would have kept my hair red and avoided pink.  My favorite color had always been green; any shade from teal to chartreuse.  Blue was second... especially that color the sky gets at twilight.  That is my favorite time.  (I very nearly went off on a tangent about faeries and twilight... I might blog about the faeries later)

Ahem.... okay.

So. Pink.  I can’t help but notice that over the course of many years, I’ve collected a lot of pink clothing.  All my sexy panties... they were all pink. (I’ve acquired more panties that aren’t pink)...  

I was very overweight for awhile and felt that pink made me look larger. I was very self conscious.  

My twatwaffle narcissist would laugh at me in pink or any color really but especially in pink.  He’d make me wear clothes that were too small.  

The pay off was that he’d always cuddle with me (unless I had done something wrong).  He gave me attention, freely and all the time (unless I had done something wrong), and he made me feel like I was the only woman that existed.  All that went away if I acted out or had done something wrong.  

By “wrong” I mean that I would not spend money on him or pay for items for his business.  He’d degrade me and even manipulate my own children into laughing at me if I decided I wanted to save my money.  

He didn’t pay for anything.  If I needed money to support the household (including him) he’d force me to sign an IOU and give him a check for collateral.

There is so much more I could say about “twatwaffle” and that relationship but I’ve said enough to explain some of my pink aversion.  It reminds me of him. 

I think over the past several months, I’ve started to let go of a lot.  I tried pink on.  It was pleasant and I didn’t melt.  I didn’t break out into a rash and I actually felt.... cute.

I even dyed my hair blonde; something I swore I’d never do again.  

I’m currently in the process of making a full set of dreads that are blonde to pink. 

Im embracing it.  

Im changing, and I like the changes I’ve made. 

Pink is for the better.

I know these are all Joan Jett... but damn.  🥰

I have moved and Milo is alone all night... tearing up my roll of paper towels and scrambling my throw rugs.  I’ve had reports from my son that he has been scaling the walls... literally.  I am quite certain he won’t find me in the rafters.  I got home from work this morning and he jumped straight from the floor to my shoulders. No warning... just suddenly... cat.

Here he is staring into my soul.  

And a few more of his exploration of the new place.

If anyone is interested in following this story... Here are the links to what I’ve posted so far.  I’m hoping to stir my inspiration a bit.  

The first two pages of Chapter 1

https://thecage.co/blog/userblog.php?blog_id=33654&postid=10135

The next two pages of Chapter 1

https://thecage.co/blog/userblog.php?blog_id=33654&postid=10165

An excerpt that takes place after Chapter 4

https://thecage.co/blog/userblog.php?blog_id=33654&postid=17599

This next segment is an excerpt that I have yet to decide exactly when it happens but most likely it will be the beginning of Chapter 5.

—————————-////———————

The moon caused the swirling sands to sparkle like the dust of the faerie folk. Each grain danced with the cool breeze, hindered only by a few jagged peaks of rough pale stone. Qellia stretched her wings in the soft light, creating a lacey pattern across the ground. It wasn’t until the air stopped moving that she realized she wasn’t alone. Grains of sparkling dust settled at her bare toes and her gaze drifted upward to the peak of a dune about twenty paces away. Four dark figures stood, swathed in darkness; only their pale white faces could identify them as T’alu De’an, The Dancing Dead.

“Four. I thought…” she murmured.

“If you thought there were five…you would not be wrong, Dark Mistress.” The words came out in a low hiss and it was difficult to discern the gender of the voice.

Qellia turned around to find “the fifth” standing only an arm’s length behind her. The fine hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. The moonlight provided little revelation about the figure that faced her from the dark recesses of the shroud covering most of its human-like body. The face was white with coal-black caverns for eyes. A skull? A shiver coursed through her, like a soft drumroll. She squinted and leaned toward the figure.

“He has her now. Meadowlark is gone…They have this all wrong.” Qellia pressed her lips together and placed a hand over her heart for a moment.

“Wrong is relative.” The figure turned so that just its profile remained visible; the pale face now concealed by the side of the hood. “Everyone has an agenda. I imagine Xy’ir would consider all of your efforts…wrong.”

Qellia could almost hear the figure smile.

This is from one of the novels I’m working on... I just felt like sharing:

Storm watched Alastor kneel in front of the woman on the dais. Kayzar. The wretched under dwelling deity of the Kara’so. Storm moved in her shackles in a vain attempt at finding some form of comfort. She winced at the pain from what her body had endured. Tracing the backside of Alastor with her eyes, Storm’s heart was beating at a maddening pace. She longed for just one look; to drown her in his deep blue eyes. The ache was real. Every part of her trembled thinking of his voice, his touch, his breath on her flesh. Storm’s brow furrowed. This went well beyond desire. She tried desperately to send her feelings to him. Just one look. Overcome, she ignored the bonds around her wrists. A soft moan escaped her lips followed by a whimper. Cold and damp, met her bare shoulders as she leaned back. She dragged her eyes from the back of Alastor’s perfectly groomed black hair to Kayzar.

The goddess was indeed beautiful. Her skin glittered like the dark sands of the Sundarean Isles. Her hair was an icy waterfall flowing down her back to her waist. Her clothing did very little to hide her unblemished body. Kayzar moved around Alastor like silk in water and reached a hand to cup his chin. The moment her hand touched his face, Storm shot Kayzar a scathing look. Her eyes could have burned holes through the Goddess’ head. Storm blinked back burning tears, almost surprised that she had any left. A smile snaked across Kayzar’s lips as she looked over at Storm and then she spoke in a voice that could melt steel.

“Rise my Childe of Banboa. I think your subject is ready. I can almost taste her desire.”

Storm watched Alastor stand up like an obedient sza’sek, then he turned and faced her. It was as if a roaring bonfire had been set before her. She could feel her nude flesh bear the heat of his gaze and just that simple gesture filled the empty space that had grown inside of her. Panting, she reached her hands toward him, scraping her wrists inside the harsh metal cuffs before the chains jerked her to a halt. It wasn’t enough. She had to get closer. He approached but stayed just out of reach. Storm arched away from the stone wall and whimpered yet again.

“Please…If you do not come to me, just kill me.” Storm begged and continued to pant.

She gave Alastor her full attention; her face twisted in frustration. She hardly noticed Kayzar had slithered up right next to her ear and smoothed some of her white damp locks away from her face.

“My Dearest daughter…Ar’rn, here in the Abyssal plane we earn our rewards. Death is the ultimate reward. Death too, must be earned.” Kayzar spoke in a soft tone, her hand continued to stroke Storm’s cheek as Storm forced herself to look over at the woman.

Kayzar spoke to Alastor, although her focus was completely on the battered muse dangling in the shackles.

“I’m impressed, Alastor. Your enthrallment worked so well she barely even noticed me.” Kayzar furrowed her brow slightly. “I’m not used to that.”