Whispers

So today, I struck a deal with my muse that went like so…

Dear Muse,

Under the circumstances of dire duress, I permit you to write anything you want during this November period under two conditions, as follows:

1. You must produce words and a significant chunk of them at any point when I am following your guidance, and
2. You must also produce definitive and significant progress on whatever story you undertake to have me write—

definitive meaning reliable, fully-formed, and complete; and significant meaning important and of sufficient volume to be worth my while.

Any failure to comply with the above conditions will result in immediate and summary dismissal of your input regarding which project I am working on.

Thank you and regards.

Sincerely,

the scribbler

Originally published at Liana Mir. You can comment here or there.

Seara pushes the tiny Elysium speeder to its fastest and hits the wall of Kippler's. It's an explosion of discomfort, shocks reeling and the entire craft jarred from the impact. The shimmering wall of color bends beneath her spaceship, and she leans hard right, angling through the tunnel like she's wrestling angels in her flight.

She knows this path. No nav to guide her, instruments next to useless, but she's one of the best pilots in the twenty-two star systems and she's flown everything under every sun there is to fly.