Cissy Moonskipper

She scrambled over the railing and made it hurriedly to her brother’s side. She scraped her right knee in the effort. He was lying where he fell in the middle of the arboretum. The sky portal was still open to the stars, especially Veda 257, the star whose system the ship was now a temporary part of. Bright starlight streamed in to nourish the food plants and her late mother’s flowers.

But when she reached Wosely Moonskipper, he was no longer alive. The Lupin’s slug-thrower had penetrated his energy shield and hit him in his stupid melon of a head.

“How could you do that to me, Wose? How could you leave your baby sister all alone aboard a starship going nowhere in an unexplored star system?”

Of course, the dummy didn’t answer. This was, however, the first time he had an actual good excuse for it.

She looked over at the smoking pile of debris that was all the derfbag Lupin space-werewolf left behind as Wosely had disintegrated him. Stupid Stardog pirate! He got what he deserved.

But, wait! The pirate had brought his vehicle aboard in order to try to get ahold of the Moonskipper family spacecraft.

She lamely spent a dozen extra minutes trying to get Wose to raise himself from the dead. But 53rd Century medicine didn’t work like that. Full resurrections had to be carefully planned ahead of time. Wose hadn’t planned in the early morning hours to accidentally allow a dog-headed alien pirate to come aboard and murder him. At least he had the good sense to shoot back before he went down. No telling what would’ve become of twelve-year-old Cissy if he hadn’t.

Then she went to inspect the Lupin’s remaining possessions. In the docking bay she found the little two-man space skiff, an anti-gravity pod with a sub-light engine. A wonderful thing to have if she hadn’t lost Wose. the only one who could drive the thing. That was the good thing about old Wose. At thirty-five he knew how to build, fix, or repair practically anything that could travel in space.

That was the next problem to think about. She was alone on the starship now. Since Mom died and her father went so crazy with grief that Wose had to maroon him on that jungle moon seven months ago to prevent him from flying the ship into the heart of the nearby star, they had simply wandered. Nobody remaining on board knew how to navigate other than randomly drifting from star system to star system by line of sight.

Food was no problem. The arboretum produced all the organic matter they needed to create food from the replicator. And Wose had taught her how to scoop fuel from the outer levels of the clouds in a gas-giant. But how was she going to pilot the thing? And what would she do when something broke down?

She was moping about in the bridge when she happened to open the right storage drawer in the captain’s table. There were two books inside that immediately caught her eye.

She grinned to herself. She still had to see to Wose’s funeral. But she was grateful that Mom had taught her to read. She now possessed the ship’s owner’s manual that explained enough about everything to make life on a starship possible, and a copy of Daniel Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe.

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Magical Thinking

People accused of doing magical thinking are basically being accused of doing something awful. Like Republicans telling us that if we cut taxes for millionaires and billionaires, working class and middle class citizens will prosper because of it. Of course, they actually know better. So, it isn’t really magical thinking. It is really evil magical thinking.

But when I am actually guilty of magical thinking, it is more along the lines of me pinning my hopes on an intuition brought about by calculations in my overcrowded imagination that are probably horribly miscalculated but that I need to turn out to be accurate and miraculously pull me out of my current difficulty. And then, because I intuit really, really hard… it turns out all right.

Magic is after all, merely what we call science and situations where something amazing is created, but we have no idea at all how and why.

Our movies nowadays are really quite chock full of magical thinking. Wish-fulfillment, fantasy, and violence-laden revenge stories are what fill the cinema with seekers of escapism and relaxation. That is magical thinking of an epic sort. Go see the Black Panther movie and “Wakanda forever” solves racism.

So, what is the point of this little essay? What am I actually thinking about the subject of magical thinking? Well, I needed a topic today to keep my every-day-in-April posting goal alive. And magically…

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AeroQuest 4… Canto 137

Canto 137 – Wild Ride

Gyro was no ordinary Nebulon.    

Nebulons, known to many in the Imperium as “Space Smurfs” for reasons long forgotten, were the child-like blue people who inhabited deep space in their living starships.  Many thought the blue skin, yellow hair, and red apple cheeks showed evidence they were not just humanoids, but human space travelers mutated by the exotic radiations of the nebulae where Earthers and other humans had first discovered them. 

Gyro had the red cheeks, the blue skin, and the bright yellow hair, but he also had qualities that were extremely rare in Nebulons.  For one thing he was a Psion, a being with the right brain mutation to perform powerful brain functions that seemed like magic to the ordinary space traveler. 

His own special psionic ability was even rarer than the usual Psion.  He could not only use telepathy, but use the power of his “inner eye” to see and alter the molecular structure and overall organization in any finite piece of matter. 

In other words, he could change lead into gold with the power of his mind alone.  To Gyro it was just a matter of pushing the funny little atomic balls into new configurations in the creative imaginings of his “inner eye”.

Being a Psion inside the borders of the Galactic Galtorrian Imperium, the so-called “Thousand Worlds”, was a dangerous enterprise.  The Imperials were so afraid of psionic powers and what they believed they could do, that having psionic power brought an immediate death sentence. 

That was the reason that when Gyro and his family, and  Billy Iowa, also a Psion, had to leave the Pan Galactican Union, they had journeyed eventually to the distant world of Gaijin to find the master of Psionics, the White Spider, Ged Aero.  Ged Aero-sensei had taken in both boys, given them a home, and taught them how to master the powers of the “inner eye”.

So that was the reason that Gyro now sat on the planet Cornucopea beside a huge dead bug and pondered the possibilities of escape for himself and Billy. Ged Aero-sensei and his White Spider Mutant Space Ninjas had come as explorers to the planet, and run afoul of the living plants, specifically the Throckpods, who inhabited it. 

As Gyro and Billy had been heading back to base camp, they were attacked by a large group of the ugly sentient flowers and their pet gargantuan dragonfly. 

Billy, being a good student of Ged-sensei’s Martial Arts training, delivered a jump-kick to the chitinous face plate of the dragonfly that put a hole in it, driving his foot right into the thing’s syrupy brain tissue.  It dropped dead next to them as Throckpods moved menacingly around them in a huge circle of weed.

“We are totally cut off,” said Billy.  “And I think they mean to kill us.”

“They’re flowers!  Flowers can’t eat people… can they?” asked Gyro nervously.

“They are intelligent flowers.  How can you know what they eat and don’t eat?  Especially after Sara told us about how they tried to take all of her blood?” asked Billy in return.  His Dakota-Sioux features scrunched up into a frown.  “I am at the height of my power.  Let them come!  In a sacred manner I resist them until my very last breath!  It is a good day to die!”

Gyro’s eyes got wider.  It was a very Native American sort of thing for Billy to say, but Gyro didn’t really want to hear it.

“You give me a few minutes to think,” said Gyro, “and I will find a way out of this mess.”

Billy resolutely turned to frown at the approaching grove of ugly flowers.

Gyro looked all around, and finally settled on the dragonfly.  In some ways, the huge insect already resembled an anti-grav cycle.  It wouldn’t take very much manipulation to… 

Gyro’s imagination started turning chitin into glass-steel.  The dragonfly’s bowels were easy to shape into a small fusion-powered engine.  The blood only had to be separated to get the hydrogen necessary for fuel.  With a few pops and crackles and one big POOM, they had a working grav cycle.

As Throckpods started throwing thorns, and Billy swatted them out of the air with Wushu defensive strikes, Gyro revved the engine and pulled Billy onto the upholstered seat behind him.

“Time to bug out!” said Gyro with a huge blue grin.  The grav cycle immediately and silently lifted into the air on anti-grav repulsor lifts.  Then, with a roar, they zoomed skyward, not only out of the reach of Throckpods and thorns, but also out of reach from the devilish dragonflies that were swarming towards them from somewhere in the eastern sky.

“I guess it’s a good thing you can change stuff like that,” said Billy, holding tightly onto his Texas sombrero, “but if you had never made that stink-language translator, maybe we would’ve never got into this mess.”

“I don’t think the translator is the big problem,” said Gyro.  “These flowers seem to have an agenda that doesn’t include looking pretty and smelling nice.  I think they don’t like us as plant-eaters and potential invaders.  After all, this is their world.”

“Okay,” said Billy.  “Get us back to camp and Ged Aero-sensei, and I’m all for leaving this dirtball to the plants!”

“Yeah, um… maybe you better teach me how to fly this thing first.”

“Oh, Smurf!  You made the thing.”

“Yeah, well… Hang on to your hat, then!”

They managed to fly a haphazard corkscrew pattern on their way back to camp.  It was unbelievably dangerous and life-threatening.  But the boys made it back safely and walked away from the crash.  And Gyro had some real fun with his driving skills.

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At the Bottom of the Bottomless Pit

I have sunken to a new low. Why else would I be reposting this Christmas card with Vincent Price’s Christmas Tree?

I literally have an exploding headache. My sinuses are causing my eyes to see stars and my ears to pour out foul-smelling brown smoke. (Well, maybe only half of that is true. But it is Vincent’s Christmas tree. I know because I photo-shopped him out myself. Now there is only Vivi, naked ten-year-old me, Anneliese the gingerbread-cookie-girl, and Annette Funicello. I created this weird little card when I had a similar splitting headache as I do today.)

You may have noticed that I tend to get weirder when I am in pain than most people do. Instead of moaning “Oh, woe to mio!” the way other people do when they are in pain, my mind gets more free-flowing and obtusely creative when I can’t think straight. Sure, I still seem to make complete sentences and string them together logically, but that’s just a matter of writerly habits that I will still follow when I am dead and busy being a ghost writer.

But, for now, I really can’t write anymore. I only did this post to be able to say that I did still write something today. I cannot, however, say that I wrote well today. But I did write.

My work in progress, He Rose on a Golden Wing, is now at 8,500+ words. I am still on track to have written and posted something every single day of both March and April in 2021.

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Follow Wherever It Leads You…

My path in life has never been straight, never arrived at the destinations I was originally shooting for.

Sometimes you wake up and find a new path spreading out before you.

My dreams were once to go to the Air Force Academy and learn to fly planes.

But bad arches in my feet, poor eyesight in my left eye, and nagging difficulties with allergies turned that dream on its head. I was physically ground-bound, and able to fly only in my dreams.

And then I went to Cow College, Iowa State University, to be an English Major. I was good at drawing. I had endless story-plots bursting out of my fevered comic-book lover’s brain. And I was determined to be a story-teller and comic book artist. But arthritis crept into my hands and slowed the drawing down, my confidence dried up. I realized I was a graduated English major with no chance at ever finding a job just reading books.

So, I went to the University of Iowa, the Hawkeyes, and got myself a remedial Master of the Art of Teaching degree and a teaching certificate. And this time the door actually opened… to a life of a pedagogue. I got to perform my act six times a day in front of a hostile audience for the next 31 out of 33 years, with two years off for bad principal behavior, and time spent being a sub for every kind of teacher that there was. I got to teach everything from autistic special education to P.E. teacher to Librarian to Orchestra teacher.

Some days I was the worst teacher that ever lived. But most days I was a pretty good teacher. And I never let a bad day pass without learning something from it. And I learned to use my drawing ability on chalk boards and bulletin boards and dry-erase boards and overhead projectors. And I learned to be a good story-teller, whether it was by reading aloud or re-telling stories that were mostly factual from history, and funny stories from my own experiences. I became a fascinating nearly-human bean that could keep the attention of even ADHD twelve-year-olds for as much as twenty minutes. A good trick, that.

And when the time came to give it up, I did not go gentle into that good night. I had a miserable last year in 2013-2014 because my health was so poor. I lost money from excessive absences since I had the flu three times that year and had a son spend a week in the hospital. I retired that May and thought my life was over.

And then the real nonsense started.

I published the original AeroQuest in 2007. Then in 2012 I added Catch a Falling Star, published with I-Universe/ Penguin Books.

Once I retired, I published Magical Miss Morgan with Page Publishing. Then, disgusted with traditional publishers whom I paid more money than I ever earned from, I began self-publishing with Amazon.

Snow Babies followed, with Stardusters and Space Lizards after that.

The Bicycle-Wheel Genius, Recipes for Gingerbread Chidren, The Baby Werewolf, Sing Sad Songs, and Fools and Their Toys followed that (in order).

Then I doubled down on writing more than one story at a time.

I began rewriting AeroQuest, publishing 1,2, and 3 as of this writing.

I wrote the prequel to Snow Babies, When the Captain Came Calling. I also wrote The Boy… Forever, the sequel to The Baby Werewolf.

Most recently I have published A Field Guide to Fauns, a novel where all the main characters are nudists. And I completed a book of essays from this blog, which I call Laughing Blue.

And then I began working even harder to get my books read and reviewed.

I have gotten more five-star reviews than any other level.

My current work-in-progress is The Wizard in His Keep. It currently stands at 30,000 words out of a probable 40,000.

How much more I can get done now until my life has ended remains to be seen. But I keep on trudging on the path into the future, not knowing where it will go next… and not really worrying about it.

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Astronuts in Spacetime

I have always cherished science fiction. Not just Jules Verne, Isaac Asimov, and Arthur C. Clarke. Not just Star Trek and Star Wars. But all of it. Buck Rodgers, Flash Gordon, Brick Bradford, Galaxy Quest, Mars Attacks, and E.T.

Space is important to me. I feel like all of mankind will be a failure as a species if they don’t start moving out amongst the stars.

It’s not just that I am ensorcelled by the magical adventures that space-travel stories mixed with a romantic view of facing existential danger with a smile and a ray-gun can provide.

I watched with wide 12-year-old eyes when Neil Armstrong stepped onto the surface of the moon for the very first time.

That was all the way back in 1969!

I am disappointed that my George-Jetson expectations of life in 2021 have not even remotely been met.

Sure, computers are great. But where are the flying cars? The fishbowl helmets for walking on the Moon? Personal jetpacks to get to school and back?

It isn’t the dreamers, it’s the doers that have let me down.

And I know we could well run the risk of meeting something out there that might want to eat us.

But are we truly alive anymore if we are afraid to risk death in the face of Space Exploration and Discovery? We are not immortal. We need to achieve things that outlast us to justify our existence.

So, come on, people! Let’s make the world over again and start building cities on Mars.

Let’s start building what we have dreamt of rather than hiding from what we fear!

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My Version of Fantasy Art

Most of my fantasy artwork is inspired by old comic books and illustrated children’s fantasy. Admittedly, sometimes a bit more violent.
I like to create anthropomorohic animals and fairy-type creatures.
I sometimes need more realism, though. Sejii here does not know how to hold onto a bow. And he better hope he strapped a rubber knife to his leg if he ever wants to sit down.
And a lot of my fantasies are about being a teacher.
I can do fairly realistic fantasy art. Bur calling it “surreal” is more proper.
I borrow as much from Disney as from Mythology

All of today’s artwork was uploaded to this blog before the start of 2015.

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Black Humor

I think I know what you’re thinking. He’s just going to retell a bunch of Eddy Murphy, Richard Pryor, and Flip Wilson jokes from the 1970’s which his fuzzy old-coot memory will get wrong in slightly amusing ways. Or he’s got dementia now and has turned totally racist. Or both.

Well, maybe. I am old after all.

But, no. I am writing about that kind of humor where you laugh when someone in the story dies a horrible death in an unusually humorous way. Or most dead-baby jokes. Or the part of “The Producers” where “Springtime with Hitler” turns out to be a Broadway hit musical even though the two con men in charge were gambling on it being a failure.

Bad things can be funny, you know.

At least if you have a brain-damaged sense of humor like mine.

Kurt Vonnegut was a master of very dark black humor. In his novel, Cat’s Cradle, (Spoiler alert!) the world ends at the end of the novel because the mad scientist commits suicide by swallowing his invention, Ice Nine, freezing solid in a way that couldn’t be melted at room temperature or above, and then falling into the ocean, thus permanently freezing the entire planet Earth. Golly, what a laugh fest!

Black humor is, of course, highly dependent on dramatic irony and the fact that people smart enough to read and enjoy Vonnegut, usually are smart enough to realize if you read too much ironic humor you are not in danger of actually rusting from the brain outward.

I, of course, am a black humor aficionado of sorts. I thoroughly enjoyed all the torture, death, and deadly mistakes of Rowan Atkinson’s Blackadder. Of course, I had a ridiculously hard time gaining access to the show which originally aired on the BBC and didn’t appear on American TV channels until our household gave up television to save money due to ever-rising cable costs.

Fortunately, during the yearlong imprisonment of the Covid pandemic, I discovered the entire series available on Hulu which is cheap enough to stream on my laptop. Only in excess of 500,000 people had to die for me to get the chance to binge on all the historical reiterations of this amazingly dark show full of humorous English demise and occasional accidental murder.

So, that is what black humor is to me. As defined by Professor Wilson at Iowa State when I was assigned to read a novel by Saul Bellow and ended up reading three, Henderson the Rain King, Herzog, and The Adventures of Augie March. Of course, I am not sure which novel was the assignment. They were all deadly hilarious. And I am, after all, old enough to probably be demented and a closet racist. Is Saul Bellow Jewish? I ask because I am also forgetful.

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The Iris of the Eye

Maxfield Parrish = the Girl with the Watering Can

Blue eyes, brown eyes… see differently,

Bur the eyes still see,

Immune to bright sun

Or comfortable with the blue-black shadow.

Whatever the color of the eye… the seeing is the important thing.

Have you ever noticed, that all the best artists,

The ones who see and record what they see the best,

Are now dead and gone?

And all we have left of them

Are the artifacts,

What their eyes beheld,

What their hand captured and interpreted,

In paint

Or picture

In book

Or song.

Or is it only that… the new eyes remain yet to be discovered?

Whatever color your eye is now,

The iris of the eye,

Won’t you look with me?

To see?

What yet we may uncover?

Not as good as Georgia O’Keefe, but still sexy and beautiful… even if it is by Mickey.

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An Icky Pre-Planned Sick Day

Yes, I planned for this. It is the day after my second dose of the Pfizer vaccine. I was sick the second day after the first injection. So, I knew today would be like that, only possibly worse. I was right. It’s worse.

I have a headache and body aches. My arm hurts where the injections was administered. My fever never got higher than 37.3 Celsius. I would tell you what that is in Fahrenheit, but I am ill. I can’t do math. It is definitely not life-threatening. 37.7 is where you start thinking about alerting the doctor.

Yesterday my computer lost all powers of speech. It could not make a single peep. And I don’t mean those disgusting little marshmallow birds and bunnies. A computer by itself could never do that. What were you thinking when you thought I meant that? Oh, right. I am sick today. That was my feverish paranoia talking.

Anyway, that threatened my sick-day TV-watching. I only have You-Tube, Disney+, Netflix, and Hulu available to me. And all of that comes only by streaming on computer.

But even though I thought I had burned out a sound-card or something in my laptop, I was able to save the day by turning the computer off and back on again.. Simple solutions to life-altering problems.

And for those of you who were wondering why I drew myself as a crying girl in the Paffooney, that’s not me. Why did you think that? I’m a bearded, gray-haired old man. A real old coot. You should’ve known better. Oh, right again. Feverish old coots often hear voices in their doddering old heads.

The picture is actually Valerie Clarke, the protagonist in my work-in-progress, The Boy Who Rose on a Golden Wing, previously titled Valerie in Darkness. But I am thinking it needs to change again to He Rose on a Golden Wing. I know that probably doesn’t make sense to you. But I won’t put words in your mouth anymore. You are reading to the end of an over-long rant from a sick old coot. You should get a medal for that. Unfortunately I have no more Courageous Reader medals with a Word-Comprehender Cluster and five stars on it to give out. I have to get busy and make some more. Now, where did I put the scissors, cardboard, and glue?

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