Havenblock

Despite popular belief, Muses do not flitter about whispering all willy-nilly into arbitrary ears of random creators. If they were to do so Muses would be at risk for wasting the knowledge they obtained on creators who were not inspirable. Inspirable creators are separated into different categories according to the blaze they emit from their inner energy. Only Muses (and some clairvoyant creators) can view and discern the types of blazes that are emitted around the creator’s body like a halo. The warmer the blaze the purer and more receptive the creator is to the inspiration of the Muse. These creators revel in the sheer joy of the art, live for the art and would never taint the art for any reason. The highest blaze is the golden blaze followed by the orange and then the yellow. The blaze only fades when hope dissipates.

There are a group of creators that are holding onto the love of the art but because of their circumstances are more concerned about survival. These creators have a cool blaze that starts with the color green, to blue, to indigo. Cool blazed creators are not as pure as warm blazed creators and Muses have to work twice as hard to inspire them.

Unfortunately, there are a group of creators that have no source of creativity at all. These creators have been beaten by life and dwell in the land above Havenblock. The gray color that emits from them is not even called a blaze but a dulling and creators that have this dulling lack motivation, ambition and have become tired, listless creatures of habit. The only way a Muse can inspire such a creator is if they relentlessly whisper to them to gradually change their dulling to a cool blaze and then hopefully to a warm blaze. Many Muses do not even bother to provide their knowledge on these creators as the creators are not open nor receptive to change.

Slightly east and over three miles south of Havenstroke, a local supermarket was buzzing with nighttime activity. Floor buffers were zipping along, boxes were being ripped open, cans were clanking on the shelves, and if one listened closely humming could be heard from one of the aisles. Every once in a while the hum would turn into a run, then turn into an adlib that would form into a phrase. But after the phrase it would cease then the hum would start all over again. The hum was coming from a yellow blaze that was traced by a tinge of green. The blaze surrounded a young man, named David, stacking new potatoes on the shelves of the supermarket.

David has been stocking shelves at the market since he was a sophomore in high school. When he still had a golden blaze, he used his paychecks to buy a keyboard, which he played on every moment that he was not studying or working. When he mastered the keyboard, David then bought a guitar. He strummed at all hours and the neighbors never seemed to mind, in fact, during the summer before his senior year of high school they would forgo the heat to let the jazz winds cascading out of David’s bedroom window cool them. Two blocks east and five blocks north of Havenstroke the neighborhood glowed in a golden blaze until David graduated high school.

That summer David’s father took ill and was unable to work his job as a city police officer. Because David’s mother was a stay at home mom with his little sister still in grade school, he had to postpone his plans of attending the university that autumn and pick up extra shifts at the market to provide for the household. His father promised David that it would only be temporary and that as soon as the doctors cleared him, David could register for classes the following semester. That was three years ago. Despite David’s constant singing and playing, his blaze dissipated. Now the yellow blaze with the slight green tinge hung over the neighborhood like smog and the neighbors held their breath.

About sunrise, the bus dropped David off five blocks from his home. He didn’t mind the walk because some of his neighbors still planted flowers in their small front plots. He secretly enjoyed the scent of the flowers as well as the sporadic color they gave to the neighborhood. He was oblivious to the butterfly that drifted above his head as he sprang up the steps to his back stoop to the kitchen door. He opened it and was surprised to see his mother standing over the stove frying bacon. She was a slight woman whose eyes never lost the twinkle they were given upon her birth. David leaned down to kiss her cheek.

“Why you up so early Ma?”

His mother pushed at the bacon with a rubber spatula, “A working man needs to eat.”

David sighed and sat down at the kitchen table speaking to his mother’s back, “Oh Ma, I appreciate it but I’m not hungry. Besides you know I stopped eating pork years ago.”

His mother never turned around and it was a good thing because she was smiling widely, “Never said I was cooking for you now did I?”

David got up slowly at first until his mother whipped around to display her twinkling eyes and wide smile. She laughed a mischievous laugh as the pair hugged. She tip-toed to kiss him on his cheek. David’s joy quickly diminished as reality set in. His mother frowned at him and smacked at his chest with a dish towel.

“What’s wrong with you?”

David slumped back over to his original seat at the kitchen table, “I mean it’s great that Pop is able to go back to work but I don’t think I have enough money saved to register for classes.” David hung his head defeated.

David’s mother twisted her lips up into a smirk and rolled her eyes at her son while she reached into her housecoat pocket. She pulled out a wad of money and held it out to her son.

“Oh ye of little faith.”

All David’s mother saw was a blinding orange light zip out of her kitchen and down the block. She guessed he must have ran the five blocks to the bridge tunnel that led to the university. She said a small prayer for him as the neighborhood by the bridge held some unsavory characters in its jowl. Following him in flight was the butterfly he left hovering at the kitchen door.

David did in fact run all the way to the university and he wasn’t even out of breath as he registered for two summer classes. He didn’t become tired until after he left the registrar’s office and began gazing at the old brick buildings covered in ivy. But David was even more transfixed on the blossom lined courtyard and the nonchalant-ness of the students that walked by the flowers. The tulips almost looked as though they were drooping in sadness.

He found a weathered bench in the middle of the courtyard and sat. He arched his back and let the sun heat the muscles that were under his supermarket shirt and he began to sing. At that moment the butterfly that accompanied him in his travels fluttered in from of his face.

David raised his palm to meet him.

A violet spark was created.

Jubal, forest-skinned, silver haired, with lilac wings and violet eyes, left bright purple sparks behind him as he whizzed through the university courtyard, up five blocks to the mushroom and moss filled crevice right before the bridge tunnel to his home in Havenchord. He flew easily down the grape tunnel, through the orchid, into the haven of his tropical looking figures, Rion and Tehila, who were anxiously awaiting his arrival.

Tangerine-skinned Tehila’s blue wings spread wide and her emerald eyes sparkled as she pulled her mane of curly white hair back into a hair tie.

“Look at him; he is precious,” she commented to Rion.

Rion’s indigo wings almost lifted with pride off of his lemon body as he twisted his long white beard with his thumb and forefinger. His emerald eyes also sparkled but he remained pragmatic as he flew to the protective case that held the family Scribe.

“He doesn’t have time to be precious; he has only seven years to learn.”

“Oh Rion, seven years is a long time,” Tehila replied as she put her hand on her companion’s shoulder.

“But it could go by so quickly, Tehila, and with the current state of the creators we don’t want,” Rion scowled as he fluttered over to Jubal whose wings were starting to wiggle, “Oh Till! What is your name lad?”

“Jubal,” Jubal said shaking.

Rion continued, “…Jubal wasting time.” Grabbing the Scribe Rion fluttered to the ground and sat next to Jubal. He turned the pages to the Lineage and placed the Scribe onto Jubal’s lap and pointed.

“Read,” Rion commanded. Jubal’s eyes became wide and almost creator-like before they started to light up with knowledge.