The Final Dragon of Creativity- Part One of Two

The Dragon of Passionate Writing

*****

“I don't like holding his casket,” said Murdo.


“It’s not a casket,” said Jennings. “It’s just a box they put his ashes in.”

“He’s dead, ain’t he?”


“Why don’t you just put it over there on the table so I can pay you?”


“I can do that.”


He was glad to be rid of it. The tiny black box was so polished that when he looked at it, he saw his own face looking back at him.


“That’s good, right there,” said Murdo.


Jennings nodded.


“Now what?”

“You got the water?”


“Yep. From the fifth faucet in that little park over in Heber Springs. Took it at midnight, just like you said.”


“You got the stone?”


Jennings let out a breath that came out like a slow tire leak.


“What’s wrong?”


“She didn’t want to give it to me.”


“But she did?”


“Yessir.”


“You didn’t have to whack her, did you?”
excerpted from "The Madstone and the Water," by Ferrel D. Moore

*****

Live Passionately, Write Passionately

Thirty eight postings later, we have finally arrived at the conclusion of this series. Unlike most writings about the craft of writing, we have spent very little time on matters of technique, and almost all of our time on you and I.

The reason for this approach is simple- we write the books. Therefore, we are the single most important element in the writing process.

If we cannot change ourselves, we can hardly expect to change our stories. This is the core lesson of the Dragon series.

Before meeting the Seventh Dragon of Creative Writing, we should summarize the basic lessons of each Dragon. Although there is more contained in each segment, these points are important to keep in mind:

From the First Dragon, we learn that we must realize first that we are less important to our readers than our stories.

The lesson of the Second Dragon is that a story told before the heart moves is a broken promise.

From the Third Dragon, we learn that the Dragons of Creativity are jealous guardians, and if we do not nurture and grow our stories as if they were precious- if we think instead of success and admiration- then the Dragons of Creativity will take our stories away. We also learn that if we concentrate on assemblies of technique such as economy, theme, etc. more than creating a story from our hearts, that we are in danger of building a structure not worth entering.

The essence of what the Fourth Dragon shows is why we must learn that the birth of a story occurs when a writer acts on the desire to become someone else.

The Fifth Dragon shows us that we must know beyond a doubt who we write for- what Stephen King calls our "first reader." As Orsch Neibisch says, "Know who you are writing for. Stories written for no one will be read by no one."

From the Sixth Dragon we learn that we must tell our stories as though they are meant to transform the world. This is because a tepid writer can produce nothing of value. If there is no fire in our hearts, there will be no fire in our work. Both the first and sixth dragons teach this lesson in their own way. We must, as Charles Allen Gramlich wisely says, "Write with Fire."

The Sixth Dragon also teaches us that "There is one place above all where the saying 'show, don't tell applies,' and that is to teachers of writers." Therefore, rather than slavishly focusing on the lecture notes of teachers who dissect writing to learn structure as a substitute for joy and awe, we might be wise to spend more time in the company of children and relearn which is the more important to creating intrinsically powerful stories.

The lesson of the Seventh and final dragon concerns what is known as "The Chessmaster's Problem," and, if you are willing to apply it, I believe that it will transform your writing forever.

The Sixth Dragon of Creativity- Part Nine of Nine

Filled with Fire

*****

Before getting started, have you ever gotten hit by a blast of nervous energy while editing someone else's manuscript because you can't wait to get back to writing your own stuff? It just happened to me while editing the non-fiction book on female assassins. I couldn't get back to writing my novel! Has that ever happened to anyone else?

*****

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” said Jen.


“Sure. I mean, absolutely not.”

It didn’t matter how he took it, he thought. She was going to dump him on his head before he even asked her for a date.

“It was nice of you to help me write my paper and all,” she continued as she twirled a stray curl of her platinum blond hair and looked over his shoulder as though waiting for someone important.

“Edit,” said Ashton. “You wrote it. Most of it. The main part. I just edited. And added just a couple of little things.”

“Whatever. But Professer Dreygis loved it. I mean he just gushed.”

“That’s great,” said Ashton. He wondered if this was what it felt like to have a laser dot on your forehead.


Jen shook her head, pursed her delicate lips and actually looked at him for a moment with her pale blue eyes.

“I mean he really loved it. He thinks I have important ideas. Can you believe that?”

She smoothed her black t-shirt against her flat stomach, and then cocked her hip to one side as though it were a natural pose. Ashton felt his chest tighten. He struggled to breathe.

"It's him," she whispered suddenly, urgently and waved enthusiastically.

The warning bells in his head started clanging because at that moment he just knew that she was going to be the train that ran him down and flattened his ego like the dimes he used to leave on train tracks when he was a kid.

excerpted from "Romantic Genius," by Ferrel D. Moore

*****

"Soon you will leave to meet the seventh and last Dragon of Creativity, but you have one last lesson to learn from the Sixth Dragon," you tell me.

We are walking through a strange woods together, you and I, and I am uneasy. I am quite lost, but you always have known where we are. Rather, it is the sky that makes me uneasy this day. It is a peculiar patchwork of green-black clouds and there is a stillness in the air as though the birds and forest creatures are in hiding. Suddenly, an army of leaves springs up and races away in a blast of wind. Your dark hair puffs and straightens as though blown about by a bellows. The wind passes and your hair floats back down like a cape.

"What was that?" I ask.

"It is the coming of the Seventh Dragon," you whisper.

My mouth goes dry. I have heard that the final dragon reveals the meaning of fear.

"It's too early. It was only two days ago that the Sixth Dragon flew away. I need more time."

"To do what?"

"To... prepare, to..."

"Are you ready?" you ask.

You don't actually sneer, but still...

"Of course I'm ready. It's not that."

But I look away as I speak the words so that you cannot see my face.

"You are not ready at all," you say, "because you haven't yet saved the Salt Dragon. If you don't save the Salt Dragon, then the Seventh Dragon will burn you and eat you the moment that it sees you."

"Eat me?" I say. "I have met and lived through Six Dragons and not been eaten. Perhaps it is only a myth that Dragons eat people. Besides, I do not understand why I would need to save a Salt Dragon. There are only Seven Dragons of Creativity, not eight."

I contemplate being devoured by yet another angry dragon. The wind is now quiet. The leaves no longer chase about the ground. It is as though the world has stopped for this moment so that I can consider my fate. I have neither seen nor heard a bird for what seems like a very long time. You do not seem disturbed at all, it is as though, as ever it has been, you know something that I do not.

"Do you not remember the legends? How can you become a great storyteller if you do not remember the Dragon legends?"

"Well," I say, "there are more than one. There are a lot, in fact. Actually, sometimes I think that there are so many that I am lucky if I remember even one."

My foot tangles in briers and I fall face forward and hit the ground with an ungraceful thud. My breath expels in whoosh the instant I strike the hard earth and, for just a moment, my mind goes to sleep. When you shake my shoulders and begin pulling me to my feet, though, it is clear to me that I am more embarrassed than hurt.

"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," I say, brushing away the annoying twigs and picker-balls that cling to me as though I were their mother. "I was thinking so intensely that I didn't notice it when I stepped off the path. Wait, that's it, isn't? The last lesson of the Sixth Dragon. I must keep my eyes on the path even when I'm thinking. Now the Seventh Dragon will not eat me!"

"No," you say and gently slap the side of my head. "That is not a dragon lesson at all."

"Are you sure? I have a little experience learning from dragons myself."

"Perhaps you will stop walking so that we do not run into the Salt Dragon."

I was about to laugh when a deep rumble shook the air. As I raised my head to look toward the sky, all I could see was white. I rubbed my eyes with the back of my hand and looked again.

"I think I've gone blind," I say.

You say nothing.

I step back a few paces. You follow, looking at me as I look up and about at the sparkling pure whiteness that has formed before us. In all my travels, in all my startling experiences I have seen many strange and wonderful things, but I have never seen anything as strange and wonderful as this. It is as though the air before me is diamond dust, formed and wrapped into the shape of a dragon tall as a castle spire with wings outstretched in frozen motion.

As I step back further along the path, I see the tips of its mighty outstretched wings. Its sharp, plated tail extends out behind it along the edge of a cliff .

"Look at its magnificent chest," I shout. "How long have you known this was here? This is the most beautiful statue in the world. You are wicked to keep such a secret from me. This is beautiful, terrifying, and magnificent. Who carved this must surely be the greatest sculptor who ever lived."

I run forward and caress a dragon's talon. It is so perfectly carved that if there were enough paint in the world to paint this single claw and then the entire dragon to the tip of its fearsome face, it would frighten away any who caught sight of it.

"You truly do not remember the legend, do you?"

"No. But how can you think of such things in the presence of this magnificent creation?"

I step back again, and wave my hands at the statue. It is shimmering marble coated with the dust of eldritch diamonds. In the red-green glow of he quietly menacing sky, for just a moment its eyes flash green as though it were alive.

"Listen to me," you say. "After the Sixth Dragon imparts all its lessons to you save one, it leaves and perches high on the edge of this very cliff. If it feels that you did not listen well enough, then it cries."

"Why would a Dragon cry?" I ask. "Whoever has ever heard of such a thing?"

"The Sixth Dragon cries when it has confronted a Storyteller who is not committed to the craft. It cries because it knows that the Seventh Dragon will destroy forever the soul of such a Storyteller. The Sixth Dragon cries for this Storyteller, for that Storyteller then goes to their death. The Seventh Dragon will burn them to a crisp and then eat them."

"Maybe we should go back?" I suggest.

"You cannot go back. Once started down the Dragon Path, all Dragons must be faced. If you do not go to them, they will chase after you."

"No one told me that before I started," I say. "I hate this quest. I never know what's going to happen until it's too late to back away."

"And the Seventh Dragon begins winging her way toward you the instant that the Sixth Dragon screams in triumph or is moved to tears. When a Dragon cries, her tears flow so that she is soon covered in them and eventually, when they dry, the Dragon is imprisoned in salt. There is only one thing powerful enough to free the Sixth Dragon, and only a true Storyteller can do this."

"But I am a Storyteller," I shout. The wind has kicked up again like a frightened stallion, and I have to yell to be heard. "Have I not learned all the Dragon lessons til now?"

The air is filled with the sound of hissing steam surging up from angry hot coals. Darkness spreads across the forest like a pall hushing a crowd. Suddenly, I begin to tremble.

"What can I do?" I cry.

I see a rock near the edge of the path. Seized by an idea, I pick it up and through it at the Salt Dragon. It bounces of as though it were thrown by a child. I run toward the Dragon's front claw and begin striking at the salt surface, but Dragon Salt is much harder than my blade. The impotent clings and clangs as it strikes the white crystal are lost in the blasts of pulsating are whooshing out from beneath the wings of the approaching Seventh Dragon.

You lay a hand on my shoulder to calm me, although it is much too late for that. "Do you wish to make children laugh with delight?" you say. "Do you wish to make young women and men blush, and their parents cry and become young again?"

"I wish not to be eaten," I shout and point my finger upward at the descending blackness.

"Each story that you tell becomes part of life," you say, "and what is part of life changes life, do you understand that?"

I place my hands on your shoulders and bring my face close to you, "Just tell me what to do to stop the Seventh Dragon from eating me."

"Tell a story, then," you say, "that will make the heavens themselves cry. That is all that you must do."

"You want me to make it rain? You're crazy. I'm not a magician."

The next blast of Dragon's wings knocks us both to the ground and sends us rolling toward a thick tree. I hit it first and you crash into me. My shoulder feels as though it has been clubbed with a mace.

"Are you hurt?" I gasp.

You answer by pulling up close to my ear and saying, "Writers tell stories to readers and hope for change. Storytellers can change the hearts of men and women. But that will not save you. You must tell your stories to the divine as well as to those that you can see. Reach out for the spirits of all in your stories, and you can charm the heavens themselves. Stories change the world- choose carefully what stories you tell. Tell stories to make the heavens themselves cry."

That day, for the first time in my life, I told a story not to a person, but to the dark turbulence about us. Beyond the edges of its shadows I had seen that rain fell in the surrounding woods. The Seventh Dragon hovered over the Salt Dragon, drawing in a deep breath before expelling its fire. I saw it's talon glint like polished silver and I could smell the sulphurous fumes that exuded from between its armored chest plates with each breath.

So I told the Dragon above us a story of urgency and love, of how a Dragon could become pure by rising high enough to let a writer come out its shadow long enough to see the world just one last time. I told my story with desperation and passion. I told this story as if my life depended upon it because it truly did. I wove golden strands of beauty above us and, as Dragons love true stories, it began to rise higher and higher for me to see the world one last time before my death.

And when it rose high enough, the Salt Dragon below was no longer shielded and heaven's rain washed down on it. I watched as so slowly the rain thinned the salt to translucency and almost clapped when I saw the Dragon's eye blink beneath the now thin layer of salt.

The Seventh Dragon reached its zenith in the sky, and began its descent. I closed my eyes and held you close. But a heard a sound like breaking ice, and opened my eyes again to sea the Salt Dragon fling its salt shell apart and scream its freedom to the night. Overhead, the Seventh Dragon pulled up, flew higher, and began to circle around us.

The Salt Dragon was again the Dragon of Distilled Fire, and I closed my eyes fatigue when it rose and began to wing its way into the night.

Female Spies & Assassins- The Kunoichi Ninja

The First Book-

The New Book about Female Assassins is Coming Up Next

*****

Officer Mendik’s growing fatigue showed in the pouches of loose skin that hung indecorously beneath her eyes. Her mouth stayed slightly open even after she had finished speaking because her jaw muscles were tired from alternately clenching with rage, then releasing with pity. Three hours ago her posture had been straight as a taught wire and her diction had been both precisely enunciated and briskly delivered. Her grooming nanobots had styled her hair so that, while displaying reserved authority via artificially colored gray flecks, they had also highlighted her sturdy worldview in every flat plane of her boxy cut. Proximity to the throwback thrown forward in time by the Ministry’s experiments was, however, wearing down her mental reserves as surely if she had leaned her brain against a jet of high pressure sand particles.


“Reading,” sighed Officer Mendik, “is a generally a cumulative poison. In my combined role of mental health professional and enforcement officer, I have spent a great deal of time studying crimes against the cerebral cortex. Reading gradually affects the mind, although there are recorded instances of individuals whose mental health profiles changed radically after reading a single book. It is analogous to the ancient classification of “chronic” versus “acute” in the archives of psychiatry. You see the danger, of course.”

“The ability to change an opinion. How life threatening,” sniffed Jarvis.


“Mr. Jarvis, I appreciate the fact that you were brought forward in time by a Dimensionality Mathematics experiment. It was not, I agree, fair for those scientists responsible for that exercise to displace you from your own chronology and insert you into ours. However, done is done and you have only a short time before court is to open session.”

Officer Mendik looked at the Context Grid in the corner of her eyes to check the time, and wondered again that for so many years Homo sapiens had fought against the integration of nanotechnology into the human organism. To determine the time, Mr. Jarvis had to consult an external mechanism of a type no longer produced, and of which few specimens had survived. It had been called a watch, she supposed, since one had to stare at it to see what it had determined to be the hour. Although her team had confiscated it from him, he was now looking down at his wrist, which, according to him, was where the device was normally strapped. Or perhaps he had been about to raise his arm, and then remembered his Control Cuffs and thought better of it. 30,000 volts made a person pause.


“Mr. Jarvis?” she prompted.


“What? Oh, I was thinking.”


“Of course.”


“Officer Mendik,” said Mr. Jarvis, “I still would like to defend myself. No one in this time period really understand reading well enough to defend me.”


Her neck muscles tightened. Mr. Elbert Jarvis was an irritating little man. He was seven point four three centimeters shorter than her, which made him one hundred and sixty eight centimeters tall. He was slightly balding— except for the crown of his head, which was as devoid of hair as a yttrium oxide crystal was of inverse consonance. From historical archives, scientists had created a collection of clothing to provide the little man with visual and physical touchstones to his own era. The theory was that this would guard against a premature disintegration of his personality. The substance known as polyester had been, according to one technician, mere child’s play to synthesize, but, unfortunately, even after repeated attempts the laboratory had only been able to produce yellowish-brown polyester fibers. Mr. Jarvis’ pants and shirt— indeed his entire wardrobe— was therefore restricted to the color of melted sulfur.
excerpted from "Wire in the Brain," by Ferrel D. Moore

*****

Still sitting in this hotel room editing this manuscript trying to finish in time to head out for some quiet time in the wilderness. But, if I end up editing this new book in this Motel 6 the whole time instead of breathing in fresh, outdoor air, I'll just have to learn to type faster!

Dr. Farivar (picture to the left) is the author and yours truly is the editor as I was for his first book. We've been working on this new book (which is all about female Ninja assassins) for over a year and a half and both Dr. Farivar and myself would like to see it finished before Christmas. When our mutual ninjutsu grandmaster steps down, Dr. Farivar will take over the responsibility for our lineage of this ancient art.



It's a complicated work and the biggest task has been organizing the material into a coherent structure. Dr. Farivar has assembled a great deal of independent research, which, when combined with the information and direction provided by our Grandmaster makes for a book that will be both fascinating and compeling. Dr. Farivar (a marvelous artsist) has done all of the drawings that will be in the book. As a practicing psychiatrist, he not only provides fascinating insights into the patriarchal social structure of Japan, but into the evolution of the kunoichi as the world's first elite female spies.




Grandmaster Law, the current grandmaster of this lineage, is a living treasure of Ninja lore and practice, and his training and teachings are only now being revealed in these works.



"Following is a list of some (but not all) of the arts the Grandmaster teaches to the public as Grandmaster to the Geijin Ryu, Yoshin-Miji Ryu:



* Nin-Po Taijutsu (Ninja Hand to Hand Combat)
*Taihenjutsu (Art of Body Movement)
*Dakentaijutsu (Art of Body Striking)
* Jutaijutsu (Art of Grappling and Ground fighting)
* Bojutsu (Art of the Full Staff)
* Hanbojutsu (Art of the Half-Staff)
* Ninja Ken-Po (Art of Swordsmanship)
*Kenjutsu (Art of Sword fighting)
v Tantojutsu (Art of the Tanto (Knife))
v Shurikenjutsu (Art of Using and Throwing Shuriken)
v Kusarijutsu (Art of the Chain and Rope)
v Kyoketsu Shoge (Art of the Kyoketsu Shoge)
v Kusarigama (Art of the Kusarigama)
v Te’ppo (Art of Guns)
v Ninki (Art of Ninja Tools and Small Weapons)
v Fukiya (Art of the Blowgun)
v Heiho (Art of Martial Principles)
v Gotonpo (Art of Escape)
v Nin-Po Nikkyo (Art of Spiritual Development)
v Yarijutsu (Art of the Spear (also Sojutsu))
v Naginatajutsu (Art of the Naginata)
v Bajutsu (Art of Horsemanship)
v Sui-ren (Art of Water Combat)
v Shinobi-iri (Art of Penetrating Structures)
v Hensojutsu (Art of Disguise and Impersonation)
v Cho-ho (Art of Espionage)
v Bo-ryaku (Art of Strategy)
v Intonjutsu (Art of Concealment and Camouflage)
Hojojutsu (Art of Rope Tying, Knots and Binding)"


The Grandmaster felt that it was finally appropriate to discuss what he feels was a major shift in gender paradigms. Women are finally being recognized as legitamite equals to their male counterparts, but this has been a major struggle over the centuries in the martial arts. He hopes that by revealing the true history of the Kunoichi Ninja, the world will see that in his art, this equality was recognized and acted upon long ago.

Ghost & Monster Hunting Again!

Yes, I'm Going Out Looking for Bigfoot Again

*****

Eddie’s eyes darted about the room looking for someplace to hide. The right corner of his mouth spasmed like it was touched by a hot wire and he waved his hands at the inside front door as though to slam it shut against whatever evil spirits he heard coming our way. His scar pulsed with fear, and I remembered the day I cut him for locking me in the root cellar so I wouldn’t tell Grandma why his pants were torn.


“Calm down, Eddie,” I said. “You’re whigging out on me here. Let’s get logical. I don’t believe in haints and whisperings. Just get a grip.”


He jerked his head in my direction and slapped his hands over his ears. The corner of his mouth still jerked and his eyes were wide with fear.


“You been gone too long,” he said. “You ain’t rememberin’.”


A faint smell moved through the front screen door and I remembered my Grandma gutting and cleaning a possum in the white porcelain sink near the back window.


“I gotta hide,” said Eddie.


I noticed for the first time a dark patch on the left front side of his shirt, where a scarlet-black stain had spread from a tiny rip and dried in the shape of a dark bird with its wings spread wide.


“You okay, Eddie?” I asked.


He took his hands away from his head and leaned in toward me.


“Cain’t you hear them?” He whispered near my ear.


Maybe I did. I looked through the screen door and could barely make out the shape of a compact mass of darkness moving toward us through cloud-filtered moonlight.


Eddie hissed, “I’m goin’ out back. I’ll hide in the trees. Don’t you listen to nothin’ they say, Skeeter. Hear me? Nothin’. They lie like Satan himself. Hear me? I’ll be back when they’s gone. You don’t listen to them or do what they say and they cain’t hurt you.”


And he slipped out the back door like a possum slithering out from under a porch.

excerpted from "Haints," by Ferrel D. Moore

*****


Halloween is coming at us like torch lights moving through the woods toward our back door. What a great time of year!



So what am I going to do to celebrate? I'm joining one of my best friends to go Bigfoot and ghost hunting. I'll squeeze a little writing and manuscript editing, of course, to make it great birthday present. Did I mention it was my birthday?



My friend and teacher Dr. Michel Farivar and I are writing a historical and sociological perspective about female ninjas. So in between the Bigfoot hunting and paranormal investigating we'll be working on the book. It's one of the most fascinating books I've ever edited. Michel is a ninjutsu grandmaster, artist, psychiatrist, fossil hunter, writer and great friend. So in between the Sasquatch hunting and paranormal investigating, we'll be able to get a lot of writing done.



And I'll also be working on my werewolf novel every spare moment that I get. It's been a while since I've done novel work, and I'm really enjoying it.


So we'll be roaming the woods after midnight looking for a ten foot primate and searching for spirits into haunted houses and writing in between. What more could I ask for?


And how about you? What will you be doing for Halloween?


See you when I return!

The Sixth Dragon of Creative Writing- Part Eight of Nine

Who Says Dragons Can't Write?

*****

Just a quick mention that "Ricci's Last Night" will be coming out in the November 2009 "Cover of Darkness" anthology. "Little Friends," will be coming out in the May 2010 "Cover of Darkness." This will mark the fourth time in a row I have been in this bi-annual horror anthology, which, according to its editor Tyree Campell, makes me an official fixture.

"Haints" was my first story published in "Cover of Darkness" in the fall of 2008 edition. My second story published in "Cover of Darkness" was in the spring of 2009 called "Counter Creatures." Tyree's Sam's Dot Publishing empire offers a wide variety of opportunity to aspiring dark fiction, sci fi and fantasy writers.

*****

“Dr. Harlen?”


“Not now. I’m busy.”


Lara Armiak shook her finger at the young man who slouched down in his chair so far behind his monitor that only the top of his head was visible. Crumpled candy wrappers were strewn about the desk and a collection of half-empty coffee cups topped with varying degrees of mold looked more like biological sample beakers than Starbucks treasures.


“You said to let you know the minute I found something.”


“What?”


“Not what— who,” she chided.


“Come back later,” said the young man.


“Martin Rand.”


A head popped up from behind the monitor and Lara stared into eyes that blinked like those of an owl behind a pair of amber-framed reading glasses.


“You found him?”


“Of course.”


“In the middle of the Amazon jungle?”


“Certainly.”


“Lara, you are a genius.”


“You’re the genius Dr. Harlen. I’m just magic.”


Dr. Harlen, known to friends as “Jimmy,” broke out in a wide grin.


“Lara,” he said, “I love you.”


Lara flushed and looked away.

“No, seriously- how in God’s name did you track him down in the middle of the Amazon? Did you call in favors with the CIA?”


“Magic,” Lara said, hoping that she would never have to reveal to Dr. Jimmy that she had simply called Martin's home phone number and been transferred to his satellite phone that worked damn near anywhere.

excerpted from "The White Death," by Ferrel D. Moore

*****

In my dream the heavens flash red and set the clouds themselves on fire. Winds shriek and spit as they roll through the trees like entangled cats. The air smells of sulfur and smoke and my skin feels singed. I feel an ululating pressure descend on me in waves, pressing me down, lifting my whole body into the air then pressing against my chest until I hit the ground like a sack dropped from a ledge.



My eyes pop wide and I stare up at glistening interlocked scales the size of ponies. Leathery, veined magnificence spread wide and blot out the sky. Trickling flames of fury arch out with each flap of her wings as though fanned by bellows.



The ground shudders as the Dragon of Distilled Fire's face comes to rest directly over me. Somewhere further down I both feel the tremors and hear its claws tear through hard ground as though clutching at prey.



Were it not for the wisps of fire as it breathes and the golden glow of its eyes, I would think I woke up in a cave. The bulk of its body stretches down beyond my feet like a fallen storm cloud.



High above me, on a sinuous neck that coils and twists like an angry snake, I see the Dragon's head. Rows of teeth that shine like spear tips, and a pointed tongue that snaps about like a whip. I hear it's crack and I know that I have made the Dragon angry.



"What have I done?" I cry.



The Dragon of Distilled Fire slaps the ground and the ground itself quakes in fear.
"Please, only tell me what I have done to anger you and I will undo it."



It is my last hope that the Dragon will gift me with an answer. No man can stand against an angry Dragon.



I see its luminous eyes staring down at me as though to evaluate my heart's intentions. Even beneath the Dragon’s dark underbelly, I see a clawed forehand coming down to pin me to the ground.


Realizing that the next few seconds might be last, I clench my eyes closed and pray for mercy. When a sharp tip the size of my sternum presses down on me, I begin to cry.


The night is deathly still around me as the Dragon considers my fate. The sharpness presses down against my abdomen. I have given myself to the grave when I hear this voice in mind.


“Live your stories or do not tell them.”


“I will,” I promise with my eyes still closed. “I will live adventurously or I will not write adventures. I will live with passion or never write of love.”


The pressure was gone in a whirlwind of spinning leaves and branches but I did not open my eyes for a long time. For the first time, I realized that if I did not write like a true storyteller, then the Dragon of Distilled Fire would take away my ability to write.

The Sixth Dragon of Creativity- Part Seven of Nine

Children Never Pick Zombies

*****

It was raining hard from a haunted purple sky and we were fifteen minutes south of Detroit cruising down I-75. She had the stereo cranked to a song called "Kill Their Eardrums Now," and my head was pounding with every beat. The world zipped by down a road haloed with oncoming headlights and watersprays that rose up like tidal waves whenever a truck passed. Colors blurred and blended over the highway like a raging psychedelic flood coming straight at us. I steered more like a near-sighted boat captain than a working stiff in a ten year old Chevy.


“You think you could turn that thing down a little?” I shouted. “I can’t hear the rain.”


“Turn up the rain,” she yelled.

I swore absently and laid my hand on her thigh. I kept it there until she snaked my ear and twisted it so hard I shot off the seat and hit the roof.


“Are you nuts?”


“Keep your hand off of my leg.”


“Since when?”


“Since I said so,” she said.


She was jamming my head up against the car roof with her right hand while she grabbed the wheel with her left to keep us from spinning out. The car twisted and turned and we clipped an orange barrel that flipped up in a wooshing spray of rain and bounced over the concrete median like a drunken stuntman.

“Watch the road,” she yelled and yanked the wheel so hard we nearly crashed into a passing truck.


“Are you on dope?” I screamed.


She twisted harder and I thought my ear was going to rip right off my head, but when I slammed my fist down into the crook of her arm she let go and yelped like a puppy. The car was hydroplaning like a toy boat shooting the rapids.


“Bastard,” she screamed.


“You started it.”

The car spun once and straightened out like it never happened. I took my foot off the gas pedal and started tapping the brakes. As we slid over to the shoulder, I cupped my right hand over my ear and felt for blood. My hand came back slick with blood, and my lungs were billowing in and out so hard I thought my ribs would crack. When the car finally came to a complete stop on the side of the freeway, I slid the shift-gear into park. My ear throbbed like a second heart.

"You ever think of taking PMS pills before you PMS?" I asked without looking over at her.


I didn’t see her fist coming but I sure felt the impact.

excerpted from "Supermodel Zombies," by Ferrel D. Moore

*****

The Sixth Dragon is the Dragon of Distilled Fire, and its secret is that of fusing passion with sensory-rich imagery. This is a powerful gift, and it is a gift that most adults, with their jaded cynicism, their anger and their greed, would misuse. Therefore, the Dragon of Distilled Fire entrusted its secrets to children.

Children laugh and love and share and dream and scream and throw fits and live every moment like it is the only moment, as indeed it really is. They don't need to read books about the power of now- they live it. So must our we when we step into our roles as storytellers.

Hemingway and Steinbeck and Austen and Rowling are marvelous mentors, but children are much better. Their visions are rife with detailed awareness and immediacy and they do not need to be instructed in theme and economy and character arc because they actually have a gift that is much better- they live in their stories and love being there. Their joy in creating and telling and living in stories is self-evident to the rest of us. They spin wonderful tales out of something as simple as a discarded box. We must learn from them if we are to re-awaken the Dragon of Distilled Fire with us.

Does mean that there is no need for technique? No. Certainly not. Is economy good? Sometimes yes, sometimes not. Is theme good? When it does not overpower the story like a vacuum salesperson desperate for commission, then yes. When it does, send it packing.

My point is that if we do not love our stories and love to tell them and, indeed, to live in them, then imagery, our passion, and our sharing of that story is inevitably too heavy. That story will move as listlessly as a diner after a much too large meal.

We cannot create powerful, delightful, meaningful stories if we do not first create a world in our mind that is rich with detailed, moving imagery. If we cannot excite our own emotions with our imagery, how can we hope to capture and retain our reader's attention?

How much time do you spend in creating the images that will comprise your story before you write it? Are you one of those slackers who hopes desperately that all will come to them as they type? Or do you first develop your world and live in it long enough to imbue it with your passions before you attempt to write it down for others to read.

Images must be detailed before they can convey passion. They must be detailed in our minds- even though we may not share all that detail with the reader. We may, like Hemingway, tell our stories with economy. But we cannot call it economy if we do not do the work of building our imagery and our ideas first. Simply saying very little to a reader without having much more in our minds is not economy. It is lazy.

Hemingway explained his approach to writing as his "iceberg" theory. But a chunk of ice floating in the ocean is not an iceberg if their is nothing more below the surface. Hemingway was successful with this approach simply because he created and examined his imagery in great detail before he decided what to prune and what to keep.

But Hemingway had to work very hard at his storytelling. Little children do not.

Have you never wondered why?

The Sixth Dragon of Creativity- Part Six of Nine

The Dragon of Distilled Fire at Work

*****

Just a short note before the posting to let you all know that I'll be at Conclave 34 this weekend at the Holiday Inn Crown Plaza in Romulus, Michigan. I'm on some very interesting panels, including some with William Jones, Chuck Zaglanis, Stewart Sternberg and a host of other folks. The panels feature topics such as "The Death of the Male Superhero," "Werewolves as Symbols of Sexual Repression" (or something like that), "How to Make Money Technical Writing" (I'm all alone on that one so come on in because I'll need the company!), "The Fundamentals of Fiction," and if you want the whole list go to the Conclave 34 Website to check out the action! And now... to the Dragons.

*****

Evgeny was the watcher, posted with a sniper rifle somewhere in the vicinity to cover them in an emergency. They never knew where Hauck positioned him on any given mission. He was always watching over them, as invisible as Hauck himself.


Yuri was their eyes and ears. He was posted on Fort Street in a white delivery van jammed full of electronics; his face would be moving from monitor to monitor like a hunter scanning the woods. Sveta knew that in the pale glow of monitor-radiance, his eyes would gleam like liquid mercury. Tonight, their silvery brightness would shine with images of Detroit that looked like Warsaw after the bombings.


“Hooker giving head in the doorway where that Mexican restaurant was,” said Yuri. “Couple of black trash bags blowing down the sidewalk like twentieth century tumbleweeds.”


“Any traffic?” snapped Hauck.

excerpted from "Intruder Alert," by Ferrel D. Moore

*****

I can see the distant lights of my village from where I sit, but I am not yet willing go home. I am different than when I left.


As a storyteller, I now believe that I carry my home with me wherever I go. Now, standing at the bright edge of darkness spilling over the sequestered valley where my friends and remaining family live, I stare out across the treetops at the distant fires lit for October’s burnings and wonder who among them is warmed by their crackling, smoking heat.


Over the last few months I have slept on hard ground and soft, shivered and sweated, and closed my eyes beneath trees both barren and thickly clothes with leaves. The edge of this dying autumn twilight is a riotous blend of earthy colors brushed red and gold onto the fearful landscape of a world as unwilling to leave summer as a child is to leave home and work the fields.


Tonight I have chosen not to build a fire, so that I can feel fear and despair and the need to be with others so that we can stand against wolves. There are few wolves in the woods near my village, but there could be, and that is sometimes more important to me than what is. I am high upon the pumpkin-shaped hill that looks over the place where I was born. All Hallows Eve approaches, and I people the loam-scented night with strange, gnarled creatures that smell like mushrooms and move like bloated bears.


Nervous tree shadows gather round me as the last light of day is suffocated by night clouds. The sun struggles and tries to rise again from certain death, but the billowing blackness piles over it, choking it, killing it so that it can live again tomorrow.

I close my eyes and look at the boiling cauldron within, feel the heat, and cast my inner eye far beyond my village and there I see, stark against a night sky, the Dragon of Distilled Fire rising high above a castle ravaged by burning pitch and angry children.


For I am the Storyteller, and what I say is so.