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11 January 2019 @ 09:04 am
_The Restoration of the Throne_ part 6  

Princess Marivic and Princess Blue did not like each other, smiling very politely at what they each perceived as their rivals. Trickster’s narrow eyed glare was a bit worrisome.

Blue was a silvery blue Himalayan, long haired with Siamese type points. Brilliant blue eyes in a slatey gray mask that faded back to as close to pale blue as a cat was capable of. “Spoiled” didn’t begin to cover her personality problems. At a robust thirteen pounds, she looked down on the three pound stray and hissed. Trickster returned a threatening growl. The little scrap had fought all her life, and wasn’t about to give up her easy berth full of kibble and chicken.

The pounding was the front door, not the construction crew.

As she trotted down the stairs, she spotted a shiny black car in the driveway. A new mustang. Who do I know who has a mustang?

Chapter Four

The Return of the Black Prince

She opened the door and found herself face to face with her son. Aged nineteen. Scowling. “Father has disowned me, because I flunked out of his stupid alma mater.”

Disowned. Black mustang.

“The Return of the Black Prince.” she said out loud. Cleared her throat. “Come on in, are you hungry?”

“Uh . . . do you want to get the lecture over with first?”

“Eh . . . no. How about a grilled cheese sandwich then I’ll show you the house.”

He eyed her cautiously. “Sure.”

“Or you can check it out yourself, while I cook.”


“And the backyard is a maze of brambles and stickers and god knows what.” The boy was looking a bit more relaxed, now that she’d fed him.

“A maze. Oh, yes, we must have a maze.”

“Mom, are you all right? I remember you used to go all weird like this occasionally, and Dad would think up something you had to do, to get you out of it.”

“I’m writing a book. This is how writers are, when they’re writing. Your father didn’t approve, and was quite skilled at ruining the creative mind set. Don’t even try it, else you can see if your sister has a couch for you to sleep on.”


“Look, Dirk, flunking out is not the end of the world.”

He swallowed. Blinked away tears.

“And of course you’re welcome to stay here for as long as you need. I know you’d rather not live with your mother, but I’ve got to be tight with the money until I sell a book, and know I can make a living writing.”

He looked around a bit hopelessly. Nodded. “I just, I didn’t want to disappoint you. But I was so mad at you, Dad said. . .and I finally admitted I hated the classes I was taking. I don’t want to be a lawyer.”

“You never struck me as the lawyer-type anyway. Why don’t you get a job around here somewhere, get yourself some money of your own and think about what you want to be. Then what sort of training or college you’ll need to get there.”

“Uh . . . “

“Don’t leap into a decision. If you want to take a general curriculum—in high school you did well in all the science and math classes—try all the first year calculus, biology, geology, chemistry, physics and so forth. See if any of those interest you. There’s a Junior college about six miles from here. You could do it on the cheap, if you wanted.”

“Dad’s the one who cheated, isn’t he?”

“Well, I didn’t. His actions are his responsibility. Always were, married or not.” she heaved out a breath. “I was young and stupid, thought I was hot stuff with three published books. I should have finished growing up before I married. Maybe I would have seen that he was not a good husband for a writer. I don’t know. We ceased to care about each other. I tried a couple of times to revive the marriage. Hell, looking back, I think he tried, too. But he had lost the knack, if he ever had it, of know how to please me. And no, I don’t mean sex. He killed my writing. Made fun of me. Tried to make me laugh at myself.

“Oh, Hell. Sorry. Last thing you need is me psychoanalyzing myself.” she smiled wryly at him. “We’ll do fine. You’ll do fine, just pick a direction to go, with your eyes wide open.”

“Thanks, Mom. Umm, do you want me to sleep upstairs in the construction zone?”

“Actually, they’ve finished the wrecking crew part . . . I think I can just shift the bed away from the hole in the ceiling and reoccupy my own territory.”


“Well, now that I have a house, I suppose I should get a lawn mower.”

Dirk grinned. “Before the front yard starts looking like the back? Yeah. But we’re taking your car—it’s got a hatch back and a mower might actually fit.”

matapampamuphoff on January 11th, 2019 03:08 pm (UTC)
I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings, but unless I stumble across something on a backup disk from three or four computers ago, this is all that got written.

But I assure you it all ended well, with both kids working, Bruce losing the primary race, the book sold with a nice big advance, and Dina contemplating a major remodeling of her kitchen.
cnmckenney on January 11th, 2019 03:50 pm (UTC)
I see. Ran out of handwavium did we?
matapampamuphoff on January 11th, 2019 09:38 pm (UTC)
Or Lois finished her bathroom remodel and the foundations of the fantasy collapsed.
(Anonymous) on January 11th, 2019 05:02 pm (UTC)
After seeing how you put this together, I have to wonder what parts of your family got put into Cometfall. Who did you turn into a Black Goat? Or maybe just the Purple Bunny?

Was it someone you knew who generated the people who just *don't* believe in magic?

Oh well, maybe you don't want to admit such things on a public forum.
matapampamuphoff on January 11th, 2019 09:37 pm (UTC)
My subconscious always surprises me with these strange people, like no one I know.

I assure you my husband is an absolute teddy bear who over indulges me, and loves everything I write. Well, Okay, he admits to be a little shocked by the Black Goats.

The Boys? Easy going, well behaved, bright . . . I don't know where all these brats are coming from. Nor the snide, snippy bitter women. Too much TV as a kid, perhaps.
(Anonymous) on January 11th, 2019 04:34 pm (UTC)
I have been enjoying this so much. I was looking forward to you fleshing it out (need more details on the children and what their father told them, etc.) and making it longer.

So, I hope that you find the disks, and I am looking forward to your next books in whichever universe you write them in because they are all good and they are all interesting.
(Anonymous) on January 11th, 2019 04:57 pm (UTC)
Being a huge reader, I had always hoped I could some day be a writer. After seeing you create engaging characters in what ended up being a toss-away story I realize I just don't have that gift. Thank you for sharing your creative process with us.
matapampamuphoff on January 11th, 2019 09:19 pm (UTC)
Re: Sigh
Writing is both an Art and a Craft.

The creativity can be learned--I refuse to believe that people can be completely lacking in creativity. And like anything, the more you use it, the easier it becomes.

The craft is just learning and practicing grammar, story design, plotting, characterization and so forth. The nuts and bolts that _everyone_ has to learn.

With just craft, you can tell a good solid story. With just art, you've got unreadable gobbledgook.

So try it. No spark of inspiration? Think about the last book or movie that had you throwing your hands in the air (or book against the wall) and saying, "I could do it better than that!"

And start writing.
(Anonymous) on January 12th, 2019 08:38 am (UTC)
That was a very encouraging comment.

Re the Throne. Lame thought but perhaps you could get inspired watching bathroom reno shows?
matapampamuphoff on January 12th, 2019 03:19 pm (UTC)
It's not so much as matter of inspiration, as "OMG! Is this, like, Literature or something?" I mean, what genre is it? How do you market it? Chic Lit Comedy?
(Anonymous) on January 14th, 2019 12:55 am (UTC)
Definitely chic lit, unless you add a romantic interest for her, someone who appreciates her work. That would make marketing easier. I can see it as a light romance and they sell well. Would you need another pen name?

Or have the book come to life, which would makes it fantasy.