R. Scott Boyer's Blog, page 2

Dandelions – Pt 3, Mouse

Previous Posts:  Part 1 – Sun  /  Part 2 – Moon

The following night when Mouse arrived at the garden, Sun stood silent in the twilight. He had spent the entire day staring at Moon. He knew for certain that he had to reach her, but no idea how.

“There must be a way,” said Mouse, pacing back and forth at Sun’s stem.

“I would move the sun, and the moon, and the stars themselves if I could,” said Sun. “But alas, I can think of no way for me to reach My Love.”

“Then I will go and hunt,” said Mouse. “I am very sorry to leave you, my friend, but I have babies that I must feed and cannot go home with nothing.”

“I understand,” said Sun. “Here, take this,” he said, and lowered his last buddying branch.

“I cannot take that,” said Mouse. “It is your last one. Without your buds, you will die!”

“It does not matter,” said Sun. “Without My Love, I will fade soon anyway.”

Before Mouse had a chance to reply, Sun slashed his bud against a neighboring thornbush.  With a plop, the final bud broke from its base and fell to the dirt.

“Please, take it,” said Sun.

“What will you do?” asked Mouse.

“I will stay here and wilt,” said Sun. “But at least I will be able to see her as I go.”

Not knowing what to say, Mouse twitched her whiskers and licked her paws. She circled Sun’s base a few times, rubbing up against his stalk to cheer him up, but Sun did not respond.

Finally, Mouse edged over to the fallen bud, plucked it up, and headed into the darkness towards her den.

***

Dandelions – Pt 2, Moon

Previous Posts: Part 1 – Sun

The next night, Mouse returned to the garden just as the sky turned grey.

“What do you want me to do?” Mouse asked Sun.

Sun, who had been thinking about it all day while staring at Moon, told Mouse his plan. “I want you to drag me,” he said. “But first, you must dig deep to free my main root, which is very long and the reason, I think, that I cannot crawl on my own.”

Nodding at Sun’s sage suggestion, Mouse once again set to dig at Sun’s base. This time, instead of loosening the area around Sun, Mouse dug straight down, hollowing out the soil directly below Sun’s stem.

The ground here was even harder and tougher to dig than the surrounding space. It took many hours, but when at last it was done, Mouse sat back on her haunches, brushed the dirt off her paws, and said, “Your stem is loose. Are you ready for me to drag you to Moon?”

“Yes, yes!” cried Sun. “Take me to My Love.”

And so, Mouse stepped up beside Sun and took the base of Sun’s stalk in her mouth. Slowly, gently, she began to pull Sun.

But before she had gone an inch, Sun cried out. “It hurts. It hurts!”

“But I have only barely pulled,” said Mouse.

“But your teeth are so sharp! They bite and cut into my stalk,” said Sun.

“But what else can I do? I have no hands, no other way to pull.”

“Alas, it is so,” agreed Sun. “But I will surely die if pulled like this. We will just have to think of another way.”

At that moment, the first light of day broke over the garden.

“It is very late,” said Mouse. “I cannot do any more today. I must get back to my den before the light.”

“Here, take this,” said Sun, and once again lowered one of his budding branches so that Mouse could pluck the tasty meal. With a melancholy twitch, Mouse tucked the bud under her paw and hurried back to her den.

***

Dandelions – Pt 1, Sun

They sprouted at opposite ends of the garden, so far apart that Sun couldn’t see Moon until she grew over the edge of her untamed planter box. Buried among the bramble by the hillside, it took Sun a long time to spot her pale white face. But once he did, he could not look away.

Round and spectral in her radiance, Moon shone like a beacon in the night. During the day, Sun stared at her, trying to look big and handsome with his bright yellow petal wheel. When the wind blew in her direction, he called to her, to say hello, to tell her how much he loved her. But there were many other plants in the garden, all talking about their love of water, soil, and sunlight, and Sun’s words failed to reach her.

Day after day, Sun stared at Moon, trying to get her attention by waving his leaves, but she never responded. And so, as days turned to weeks, and weeks to months, Sun had no choice but to just admire Moon from afar.

Then one night, with the stars bright in the sky, a fuzzy brown mouse crawled into the garden. As Mouse scooted and scurried about looking for berries and seeds, Sun shouted to her.

“Mouse! Mouse!” said Sun. “Come here, please. I must speak to you!”

With twitching whiskers, Mouse scampered through the bushes until she stood at the base of Sun’s tall, thin stalk.

“Are you speaking to me?” asked Mouse.

Sun bent a branch and pointed across the field, where Moon glowed pale and beautiful, like a celestial goddess in her planter. “I simply must get closer to her. Can you help me?”

Mouse twitched her nose. “I would like to help but I am hungry and have only a short time to scavenge before daybreak.”

Sun fluffed his petals in thought. Finally, he said, “I have buds growing on many of my branches. If you help me get to My Love, I will give you my buds to eat. Then you will not need to hunt.”

The hungry Mouse’s nose twitched again. “I will help in exchange for your buds. What do you want me to do?”

Again, Sun ruffled his petals in concentration. “Dig up the soil,” said Sun. “Then, when it is nice and loose, I can pull with my roots and drag myself to her!”

And so, Mouse dug all around the base of Sun’s stalk. However, the soil was hard and dry with unyielding bedrock just below the surface. It took many hours, but when it was done, Mouse sat back and rubbed her dusty paws.

“Go to Moon,” she said with excitement. “Stretch out and be with her!”

“Wonderful!” said Sun, and reached out with his roots. But unlike his branches, Sun’s roots were not used to moving and could not go far. He stretched and stretched, and yet, pull as he might, he drew no closer to Moon.

“We must try something else!” said Sun.

“It is already late,” said Mouse with a yawn. “The sky will be bright soon, and I have yet to find food for me and my children.”

“Here,” said Sun, and lowered a budding branch. “Take my bud, as promised, so that you may not go hungry. But come back again tomorrow. By then, I will have thought of another way for me to reach My Love.”

With a nod of agreement and another yawn, Mouse plucked the bud from Sun’s branch and tucked it under her paw. Then she scurried off through the bramble, back to her den to feed her children.

***

Dandelions – Behind the Story

Hi Everyone. I know I haven’t been posting much lately. Okay, let’s be honest, i haven’t been posting at all lately. But i have been writing. Part of why I don’t post is that I submit some of my stories for award consideration and they don’t like anything that’s already been shared. That includes a short story I wrote a few months ago called “Dandelions.” It’s been sent out to a few places, but since i haven’t heard back, I’ve decided to share it with all of you.

I’ll drop the first part of the story tomorrow, then the other portions in the days that follow.

Dandelions was inspired by the backyard of someone I knew. This yard had a lot of weeds, including wild dandelions. When I asked about them, I learned that, not only are all the parts of a dandelions edible (seeds, stem, and stalk!), but also contain a beautiful metaphor. When in bloom, their heads are bright yellow, like the sun. When they dry up, they turn celestial white like the moon. Then, when they blow away, they scatter into the sky like a thousand stars. Sun, moon, and stars – beautiful, right?

That metaphor inspired not just this story, but the names of the main characters. Keep that in mind as you read. Again, the story will post tomorrow. I hope you enjoy it! If so, feel free to leave a comment.

Writing Update

Since I haven’t posted in a while, I thought it might be nice to update folks on my latest writing projects. As many of you know, I wrote and published two books in the Bobby Ether series; Jade Academy and Temple of Eternity. The first book actually fell out of publication for a while but is now available again thanks to the help of the amazing Shari Stauch @mainstreetreads. There are actually two other stories already written in that series. However, based on sales of the first two, it doesn’t look like the third installment (Scions of the Sphinx) is going to get published any time soon.

Having accepted this reality quite a while ago, I’ve turned my attention to other projects. Over the past year, I wrote two screenplays: House Guests and House Guests: Arrival. Both are suspense/thrillers, and mark a decided departure from the YA fantasy genre of Bobby Ether. Despite modest acclaim for the first screenplay, I have returned my attention to novels, rather than pursue what is perhaps the only writing path more challenging than being a novelist: that of getting a script made into a film.

Over the past year, I have worked on a new novel titled King Solomon’s Wives. KSW is a blend of historical fiction and fantasy – essentially a reimagining of Solomon’s reign with a touch of history sprinkled with a heavy dose of fantasy. I’ve got the entire story mapped out and I’m currently about two-thirds of the way done writing it. I hope to finish sometime later this year and am excited to query it to agents/publishers.

In the meantime, I am going to share the set up for KSW in a future post, so stay tuned and wish me luck as I continue to push through to the end.

Better (Late) Semi-Finalist Than Never

A few months back, I wrote my very first screenplay. Based on the premise of a “casual” home invasion, House Guests is a suspense/thriller and therefore an abrupt departure from the young adult fantasy novels I’d written up to that point. Still, the story felt compelling and wanted to be told as a screenplay, not a novel. Never one to shy away from a challenge, I took on the task of learning how to write a script, discovering all the various format, structure, and storytelling nuances of how they differ from novels. The task was tedious but rewarding, with the clear sense that my writing skills improved as a result (truly its own reward!).

When I finished, I decided to submit House Guests for a few awards, just to see how it might do. I didn’t place in any of the early competitions, but with every feedback, I made some edits, tweaked a few scenes, and sent it off again for consideration. Once again, I got no response. The weeks turned into months. Deadlines passed. Maybe it was time to start focusing on my novels again?

Then I got this email a few days ago:

“Subject: Congratulations, you are a SEMI FINALIST! Hello, It has come to our attention that some of you didn’t receive an email announcing your status as a Semi Finalist in our contest which closed on April 28th. Below is the email that you should have received (just in case!). We’re excited to announce that your screenplay placed as a Semi Finalist in this season’s Chicago Screenplay Awards. This season brought us over 1,200 screenplays and if you earned a Semi Finalist placement, you were in the top 10% of submissions!”

I realize I didn’t win, but it still feels good to know that my efforts yielded something worthwhile. it took three months to find out, but knowing that the script was well received gives me hope and encouragement to write more in the future.

Waking Up With Aliens

Over the weekend, I decided to write a short story based on a prompt for a job as a freelance writer. Turns out the job wasn’t worth pursuing, but I wrote the story anyway. The requirements were 500 words on the topic “What would you do if you woke up and found yourself surrounded by aliens.” Enjoy :).

I wake to find the alien’s third eye staring at me from the other side of metal bars. A wave of nausea sweeps over me as the eye blinks then swivels towards me while the eyes on either side remain motionless. Instinctively, I flinch backwards and my stomach roils again.

The nightmare creature withdraws, giving me a moment to assess my surroundings. I’m in a basement. My basement. That’s right! Yesterday afternoon, I saw the news reports about the imminent alien invasion. I came down to the basement in the hopes that they’d take little interest in an unexceptional human in a city of millions. Clearly, I’d been wrong. Terribly, horribly wrong.

The eye blinks again.

“What do you want from us?” The words sound ridiculous as they leave my throat. Am I really trying to talk to an alien… in English?

This time, all three eyes swivel my way. I sit up, bumping my head on the low ceiling. I’m in some kind of box. No, not a box, a cage. I vaguely remember crawling into my dog’s old crate when I heard noises upstairs. As if a thin layer of plastic and a metal grill can protect me from extraterrestrials capable of interstellar travel.

The bony ridge that runs down the alien’s face splits apart, revealing a fleshy appendage. A tongue? The creature lets forth a howling noise somewhere between a yodel and a drowning cat.

I try again. “Why have you invaded our world?” Another drowning cat yodel. I grab the bars of my salvation-turned-prison and shake. “Let me go!”

I fall forward, toppling out of the cage as the bars swing outward with ease. The creature standing before me rises. Until now, I’d been so fixated on its face that I hadn’t noticed the rest of the alien’s body. Long and sinewy, it reminds me of an octopus mixed with a lizard: reptilian scales cover eight arms, each with four finger-like digits.

Two of the tentacle-arms reach towards me. I draw back, but the cage door swung shut behind me when I tumbled out. My back presses against the bars, keeping me out far better than it kept me in.

Two limbs wrap me and, I am not ashamed to admit, I scream like a six-year-old girl whose ice cream just slipped down a sewer. Another drown cat yodel and I wish the tentacles were wrapped around my ears instead of my chest. My brain burns from the high-pitched decibels.

An instant later, a door opens in the back of the room. Four more aliens burst—okay, more like slithered—into the room. I scream again as the squid-like creatures surround me. One of them presses a tentacle to my forehead.

That’s when I hear a voice inside my head. “Relax, child. We are here to save you.”

 

Taking Her Shot

A few weeks ago, my writers group starting offering prompts as a way to drive creativity and share stories related to a common theme. Basically, we pick a topic to write about, then a few words to integrate into the story. For the most recent prompt, we choose the topic of travel and/or Covid, as well as the words “shot” and “octogenarian.” You guessed it, that last word was my suggestion :P.

Given that I helped craft the prompt, I was quite excited to take a stab at it. Below is the short story I wrote based on the prompt. Ideally, it’s funny, and entertaining, with just the right amount of silliness.

TAKING HER SHOT, by R. SCOTT BOYER

The shot glass sat untouched on the bar in front of Betty. Moisture dripped down the sides, condensing into a tiny pool around the base. The octogenarian looked at the bartender, a twenty-something year old hipster with a man bun and a tribal tattoo on his right bicep.

“I don’t want the shot,” Betty complained.

The barkeep gave her a confused stare. “Then why’d you order it?”

“Not that shot, the other shot.” Betty raised a hand to her arm and mimed an injection.

“Ahh, Covid!” said the bartender, as if speaking to the elderly was a foreign language and he’ just discovered the Rosetta Stone.

“Yeah, my cousin got the shot and got cancer two weeks later.” He leaned over the bar, delivering this news in a conspiratorial tone, as if revealing a government plot, or proving the existence of aliens.

Betty’s eyesbrows shot up. “Wait, you’re telling me the vaccine gave your cousin cancer.”

The barkeep pushed himself upright. “Naw, he works in construction… pulling out asbestos and stuff. Got into his lungs.”

Betty sighed, relieved for the cousin she’d never met. “Well, they won’t let me fly without it,” she sighed.

“Asbestos? That’s strange…”

“The vaccine,” replied Betty, perhaps a bit too sharply. The barkeep might be soft on the eyes but the lights behind his were fairly dim.

“Riight,” said the bartender, his face illuminating with epiphany once again. “So whatcha gonna do?”

“My granddaughter is graduating from college. I wasn’t around for any of the others. Guess I only get one shot at it now.”

“The vaccine?” asked the barkeep, once again lost in the subtle terrain of their casual conversation.

“Attending the graduation,” replied Betty. She said it slowly, giving the barkeep time to absorb this obvious, but apparently elusive piece of information.

“Riight,” he said again. He faced scrunched up in concentration. “Cause those only come along like every four years or so.”

“Riiight,” parroted Betty. “But this is college… so it’s the last one unless she goes on to med school, or gets her master’s or something.”
Once again, she say the millennials’ face storm over in concentration as he tried to come up with a suitable response. Before he had a chance, Betty scooped up her glass from the counter and upended it.

“Another shot!” she declared enthusiastically.

The barkeep paused for only a moment this time before pointing a pistol finger at her. “You’re talking about the whiskey!”

“Make it moist and make it a double!” said Betty. The way she figured it, being an octogenarian had its advantages, like not having to worry about cirrhosis of the liver. If it wasn’t already winning the race of stuff trying to kill her, it was far too late for it to catch up now.

Betty slid the empty shot glass towards the barkeep and left her hand there, a miniature airplane hangar waiting for its next arrival. “Can I ask you something?” she asked.

“Shoot,” said the barkeep.

“Are you vaccinated?”

The barkeep pointed to a tiny discoloration hidden beneath his tribal tattoos. “See that scar? Got shot back in ’07.”

Betty pulled down the coke-bottle glasses perched atop her blue wig and leaned over the bar. Despite squinting, she could barely make out the alleged scar.

“Were you in the military?” she asked, searching for the connection.

“Naw, BB gun from my neighbor. Didn’t like my dog barking all night.”

“And?” said Betty, still waiting for the brain trains to hitch up.

The barkeep’s pale blues eyes went distant before snapping into focus. “And I don’t let nobody tell me what to do!”

Betty mumbled under her breathe, “apparently you prefer to be shot instead.”

“Besides,” said the oblivious barkeep. “I figure alcohol is toxic, right? So as long as I drink regularly, it kills all the germs!”

Betty raised her fresh shot to her lips. “Amen to that!” She threw back her head, letting the fiery liquid scorch the moist palette of her throat before dropping into the cauldron of a digestive system that struggled nowadays with a glass of milk. No doubt, she’d pay for this later.

Reaching into her purse, she slapped a stack of bills on the table and stood up. “Well, I’m off!”

The barkeep beamed at her. “To take your shot?”

Betty nodded back. “You betcha!”

“Wait… with the graduation, or the vaccine?”

Just to fuck with him, Betty strode halfway to the door before turning to reply. “You’ll figure it out eventually.”

Scions of the Sphinx , Ch. 9

Chapter 9 of Scions of the Sphinx gives us our first look at the inside of Mu’at’s organization. What’s with the industrial warehouse full of mining equipment? We also get a look at Mu’at’s private penthouse (pretty swanky) and a glimpse into his motivation. I loved researching Edgar Cayce (a.k.a. The Sleeping Prophet) and wrapping that material into the story. I feel like it lent an air of authenticity to the fictional tale I woven about a secret chamber under the Sphinx.

Chapter 9

The drive back into town passed in relative silence. Bobby had nothing to say to his kidnapper, and apparently Jinx didn’t either. Mu’at watched them both with an intense stare that made Bobby’s skin crawl as they made their way into the city. Traffic slowed as they entered downtown Cairo.

Weaving their way through clogged roads and bustling backstreets, they pulled into a narrow alley, vacant except for a pair of black SUVs parked up against the side of a corrugated-steel warehouse. Through tinted windows, men in sunglasses nodded as the warehouse doors swung open and the limo drove through. Inside stood a vast space full of metal shipping containers and construction vehicles: earthmovers, bulldozers, and drilling rigs.

Omir parked the limo in the middle of the open warehouse floor and came around to the back. Pulling Jinx out by his collar, the giant manservant dragged Bobby’s cousin away to a ten-by-ten tin box near the rear wall.

“You try light that on fire,” said Omir, in his heavily-accented broken English. Then he shoved Jinx inside and locked the door.

Next, it was Bobby’s turn. As Mu’at disappeared out the side door of the warehouse, Omir took Bobby by the arm and led him to a shipping container. Removing the door’s heavy padlock, Omir unceremoniously thrust Bobby into the Spartan cell.

Bobby barely registered the shove. All his focus was on the occupants of the room. Nathaniel and Grace Ether appeared disheveled and exhausted but otherwise unharmed as they leaped up from a pair of cots placed along the side and ran over to embrace their son.

Pulling him into a fierce hug, Bobby’s mother sobbed into his hair. His father encircled them both with his arms. No one said a word. The three of them stood like that for some time, rejoicing in each other’s presence.

Finally, Nathan stepped back. “Are you hurt, Son?”

Bobby shook his head, wiping moisture from his eyes. “What about you? Are you guys OK?”

“We’re fine—apart from the madman that kidnapped us from our home and dragged us halfway around the world,” said Nathan.

Bobby tried to extract himself from his mother’s grip, but she refused to let go. Pulling him back into her embrace, she stroked the back of his head and whispered pet names into his ear, wet from her tears.

“Baby Bobby! My poor little schmoopy,” she cried.

Bobby let his mother cry on his shoulder for a while and then stepped back and walked over to the door. There was no knob or handle. The metal felt cold and lifeless, with no spark of energy. Still, perhaps he could find a way to get it open from within. Before he had a chance to try, the door swung outward on its own.

Bobby sprang back as Omir stepped into the tiny space, his heavily muscled frame backlit by the dim glow of the warehouse’s halogen lamps.

Grace Ether let loose an ear-piercing wail as Omir crossed the narrow space and grabbed Bobby’s wrist. She clutched Bobby’s other arm, pulling with all her strength while imploring Nate to help. Omir reached to his belt and pulled out a chrome-plated pistol. Grace instantly fell back, clutching Nate, who held his ground but made no move toward the large Egyptian.

“Say good-byes,” said Omir, with a laugh, and yanked Bobby across the threshold. Bobby’s parents yelled and screamed as Omir locked the door, leaving them alone once again. Then Omir dragged Bobby across the warehouse to the side door, where two goons carrying submachine guns stood guard at the head of a small corridor leading into an adjacent office building.

At the end of the corridor was a private elevator with two more men standing guard. Omir shoved Bobby into the lift and pressed a button. The elevator shot upward. Seconds later, the doors opened onto a posh foyer of Corinthian marble and dark mahogany, with a pair of alabaster doors on the far side. Yet another pair of guards opened these doors as Omir dragged Bobby across the antechamber.

Bobby stopped struggling as the space beyond opened up into an elegant penthouse suite, appointed with jade sculptures, oil paintings, and thick Persian rugs. In the middle of the expansive living room, Mu’at sat on a white leather couch, casually sipping a glass of cognac held lightly between two perfectly manicured fingers. Behind him, beyond a panel of floor-to-ceiling windows, lay the skyscape of Cairo’s bustling metropolis, turned orange and red by the setting sun.

Mu’at waved at the deep-backed divan across from the couch. “Please, have a seat.”

Bobby remained standing. “Let my parents go.”

Omir gave Bobby a shove toward the couch, but Mu’at raised a finger, forestalling further action by his servant.

“I promise, I mean them no harm,” said Mu’at, gesturing to the loveseat once again. “Just listen to what I have to say, and you can all go free.”

Bobby approached the divan with measured steps. After a long hesitation, he sat down and folded his arms across his chest. “Get on with it.”

Mu’at leaned back into the couch. “Before I tell you what it is I want you to do, I must first explain why I want you to do it. In 1924, a man named Edgar Cayce, also known as ‘the Sleeping Prophet,’ predicted the stock-market crash of 1929. He also predicted the Great Depression, the rise and fall of Adolf Hitler, the death of two US presidents, and the collapse of the Soviet Union.”

“So the guy was clairvoyant.” Bobby threw up his arms. “Big deal. What does that have to do with me?”

Mu’at held up a hand, gesturing for patience. “During one of his psychic readings, Cayce declared that his current ‘entity,’ or person, was the third appearance on this plane. According to him, he was a monk before that.”

The bravado in Bobby’s tone faltered ever so slightly. “A monk? You mean like at the Academy?”

Mu’at nodded. “Cayce spoke frequently of reincarnation while entranced. I have no doubt that he lived at the Academy in a prior life. That, however, is not what’s important here.”

“Then what is?” snapped Bobby. “Please don’t tell me this guy, Cayce, is a long-lost relative or something. ’Cause, seriously, I couldn’t care less.”

Mu’at waved dismissively. “I would never have gone to such lengths to bring you here simply to tell you about a psychic relative who could only read the future while asleep. After all, your grandfather is far more reliable in his predictions, as you well know.”

Bobby threw out his arms. “I get it now. This is about my grandfather.”

Mu’at frowned. “Your provincial logic disappoints me. Of course Jeremiah’s abilities are impressive, as are your grandmother’s, but I have plenty of talented psychics and empaths at my disposal.”

Bobby’s voice rose in frustration as he glared at Mu’at. “Then what the heck do you want? Get to the point already.”

Mu’at kept his voice low. “Of the twenty thousand plus readings Cayce performed, most pertained to mundane matters: the health and financial affairs of his clients mostly. Toward the end of his career, however, Cayce gave more and more readings about occult phenomenon. In one of these trances, Cayce predicted the existence of a secret underground cavity, or chamber, located under the left front paw of the Great Sphinx.”

“You’re joking, right?” said Bobby, his voice pitched with anger. “You’re after some stupid secret room? I hate to break it to you, but if all the scientists who’ve been studying that thing for centuries haven’t found it, then you can be darn sure it doesn’t exist.”

Lifting his cognac, Mu’at swirled the honey-brown liquid around in a circle before taking a long sip. Setting the crystal glass down, he sat back and crossed his legs. “Scientists may not have found it—but I have.”

Bobby paused for a moment then threw back his head and laughed. “Yeah right! You discovered a secret chamber under the Sphinx that no one else has ever found, despite centuries of research and renovation. Get real.”

The right corner of Mu’at’s mouth twitched ever so slightly at Bobby’s insolence. “Let’s just say that locating the passage requires a particular skill—one which most people do not possess.”

Leaning forward, Bobby studied Mu’at afresh. “You’re talking about meta abilities. You have to use power to find the passage?”

Mu’at nodded almost imperceptibly. “Unfortunately, such abilities only provide access to the outer tunnel, not the room itself. I would excavate, but I cannot risk harming the contents within the chamber.”

Bobby sat up straight, now fully engaged. “So I open this inner chamber, get whatever’s inside, and you let me and my family go?”

Mu’at stood up, cognac glass still held gingerly in his right hand. Walking without sound across the creamy shag rug, he made his way to an alcove in the far corner, where the windows curved into a 180-degree view of Cairo from thirty floors up. Turning his back to Bobby, Mu’at gazed out over the auburn dusk, the lights of the city just beginning to flick on like twinkling stars plucked from the sky and scattered across the ground.

“Of course, this entire conversation is strictly academic until I know that you can perform the required task,” said Mu’at. “You must be tested first.”

With those words, massive hands reached over the couch and grasped Bobby by the shoulders. Lifting him up until his feet dangled inches off the ground, Omir carried Bobby across the room to the alcove. Bobby struggled and even reached for his power, but nothing happened. He tried again. Something was blocking him from drawing the ambient energy in the room.

Still sipping his cognac, Mu’at turned from the window to face them. “You know, I’ve never really gotten use to all of this,” he said, lifting the glass while simultaneously waving around the room. “A long time ago, I was surrounded by great wealth, but then it was taken from me. For many years, I was forced to live an ascetic lifestyle, serving others while watching them indulge in life’s finest pleasures. Naturally, I was filled with anger and jealousy by this cruel twist of fate.”

Mu’at let out a humorless chuckle. “And then I got clarity,” he said, gesturing with a knuckle toward his eye patch. Omir laughed along with his boss. Bobby wriggled to no avail in the big Egyptian’s grasp. “It turns out that possessions, like lessons, are never really yours unless you own them completely,” said Mu’at.

Mu’at paused again, studying the cognac. “Of course, the real irony is that now that I have such possessions, material wealth means nothing to me. Take this Louis VIII for example,” Mu’at said, lifting the brandy once again. “This costs thousands of dollars per bottle, yet provides a mere moment’s enjoyment, nothing more. All that matters is the path. As long as you stay on the path, nothing else is important.”

“What path are you talking about, the road to becoming a full-fledged psychopath?” asked Bobby. “I’d say you’re doing a bang-up job.”

“Shh,” said Mu’at, raising a finger to his lips. “Be silent, and you can hear it—that inner self buried deep inside you, that quiet voice that knows what you truly need, the one with instructions on how to live your life.”

“So your inner voice told you to go digging in the sand, looking for a hidden chamber full of ancient garbage? Did it also tell you to kidnap my parents?”

The backhanded slap Mu’at gave him surprised Bobby more than it hurt. Still, his cheek stung enough for him to raise a hand and rub it.

“Do not blasphemy the holy path. I have seen the cause. I know the course, and the road is just. I will rid humanity of its impurities, cleanse it of those who have strayed so far from the path of enlightenment that they will never find their way back.”

Bobby felt his hands slowly twist into fists. “And what about all the people who will be affected by your plan? You want to replace everyone with your own personal breed of meta, right? What about all the harm you cause, all the innocent people in your way?”

“No one is innocent. We are all responsible for the course of our lives. Those who are willing and able to achieve enlightenment will remain. Those who do not will be swept away.”

“But what about—”

“Enough!” Raising his arm, Mu’at smashed the glass on the ground, where it shattered, spraying dark amber liquor and razor-sharp shards all over the cream rug. “You do not see my vision, but soon you will. Humanity is lost, no longer capable of achieving its true purpose. I will set it back on the right path. And you will help me, whether you like it or not.”

Bobby tried to shout his protest, something defiant and courageous, but Omir wrapped an arm around his chest and squeezed, forcing the air from his lungs. With his free hand, Omir cupped Bobby’s chin and tilted his head back.

“Try not to resist,” said Mu’at, raising a hand to his temple. “Fighting only makes it worse.” Then he slowly raised his eye patch.

The air in Bobby’s lungs caught in place as Mu’at revealed his entire face. Expecting a sunken hole or hideous scar, Bobby gazed instead upon an eye the likes of which he’d never imagined. It looked like a miniature universe, a pitch-black iris swirling with millions of tiny pinpricks of light that danced in such a dizzying array that Bobby’s head swam in confusion.

Seconds passed. The air trapped in Bobby’s lungs began to burn, begging to resume its journey. Bobby just stood there, staring at the universe in Mu’at’s eye.

Finally, Bobby regained his senses, gasping as he attempted to step back. But Omir held him tight. Bobby tried to look away, but the mad eye held his gaze, preventing him from closing his eyes or even blinking. The image was maddening, reflecting off the ten-foot-high windows, mixing with the city lights and stars outside to form a cosmic kaleidoscope that boggled the senses. Lines blurred, and images ran together until Mu’at looked like an insane giant bug with a thousand glowing eyes.

“Edgar Cayce is not the only one to have memories of past lives. Tell me what you know about the Sanctum of the Pure Ones.”

Bobby heard himself say, “What are you talking about?” At least he thought he was the one who’d said it. The room was spinning now. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The kaleidoscope zoomed in, sucking in the whole room until it was all Bobby could do not to scream. “You will see beyond, to your other self. Look now, and remember.”

The hand under his chin released, as did the arm around his chest. Bobby’s knees buckled, and he fell to the floor. A moment later, he fell unconscious.

Scions of the Sphinx, Ch. 8

Scions of the Sphinx, Chapter 8, holds one of my favorite scenes of all time. Here, finally, we get some of the history and mythology behind the Great Sphinx at Giza. It is the research behind this scene that prompted me to first start writing this book. Virtually all of the information in it is true. The Sphinx does show signs of water erosion caused by rain and many scientists speculate that it predates Egyptian civilization. All the historical references to restorations are accurate to the best of my research abilities. Oh, and we also get some fun hi-jinx, pun intended. You can catch up on earlier chapters at RScottBoyer.com/blog or on Wattpad.com

CHAPTER 8

Bobby awoke to rough hands shaking him by the shoulders.

“Bobby, get up. Get up, Bobby!”

He shooed away the hands and rolled over, reaching for one of the thick blankets to wrap around his shoulders. Instead, his hand hit stone, scraping his knuckles to expose red underneath. Bobby’s eyes popped open.

The giant, fur-covered bed was gone, replaced by the shallow ditch in Khafre’s temple. Jinx stood over him, urging him to get up. Raising a hand to his brow, Bobby blinked, trying to block out the intense glare at his cousin’s back.

“What’s going on? Where’s Isis?”

Jinx frowned, hands on his hips. “You mean Zaria? I saw her hop over the wall and race past Hayward. She bought us some time, but we’re going to be caught for sure if you don’t get up right now.”

Bobby stood up and rubbed his head. “I just had the craziest dream.”

“Tell me about it later,” said Jinx, tugging on Bobby’s arm. “Right now, we need to get outta here before those goons come back.”

No sooner did the words leave Jinx’s mouth than a dark shadow loomed over them. Omir grabbed Jinx by the back of the neck, encircling his throat with meaty fingers.

Still a bit dazed, Bobby swung a foot at the mountainous Arab’s shins, but his leg sailed wide, hitting nothing but air. He tried again, using his good hand to punch the man in his stomach. With a yelp, Bobby pulled his arm back and shook it—the man’s abdomen felt like an iron skillet. The chauffeur glowered at him and squeezed Jinx’s neck. Jinx screamed, and Bobby promptly abandoned further efforts to free his cousin.

The stone-faced manservant, with his flat nose and thick forehead, pulled his lips back into what Bobby could only assume was a misguided attempt at a smile. The man’s mouth held nothing but black gums and broken teeth. Squeezing Jinx’s neck with one hand, he held out his other arm and beckoned. Bobby complied begrudgingly, stepping forward. The manservant clamped a massive hand around Bobby’s bicep in a vice grip so strong Bobby’s eyes swelled with tears.

Mu’at arrived moments later, followed closely by Hayward and Simpkins. Both agents averted their eyes as they came to a halt before their master.

“You let the street rat escape?” said Mu’at, glaring at them. “I ought to skewer you both and leave you in this ditch!” His accent was crisp and perfect, each word sliced from the next as if cut by a knife. “Lucky for you both, I have what I need literally in my grasp.” As he spoke, Mu’at snatched Bobby from the manservant. For his part, the chauffeur just stood there, with an idiot grin plastered on his pugilist face.

“You two, bring that one.” Mu’at nodded at Jinx. “I wish to conduct my interrogation in a more private setting.”

Neither Bobby nor Jinx said a word as they marched out of Khafre’s temple back to the parking lot, where they were unceremoniously shoved into the back of the stretch Bentley. Jinx was positioned on the side next to Hayward, with Bobby on the other, next to Simpkins. Mu’at took a seat in the back of the limousine, while the chauffeur climbed up front.

With pitch-black eye, Mu’at stared at Bobby from across the dim interior of dark leather, rich mahogany, and plush carpet. Silence hung heavy in the air.

“Proof of life!” blurted Jinx.

Mu’at shifted his gaze to Bobby’s younger cousin. “Excuse me?”

Jinx lowered his head and said, “In a hostage situation, one must never concede to the demands of the ransoming party without first receiving proof of life.”

Mu’at straightened his silk tie, head swinging from one boy to the other. “And have I made any demands?”

“Proof of life!” repeated Jinx.

Mu’at affected a condescending smile. “I assure you, Bobby’s parents are perfectly safe.”

“Proof of life!”

Mu’at sighed. “How old are you, young man?”

Jinx sat up straight, arching his shoulders. “Old enough to know a villain when I see one!”

Mu’at set two fingers on the bridge of his nose. “This is hardly productive. You two,” he said, gesturing to Hayward and Simpkins. “Take the boy outside and keep him quiet. I will speak to this one alone.”

“But, sir,” said Hayward, “he needs to be watched at all times. The boy has a history of—”

Mu’at swung his one-eyed gaze Hayward’s way, and the corpulent agent shut his mouth.

“I can handle him just fine,” said Mu’at. His cold tone made Bobby shiver. Apparently, it had a similar effect on the Core agents. With surprising speed, Hayward dragged himself over to the door and pulled Jinx out after him. Simpkins followed his partner out into the desert heat with only the briefest glance at his boss. The look he gave Bobby, however, spoke murderous volumes.

The door shut with a resounding thud. Silence reigned once again as Mu’at studied Bobby with a penetrating stare. “So unfortunate, these circumstances,” he said, shaking his head. “We could have avoided all these unpleasantries if you’d simply joined me at the airport.”

Bobby made no reply. Finally, Mu’at said, “They really are safe—your parents that is. I have no interest in harming them. I just want you to complete a small task for me.”

Bobby wriggled in his seat. “And then you’ll let us go? My parents too?”

“Of course,” said Mu’at, clasping his hands together. “I just need one tiny favor, and then I will let you go. I’ll even buy you all tickets back to the U.S.”

Bobby frowned, sensing a hook. “What’s the favor?”

Mu’at leaned back in the plush leather seat and tented his fingers. “I need you to retrieve something from the Sphinx.”

“I don’t understand. Everything worth finding has already been discovered. There’s nothing out there now but sand and ruins.”

Mu’at smiled, clearly amused by this statement. “Tell me, Bobby, did you know that the Sphinx predates Egyptian civilization? It’s true. Unlike the surrounding pyramids, the Sphinx exhibits patterns of water erosion caused by rain. Yet the Sahara has been a desert for at least seven thousand years. Which means that the Sphinx is much, much older.”

Bobby had to fight the urge to laugh out loud. “You’re saying that the Egyptians didn’t build the Sphinx? Wow, you really are crazy.”

“I may be crazy, but not about this. What the Egyptians did was rediscover the Sphinx. They renovated it and built the surrounding pyramids in honor of its greatness. We know this first part to be true of Thutmose who found the head buried in the sand in 1397 BC. What scholars failed to realize is that the same is also true of the pharaoh Khafre, who is largely, and erroneously, credited for having built the Sphinx around 2500 BC. Alas, this is not the case. Like Thutmose, Khafre simply restored the Great Sphinx, just as the Romans repaired it around the time of Jesus Christ. Then Baraize from 1925 to 1936 AD…And again by modern scholars off and on since 1955.”

This time, Bobby really did laugh. “OK, genius, if what you’re saying is true, then how come the Sphinx has a giant pharaoh head on it? Looks pretty Egyptian to me.”

Mu’at waved dismissively. “Cultures frequently steal images and icons from one another. The Japanese adopted their entire alphabet from the Chinese. The Romans and Greeks share the same gods, albeit with different names. Christmas and Easter are adaptations of pagan holidays worshiping the winter and spring solstices. The list goes on and on.”

As Bobby pondered these comments, Mu’at leaned over and poured himself a brandy from the limousine’s built-in liquor bar. “With that being said, the ironic truth is that the Sphinx originally possessed the head of a lion. The human head we see now was likely sculpted by Khafre out of the weathered body of the original statue because the first had become too eroded. The result is the disproportionate figure that exists today.”

“I heard this theory before, from my cousin,” said Bobby. “What I’m not hearing is what any of this has to do with me or my parents.”

A knock on the door intruded upon their conversation. Pinning Bobby with a stare, Mu’at pushed a button to roll down the window. Simpkins appeared in the horizontal gap. “I’m sorry to bother you, sir, but we have a bit of a situation…”

Mu’at swung his head from side to side. “Where is the boy?”

“That’s just it, sir. We were standing here, watching the boy as you instructed. He’s never been a problem before. He doesn’t even have any abilities—”

“Get to the point,” snapped Mu’at.

“Well, sir, we were standing here, watching him, when smoke started rising from Hayward’s leg. Somehow, the boy set the bottom of Hayward’s pants on fire—”

“Idiots! I suppose he managed to run off as well.”

Simpkins swallowed hard. “Hayward went after him. I’m sure he’s already caught the boy by now. I just didn’t want to go after them without telling you first.”

Mu’at glowered as he slid across the seat, climbed out of the Bentley, and shut the door. Alone in the limo, Bobby thought about trying to escape, but nothing came to mind. Then Mu’at’s manservant appeared, stationing himself directly in front of the door. Mu’at and Simpkins took off toward the temple. Bobby rolled the window up not just to trap the cool air inside but also to provide a barrier between him and his captor glaring at him through the opening.

A few minutes later, the door reopened. Mu’at stood there, his forehead beaded with sweat. Behind him, Simpkins and Hayward held Jinx firmly between them, each clutching an arm as though he were a wishbone they planned to snap in two.

Mu’at pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbed at his forehead. “All of you, get in the car—Now!” First Simpkins and then Hayward squeezed into the back of the limo, squishing Jinx in between them.

As Hayward settled his massive girth into the leather seat across from him, Bobby noticed that the bottom third of his left pant leg was black and crisp. The flesh beneath was angry and red. Bobby shot his cousin a querying glance. Their eyes caught, and the corner of Jinx’s mouth twitched up in the barest hint of a smile.

Simpkins produced a magnifying glass from his breast pocket. “The little brat used this,” he said, handing it to Mu’at. “Must have used his powers to help it along. I’m telling you those flames sprang out of nowhere.”

Mu’at took the magnifying glass thoughtfully, twirling it around by the stem. “Get out,” he said in a hushed tone. “Both of you.”

“What about my leg?” protested Hayward. “I need to heal. Not to mention my pants.”

Mu’at turned so that his good eye stared directly at the disheveled agent. “You have three seconds.”

Hayward sprang for the door, shoving Simpkins in the back so hard that his skeletal partner barely had time to fling the door open before falling face first into the sand. Simpkins yelled as the hot desert sand burned his hands and cheek.

“Go check on the others, and see to their progress,” said Mu’at. “I am taking the boys back to the base.”

“What about us?” whined Hayward. “You’re just going to ditch us here without a ride?”

Mu’at remained stone-faced. Pushing a button on the arm console, he said, “Omir, take us home.” The rear door slid shut of its own accord, leaving Bobby and Jinx alone with Mu’at. Seconds later, gravel crunched as the car pulled out of the Sphinx’s parking lot, heading toward the main road.

The shocked looks the boys exchanged were nothing compared to Hayward’s and Simpkins’s, who stared after the car like abused dogs abandoned by their master.