Hold Your Fire

by Lisa Mangum

  That was it!

  He pulled over his palette and hastily began mixing oil paints upon its surface, admiring the colors as he made them. A vibrant blue to match the robes of the other angel and John the Baptist, regal and elegant. A red to match Jesus’s striped loincloth, and a pink for flushed cheeks. Gold like a sunbeam, captured and encased in paint. Pale olive for the skin.

  Charcoal coated his fingers as he sketched a figure roughly into the corner of the painting, just beside the previously painted young angel. The face he drew was as familiar to him as his own. More so. He had drawn it a hundred times already. The charcoal dropped onto the table with a clatter, and the brush rose once more.

  He loved the way a paintbrush looked just after it had been dipped into the paint. The way color clung to the bristles, easily discarded and just as easily soaked up within the hairs. He dragged his stool across the floor with a scrape and bent to the task at hand.

  Golden curls came first, tumbling over a shoulder. Jaculpo’s fell just like that when he laughed, when he turned his head to see if Leonardo had caught his clever little jest, when he wanted to see if the artist was watching him, or sometimes, even, when he was cross.

  An earnest face, eyes turned upwards toward the figure of Jesus. The goldsmith who had filled Leonardo’s heart to the brim wore the same look when they imagined the world together, huddled close. When they spoke of the futures they dreamed of, surrounded by sweet summer hay. When they whispered in the ephemeral flicker of candlelight before bed of how they wished things could be.

  A robe, draped over the angel’s arms and pooling upon the stones beneath him, was cradled close to his chest the same way Jaculpo had held Leonardo’s tunic just that morning.

  The angel’s own robe came next, falling over his legs and feet, hiding them from sight and yet clinging to them in the same way the blankets often tangled around his suitor.

  He wished he could convey in the paint the way Jaculpo smelled. The sharp tang of metal and the crisp sweetness of apples. The way he always tasted of sweets, any and all sorts. Sweet fruits, sweet honey, sweet pastries. It didn’t matter what kind, the goldsmith would filch as many as he could and pay for what he couldn’t.

  Leonardo poured his heart and soul into capturing the face of the blond, the bearing of him. It was easy to capture the innocence and kindness of him, that side of him that emerged only when the two of them were alone. It was harder to capture the passion in his eyes and the curve of his lips, or his devotion in the careful cradling of Jesus’s robe. Adding the halo to the angel’s head completed the look to perfection, and he wondered why he had never noticed it above Jaculpo’s head before.

  He lost himself to the paint, to the colors and the folds of fabric and the gleam of sunlight in the strands of golden hair.

  Eventually, he turned to the unfinished world of the painting. The stones beneath the two angels were pale and white, like the stones of the piazza where he and Jaculpo had first met. The water around Jesus’s feet was crystalline clear, like the fountain in the courtyard of the lady’s palazzo, where he and Jaculpo had danced beneath an apple tree after their first kiss. The broad swath of sky turned blue, the same bright color of the awning above Jaculpo’s stall in the marketplace.

  He hardly noticed the time, or the way the light in the studio had begun to fade.

  At last, he sat back. His eyes roved over the work. His heart warmed. “I found it,” he whispered.

  The sunset had summoned Verrocchio from the depths of the workshop, covered in a layer of dust that made him look like one of his sculptures brought to life. His boots on the worn stone floor of the studio were as familiar a sound as the villa doors closing each night.

  “Well!” he boomed. “Let me see what you have done, yes?” The Master picked up a brush as he came around the edge of the wooden plank.

  Brilliant light from the sunset painted the new angel in burnished gold, bringing life to his eyes at last. Leonardo swore he could see the figure inhale and hold it fast. Even as the light faded, he held it, as if that final moment of glory had finished the tableau.

  Verrocchio stood beside his apprentice in stunned silence, head tipped back and eyes drifting slowly over the drying paint. “You fixed it,” he said at last. “You found what it was missing.”

  “Love,” Leonardo said softly. “It was missing love.”

  His Master set the paintbrush down on the edge of the table, tucking his hands behind his back. Leonardo remained on the stool, fingers loose around his brush. In silence, the two watched the day’s last light go from gilding the painting to barely touching it with its light. The garzone boy came out to light the lanterns around them, then vanished.

  “Have you told him?” Verrocchio asked as the sun finally sank out of sight behind the hills.

  “No,” Leonardo answered, “but do you know, I think I will.”

  About the Author

  October K Santerelli is an author from Denver, Colorado. He writes primarily epic fantasy and spends his free time gardening and gaming. He lives with his two dogs and his best friend, and writes full-time. “Mi Jaculpo” is his first published short story. He is the cowriter and art director for the graphic novel, The Chrestomathy.

  One for Hunger, Two for Joy

  Tanya Hales

  Because I needed the day to go perfectly, I made sure to wear my best pair of fake glasses. Square. Thick-rimmed. Very nerdy, which was the whole point.

  After all, muses only visited those who took things seriously.

  Our car pulled into the high school parking lot, and my mom gave me her classic reassuring smile. “You’ve studied so hard. You’ve got this.”

  I grinned. “Those exams are going down!”

  She tried to reach into the back seat to grab my backpack for me, but I beat her to it, saying, “It’s fine! I’ve got it!” I didn’t want her to notice the bulges from my unusual cargo.

  It wasn’t textbooks that I was bringing to school today.

  I reached for the door handle, then paused. Trying to keep my voice natural, I said, “Did you hear about the winner of the statewide art contest?”

  Apprehension replaced my mother’s former look of pride. “Yes, I heard you and Dad arguing about it.”

  “We weren’t arguing. Well, maybe a little, but only because he didn’t believe me at first that the competition’s winner was only fifteen.” I paused. “And muse-touched.”

  My mother didn’t even breathe for a moment. Then she leaned forward and told me softly, “Dilly, you don’t need a muse to succeed.”

  “I know, I know,” I said, trying to sound carefree. “All I’m saying is that muses do choose teens sometimes.”

  My mother began twirling a lock of her dark hair, and I almost reached out to still her hand. I only refrained because I had that particular nervous tic as well. “You’re smart enough on your own,” she said. “You’ve got talent and work ethic. Why wish for a muse when you can make your own inspiration?”

  My eyes flicked toward the car speaker, which was playing one of Stella Hashimoto’s newest songs. She’d been visited by a muse four years ago and had since been the rising star in any musical genre she tried. She was only twenty-two, but no one else could measure up to the sheer amount of talent her muse had given her. No one but other muse-touched musicians.

  In fact, since 2000, all the people making significant contributions to the creative and scientific world had been muse-touched. And my parents knew it. The only reason they argued that I didn’t need a muse was because they didn’t think I could get one.

  I’d prove them wrong.

  As if sensing my skepticism, Mom put a hand on my knee. “You, Diella Magnolia Whitfield, are good enough to succeed, even if a muse never graces your presence. Got it?”

  I gave her a placating smile. She was wrong, of course, but I had to convince her that I believed her. My plans today depended on it. “You’re right. It’s about elbow grease … study … all that good stuff.”
>
  Her face lit up with relief. “Exactly. Now go crush those final exams. You’ll do great.”

  We said goodbye, and she drove off, leaving me on the high school curb alone. She was right. I would do great. But I wasn’t going to be taking my exams.

  Nervous excitement zinged through my stomach like electricity through tangled wires. I stepped away down the sidewalk, refusing to look back at what I was leaving behind. I had a muse’s attention to attract.

  I ended up outside a tiny café downtown called the Sated Owl. It looked like the sort of place a starving artist might go if they wanted to brood over their creations and drink inappropriate amounts of coffee.

  Before stepping inside, I glanced around. No one could see or hear muses except for those who were muse-touched, but in interviews I’d heard muse-touched people describe how their muses looked like ordinary humans. How many muses were running around, invisible to anyone but those they blessed with their inspiration? Were there any here now?

  Just in case, I murmured, “Muses, you’ll want to see this.” Then I stepped into the café.

  I claimed a table and laid out all my pages of drawings. I had notebooks full of detailed plans for the graphic novel I’d been dreaming of making for years. I had character drawings, reference images, and dozens of sketched pages. Yet, even after years of practice, I knew my art wasn’t nearly good enough. I lacked experience and training. I couldn’t make my brilliant vision a reality on my own. But if I had a muse …

  I’d been sketching for about fifteen minutes when someone slid into the chair across from me. I looked up to see my sister, Eddy—short for Edwina—out of breath with her black hair disheveled like she’d run all the way here.

  “I got your text. I can’t believe you’re really doing this.”

  I gaped at her. “And I can’t believe you’re here! You weren’t supposed to ditch school, too.”

  She shrugged like missing a day of final exams was no big deal. “You’re going to need backup. So what’s the plan?”

  I let out a breath. Eddy was fourteen, two years younger than I was, but she was my stalwart rock. I felt stronger knowing she’d be with me. The nervous currents in my belly settled.

  I tapped my pencil on the page before me. “Attract a muse. Be so awesome they can’t ignore me anymore.” My research had taught me that every muse was looking for something a little different. But, every time, they chose people who were talented, driven, and a bit quirky.

  “Well, duh,” Eddy said, “but why like this? I still don’t get it, Dilly. Why aren’t you finishing your exams to attract muses with all your straight A’s?”

  I snorted. “If only they were interested in smart kids acing tests. That must be too mainstream for them. I think muses want to see something a little more … edgy.”

  “Edgy. So you chose a”—she lowered her voice—“run-down little coffee shop filled exclusively with old people having pancakes, toast, and milk … because it’s edgy?”

  I looked around. There were a lot of elderly people inside the small, dim café, but still.

  “Hey, just look at the situation at large!” I insisted. “This is edgy! By ditching my final exams, I’m proving to my muse how serious I am about my art. A lot of people will never forgive me after this. Mom and Dad will feel betrayed, my teachers will be disappointed, and my grades may suffer permanently. There’s no going back. But I’m doing it anyway.”

  I had to.

  I’d been taught in school that muses had once been a metaphor for inspiration. But at the turn of the millennium, that changed. Literal muses, often the ghosts of creative individuals, began visiting and granting people insane amounts of talent and drive. Many speculated that the muses had always been there, doing this throughout history, just invisibly. Now, though, people could see them. Some people anyway. Those the muses deemed worthy.

  I was going to be one of those people.

  I needed a muse. I was desperate for one the way a starving man feels hunger. No matter how hard I worked, most of my art was worthless to anyone but me. I knew I could never be happy until I’d created something with real value, something amazing.

  I pulled out a stack of pre-sketched comic page layouts. All the details were in light pencil so I could glide through the inking without pause.

  “It’s go time,” I said. “Time to make this look easy.”

  As Eddy sat beside me, foot tapping to the rhythm of the old jazz song playing on the café radio, I got to work. Using my lucky pen, I drew crisp, smooth, beautiful lines over my sketches, making them gleam in the dim light. I worked fast, my pen sliding across the paper like an Olympic skater on ice. I finished one page, then another and another.

  I smiled to myself. I had to look like a professional.

  “You’ve gotten a lot better,” Eddy said grudgingly as she admired my work.

  I grinned, passing the inked pages to her. “Erase the pencil lines for me, will you?”

  She rolled her eyes, but complied. That was good. Looking like I had an assistant would lend me credibility.

  We worked together for hours. I didn’t even realize it was almost 3:00 until I heard my stomach rumble.

  I got up to buy us some sandwiches. When I came back to the table, I noticed someone had settled at the table next to ours. The dark-haired young man was eyeing my drawings with interest. That would be distracting. If he kept ogling my art from across the tables, there was no way I’d be able to focus. I took a seat next to Eddy so that my back was to the boy.

  Eddy took her sandwich as she poked through one of my binders. She pulled out an old paper covered in video game level designs. She grinned. “You should work on this. It’s bound to bring all the muses to the yard.”

  I snatched the paper so fast that I tore the corner. “No! Absolutely not! I can’t let them know about my secret love.” I threw the paper onto one of the seats and out of sight.

  “I was kidding. You always take things so seriously.” Eddy flicked my fake glasses. “Nerd.” Her voice held a forced casualness, and I knew what she was thinking. She was remembering the days when we had once designed video games and maps together. It had been our greatest shared passion. But it was a carefree fun I’d left behind eons ago.

  I didn’t work on things for fun anymore. Now I worked with purpose. I had to create something that mattered, something that people would remember. And a passion for video game design was not that, even if it had been my first love.

  “Well,” I said, “now that we’ve made some solid progress, I think it’s time for my props.”

  First, I put on a trench coat and fedora. It felt like something an angsty 1920s artist might wear as he wandered around the city at night, seeking inspiration. Next came an extra-long blue pencil and a large toy peacock.

  Eddy stared at the stuffed animal like it was a true symbol of my insanity.

  “What?” I demanded. “I like peacocks. Flannery O’Connor liked peacocks. They’re obviously inspiring.”

  I looked to see if the boy was still watching. He was. Even worse, one of the café employees walked by and chuckled.

  I pressed my lips together. I was beyond the point of embarrassment.

  I surveyed my props and murmured, “If only I’d been able to find a typewriter …”

  Eddy flipped through my comic pages skeptically. “What in the world would you do with a typewriter?”

  “I’d look creative, that’s what!” I took the papers and sorted them with an important air. The hat made me feel important. “There have only been a handful of muse-touched comic creators, and I bet it’s because all muses are stuffy and old-fashioned. They probably all have mustaches and top hats, or dresses covered in cat hair. Looking young and hip will only scare them away.”

  My phone lit up. Mom was calling. She must have realized I was missing.

  I took a deep breath and continued inking my pages. Eddy’s phone went off next. She ignored it too.

  Several hours and a million missed
calls later, Eddy said, “Mom is texting. She thinks I’m with friends, but she’s freaking out about you. She says if they can’t find you soon, they’re going to call the police.”

  “The police?” I demanded. “Isn’t that a bit extreme?”

  Eddy gave me a look. “Not when it’s about you. You’re their goody-two-shoes who’s never broken a family rule. If it’s me missing, life goes on, but … you know.” Her fingers danced across her phone screen. “I’m telling Mom you’re fine and that you just need some space right now.”

  I began twirling my hair around my finger and had to force myself to stop. “But now they know you’re involved.”

  She nodded. “You’d better pull this off, or we’re both dead. What else do you have in that bag?”

  By the time night fell, we had every prop of mine out and in use. I was doodling new comic book layouts in my thickest, most artsy looking leather-bound notebook. I used a feather quill pen dipped in a bottle of expensive ink. I even held the end of a fake wooden pipe between my teeth. Muses often appeared during moments of people’s great performances, or when they were in the throes of creating something amazing. Would this work?

  My parents had called us a dozen times each and sent us increasingly pointed messages about how they were going to confiscate our favorite belongings and ground us for eternity. My desperation was mounting. Good thing the café stayed open all night. We might need it.

  The dark-haired boy was still sitting behind me at his table. He was reading a battered paperback novel, but he kept throwing me amused glances. Well, who cared if he thought my efforts were hilarious.

  I put my quill down and began twirling my hair again. This time, I didn’t stop myself.

  “This is it,” I whispered to Eddy. “I’m desperate enough now. My final phase of the plan is to show the muses how serious I am. I’m going to delete all of my social media accounts.”