More Randomness / The Druid Update / Pens!
If you’d like to start writing but don’t know how, or if you’re a writer who needs something different, please check out our nearly weekly Random Writing Prompts at Bald & Balding on Youtube. The next one will be February 18 at 7 p.m. eastern time US. We generate a random genre and writing prompt and set the timer for 30 minutes. While it’s generally a pretty quiet show, me and Mike Mollman will interact with folks who chat with us during the half hour writing time - but not so much as to be intrusive. Below I’ve included one of the recent stories and on my Substack I hope to figure out how to add a place where you can read all of them.
The Druid - Book 4 of Ranger’s Deck
I’m chipping away at Book 4 of Ranger’s Deck which will introduce the world of Eigrae’s first Druid. The story is starting to come together which is always a good sign. As a writer who does not plot out ahead of time what’s going to happen, it sometimes takes a while for the right idea to coalesce into something that works. With book 3, The Sprite, I was about the distance into writing it that I’m in to The Druid now, when I basically canned the whole thing and started over. I don’t think that’s going to happen this time. Having said all that, I’m not willing to put a date on release for The Druid yet, but I suspect it will be sometime in 2026. When it’s done, I’ll turn my attention to the final book in the series which I’ll try to have out in 2027.
The Druid (hopefully) won’t be the only thing I do in 2026. I’m also looking at a couple of novella ideas that will be set in completely different worlds than my previous books and novellas.
Pens
This month I’m also hoping to update my website (www.rosairebushey.com) with some of the pens I make with my lathe. I’ve included a couple images of pens I’ve created using artwork from the Ranger’s Deck series - at the top and of the article and below. I hope you have a chance to look at them on the website - I’d be interested to know your thoughts.
I should point out that some illustrations from my books, as used in the pen below, is by Matt Slay, and is used with permission. You can find more of Matt’s work at the link here.
If you’re looking for any of my socials to follow, please check them all out at my Linktree account.
Random Writing
On Feb. 4, our Random Writing Prompt asked the following and below is my 30 minute response:
In a city where magic is fueled by street art, a young graffiti artist discovers their murals are bringing mythical creatures to life, but a mysterious rival is erasing them, threatening the balance of power.
Generative Art IRL
The spray can flicked back and forth, stray lines of black punctuating the red brick, teasing shadow and form, followed rapidly by white, beats of red, flashes of gold. The people watching her work were amazed as over the course of an hour a magnificent stallion reared from the wall, almost alive, it’s red eyes blazing and the gold of its tail and mane flashing as though blown by the wind as it raced forward.
Lydia stood back, her finger tip a palette of colors from holding down the spray can. Behind her she heard people murmur and some applauded while others dropped change or bills into an open gym bag she’d left for just that purpose. The art was more fun than anything but they didn’t give away the paint.
Soon enough the small crowd drifted away and Lydia began the tedious process of packing up the empty spray cans, her light coat, the remains of a rushed lunch, and the few Euros lying in the bottom of the gym bag. Hoisting everything into the bag over her shoulder, she turned one last time to view her own creation. It was wonderful, she thought, not at all concerned if her thoughts sounded like conceit. Objectively, it was it her best work and she wanted to take it in. She didn’t know when she’d get to see it again, or if she would – there were other walls that called to her and she rarely retraced her steps in a given year.
Before she turned away she stared into the eyes of the horse – they were, she thought, more alive from where she stood, than from where she painted. The sun caught something in them that radiated, that pulsed. Then she felt it, a warmth from around her neck, a pulse that matched the horse’s eyes and eventually her own heartbeat. She looked down into her shirt to the necklace that hung there, and when she lifted her chin again, she was met with the warm breath and trembling lips of a deep black horse with red eyes.
“What the fu…?” Were her first words. The horse pushed its snout against her chest almost knocking her off her feet. She reached out a hand tentatively at first and then with conviction, running it along the stallion’s muzzle and then under its chin where she scratched, satisfied the animal shook its head and nipped at her fingers.
With little else to do, Lydia put the strap of her bag over her neck and jumped up and onto the back of the horse. She’d ridden before, but always with a saddle, but she knew the stallion wouldn’t dislodge her; and sure enough, it began making its way directly as if it knew exactly where to go. It took the small roads, heading east, always east, it’s shadow lengthening in front of them as the sun set until the pavement gave way to dirt tracks and fields. Then it began to run.
On the other side of town, Michel lowered his own can of paint, the poisonous green on his fingers mixed with browns and black. He made his way down from the ladder, stopping for a moment to indulge himself in something he thought would be funny. Taking out the brown paint, he went to work putting something in place that had no business in the image he had just finished, and one that would probably see his fee reduced or even withheld all together. He hardly cared. The banality of what he’d done appealed to him on a deep level and he thought it would appeal to others as well. In fact, as he moved back, the whispers he heard from below, questioning a moment ago, raised in humored understanding as he retreated from his perch.
“Magnificent,” one younger man said, draping an arm over a woman and walking away, both of them with enormous smiles. The young children who had watched him paint also enjoyed the additional touch, though some of the older observers though that he had perhaps taken too much liberty.
Michel packed up his belongings and pulled a sweatshirt over his head, careful to tuck in the half-pendant his grandmother had given him so many years before. It was warm now, he noticed, but that was hardly surprising as he’d been sweating most of the day.
Pulling the ladder closed, he returned it to the shed of the museum, and took several paces back to get a look at the wall he’d just adorned. Rising from the pavement, two enormous clawed-feet rose on tree-trunk like legs, green and scaled and more than five meters tall – small for a Tyrannosaurus Rex, but perfectly sized for the wall of the natural history museum. Michel’s eyes moved back to the saddle he added at the last minute. From where he stood, it wasn’t as obvious as he thought it might be, and perhaps no one would notice – or at least not so much that he wouldn’t get paid.
Thinking of payment and dinner, he picked up his gear and started to walk away, only to stop and turn again as the vibrations went through his feet. It was either an earthquake or something very heavy had hit the ground nearby. Turning his head slowly, he only barely kept his heart from leaping out of his throat, as a real dinosaur towered over him, the exact dimensions of the painting that used to be on the wall, but was now only a shadow on the plaster.
The prehistoric monster, looking silly with its leather saddle, stood still, its useless arms waving under its enormous jaw, but it didn’t scream out in rage or terror; instead, it lowered its head, massive teeth a grill of danger and calamity, snorted and then pushed Michel in the chest with its nose.
He wants you to get on – you gave him the saddle for a reason.
The voice. It was his grandmother’s.
“Ah, what the hell,” Michel thought, “there’s no way I’m getting paid now anyway.”