Musings from the WordForge.

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With the hammer of imagination, the fires of language skills (Sometimes I think I lack, or at least have low quality fuel) writers often come up with new words.

Sometimes they create a portmanteau of words.  Motel (Motor Hotel) for example.  The person that thought that up probably did not realize a whole new word that would be entered in the dictionary after that.

The accepted shortest words “I” “a” that are used as the words. ¬†“A bird” for example.

Then out of the length of accepted word list. The longest word “Antidisestablishmentarianism” is the longest non-coined word that is generally accepted.

But, we are at the forge. To coin a¬†term for use in our novels is as important sometimes as the creation of the world itself. ¬†Tolkien was good for that, but he was a language creator and professor of language and literature. ¬†(But y’all knew that.) so maybe not a good example.

OH! There is a current creator of fantasy and loved by many. Ms. J. K. Rowling and Harry’s world. ¬†But..she is also educated in Classics… Hm..do we see a pattern here?

Still, both these well-educated people stood at the forge and with the hammer of imagination on the anvil of the soul, we create story, novel and whimsy.

So, what could be a need to create a word?

A person who infiltrates the society of ¬†Antidisestablishmentarianism, they do not really support the society, so are they a “Pseudoantidisestablismentarinism” spy? or do is there a counter-spy?

So a “Counterpseudoantidisestablishmentarinism” agent? (this was difficult to type, not counting how to read it). ¬†The point is, when you write, WHY you write, HOW you write. Nothing is out-of-bounds.

Creation of worlds, creation of words this is your canvas, you soul that lives, loves and stands in the WordSmith shop at the wordforge.

Pound out your stories, when someone reads it and says “Huh?” you can establish the meaning of it. ¬†If your person wears a bandolier (bandoller, bandoleer) look up the pictures of the ammo-belt and write it in! It is your hammer, your skills grow with each stroke of the key and research for your story–you do research, right?– each paragraph you build.

The story evolves.  Perhaps you had a dream of a tsunami of walnuts in your house? When you finish the story, maybe it was a medical thriller of mass poisoning of bad food by a corrupt corporation. (Okay, been done, but I am just using it as an example) Evolution of the story, the building of the world is yours and yours alone.  Many people may not understand it in the beginning.

The term Orc brings up an image.  Professor Tolkien based the word on Orcus (orkus) the god retribution of broken promises and oaths.  They were corrupt.

In another story I know of, an Orc was a judge and law-keeper. you have a complaint or conflict, the Orc-Judge had his or her law-book and followed the law. Rulings were binding. Wars avoided. It was a good story. But no one knew that an Orc could be a “good-guy” prior to this. Many still don’t.

So when someone looks at your work and is confused, do not be crushed, do not hit delete. Let it evolve!  Explain, establish, and tell your story.  JK Rowling created Avada Kedavra as a killing spell. Well..where could this have evolved from? Abracadabra? No..really. Could be? She took a known word and at the forge in her mind came up with a term I hear children at Halloween waving sticks at each other in tiny wizard duels. (I am Merlin, I catch and I eat the spells when they head my direction)

The world you build is always fun. Use the Technicolor of your mind to paint the glory of your story.

Be awesome! Be creative!

Be a writer.

~ your favorite cheerleader and future best-selling author,

Dash

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Steel Gardens of Anid-Sta Generation 1. Rescue

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Generation 1. Rescue

Captain of the guard watched over his daughter. Like all fathers, he balanced that fine line between keeping her safe, and allowing her to have her adventures.

‚ÄúNo one learns without getting a bruise now and again.‚ÄĚ His own father would tell him. Beekan Luc watched her as she rode the armored flyer.

She was little more than a young adult. If in human terms, they were extremely old. The last human went into the machine after the virus nearly wiped them out.

The humans remained in vats of liquid helium ever since, frozen in a deep slumber that none of the caretakers knew when it would end.

Trix had passed her three-thousandth birthday just a decade ago, for the Caretakers, that was her right of passage year.

Each year on Anid-Sta as it orbited in a highly elliptical orbit around the young red star every four-hundred fifty-six stellar cycles. Each day of eighteen standard hours.

Of the entire corps, Trix was the last one to join in the riders of the sky. She always ran off looking for adventure in the badlands.

Her white-metal dragonfly, Evan, an evolved design from the mainframe printers with fine motor control.

Laser printers, creating circuits in three-dimensions, articulated appendages and the most curious of developments since the hibernation of the humans, metallic wings so fine and thin, that the adaptations for flight had evolved into iridescent and translucent appendages.

The caregiver computer that built and programmed them all, printed them in a matrix of metal and synthetic flesh, the caregivers of the Fae, the etymology of the phrase failed Luc, but their job was to dismantle all weapons of the humans. To build a peaceful world.

But for the amount of weapons. The caretakers slowly recycled the metals to create a larger society of metal birds, insects and caretakers.

Bipedal in shape, the computer used humans as a master blueprint, then programmed the small creations as pacifistic caregivers to the plants and the other organic life, they grew in numbers, dismantled the stout engines of war and rebuilt them into usable tools.

Repairing systems that kept the depths of an artificial cave systems in operation. In cylinders, sealed with the contents hidden from view.

A refrigerant fluid was kept in order by the multi-legged keepers of the core.

One calm day, thirty-thousand solstice-cycles after the computer recorded the last human’s death, a chime sounded.

The chime, written into the code of the protectors, excited them all.

Evolution of the caretakers, now constructed to the size of a thumb, gathered around when the first of the cylinders, a label marked ‚ÄúMacLir, Fae‚ÄĚ vented and opened down the middle, like a three-sectioned steel flower, exposing a tall bipedal body. The automated table smoothly rolled along a track to a glass enclosed room that filled with a mist, warmed to a digital read-out of forty-degrees-c.

Silver robotic arms moved around, placing heat-pads on the body, existing  intravenous lines, inserted before the human was frozen, connected to bags of opaque, heated, dark-red fluid infused through the lines into the nude body of the female human who lay inert for hours as the heated, calorie- and electrolyte- rich fluids coursed through the veins and arteries. Blankets with tubes of warmed fluid covered the body and regulated the core temperature.

In the third hour, the cardiac muscle gave the first beat in three-hundred centuries. Frozen lungs began to move airs slowly at first, warmed oxygen laden with surfactants assisted the weak efforts of the diaphragm with positive pressure, until the patient was able to breathe on her own.

In the world of the caregivers, swimmers, flyers, crawlers, collectively calling themselves the Caregivers of Fae, hovered, stood, climbed on each other and stood on shoulders to see inside the glass-walled room.

Movement in the room, not of metal, but of flesh, a human hand moved up to the brow of Fae MacLir, exploring her face and the tape that held her eyes shut.

A small grunt of pain, she pulled off the tape covering her eyes. The first of the humans were awake. The oldest of their species.

After the long walk of ages, the rescue of the human species was coming to pass.

And the Caretakers of Fae marked the event to the millisecond.