The sun beats strongly onto my shoulders and back, my pale skin exposed to the elements by the loosely hanging sundress I’m wearing. I’ll burn a bit, but I don’t care. I love doing art outside on my back porch, looking at the distant hills speckled with blue bonnets and other wildflowers. Color breeding color. My floral-patterned dress is old and covered with paint splotches from years sitting at my easel fulfilling the life purpose given to me seventeen years ago -- to inspire the world through art.

I put down my pallet and take a step back, scanning my latest painting. It’s the fifth in a series of works on fractal realism, and I’m hoping the best. I’m trying to combine all my previous works on fractals from the four elements into one piece.

There’s the tree for earth, branches reaching high on the right side of the canvas into the gray-green stormy sky and roots deep below the dark brown soil. The river in the center represents water, carving out five different pathways through the land, but only one pathway makes it to the sea. Then the water fades into the distant ocean horizon that is the gateway to lands I have never visited and probably never will. Not with Trevor gone and Lacy to raise and a gallery that needs more color and inspiration. I feel anger at Trevor’s selfishness heating up my body, a very different heat than the sun sweating my skin. I look at my lightning bolt striking the man standing on the left in my painting, and I know exactly where I’ve put my anger -- into my art, into the fire from the sky, striking down the man who crushed my belief in love and family and a life purpose greater than art. I see the complex systems of nerves, veins and arteries of the human body that I painted inside the electrocuted man, and my symbol of the element air as the man takes his final breath, a whitish spiral fractal escaping from his mouth. A symphony of order and chaos constrained to one 10 by 12 meter canvas.

Who am I kidding? There is no life purpose greater than being an artist. It is the one the QUEEN gave me after all. Who am I to argue with her wisdom? I am a mere mortal, moved by my emotions and senses, especially the visual sense. Trevor was beautiful, dark and handsome just like the romance novelists write it. I was such a fool.

A half-full bottle of red wine sits on my mosaic tiled table next to an empty glass. I pour another cup, rewarding myself for finishing another collection of artwork. Maybe this collection of paintings could make it into the Tate Gallery in London. I’ve never been beyond the North American continent. It would be neat to take Lacy there and show her how people live in other regions of the world. I did sell a painting once to a woman from the Tokyo Region, so maybe my art can appeal to those beyond Austin, Dallas, San Antonio, and Houston.

But I wonder if this painting really speaks to people? It’s a pretty violent piece of art with the lightning striking the man, electrifying the body so the nerves are exposed, slashes of raw red paint crawling beneath his skin. So hard to tell. Art is fickle like that. Some will be moved, others will find it grotesque and some just won’t get it. Well I've got to produce something. The set isn’t complete without this piece bringing the elements together. Plus the Austin Region Gallery has been getting steady traffic, even from folks outside of our region. Lots of people are spending their credits on extra artwork above their annual allotment.

I don't know. Maybe it needs more detail. Maybe I should--

“What's that, Mom?”

I turn from my canvas. My energetic 12-year-old daughter Lacy bounds onto my back porch, more athlete than artist, her dark brown hair contrasted to my blonde, and her naturally olive skin making by fair complexion seem even more pale. So much more like her father. She does have my eyes though, big and green.

Lacy glances at it closer, studying the oil painting. “The poor man. Nature can be pretty cruel sometimes.”

I second guess myself. Maybe I should not have the lightning hit the man. Maybe I should put him in the center, strong and confident against the elements, breathing the air of life instead of death by fire. Maybe this piece won't speak to people at all. No. Stop. Trust your intuition. The work is complete and ready for the gallery. I felt good about it 5 minutes ago. I sign my name Sage Allister, doing my special curly S. “Finished!”

I smile at Lacy, hoping I'm modeling confidence and optimism for her, traits I wish I could find again in myself. “It's meant to inspire respect and awe of nature. Sometimes nature wins, but we can also be like the tree, using the energy from the storm to grow taller and stronger. We don’t have to give up like that man in the painting did. Nothing's impossible as long as you believe in yourself and don't give up.” I wonder if I sound cliché.

She cocks her head. “Hmm... so the tree can be like accomplishing our life purpose, no matter what might try to knock us down. Like if I’m like this tree, I’ll be the best cop on the planet. I'll get tons of high survey ratings and earn enough credits to buy a horse. Maybe a parrot too.Oh and a puppy.”

I grin and shake my head. Lacy has so much freedom as a student and is so hopeful about her purpose. I don't have the heart to tell her the QUEEN probably won't assign her to be a cop. She doesn't have the marks in school and there aren't as many slots for cops as there are for other life purposes. We have a peaceful society. Crime happens but not that much.

“I think you'll make a great cop one day, Lace,” I add, feeling guilty for internally doubting my child's abilities.

“Thanks.” She gives me a hug, ignoring the splotch of wet blue paint on my arm. “Oh, your gogs have been buzzing. Maybe it's dad.”

My stomach drops. We haven't heard from Trevor in months, and still she hopes. I try to stay positive for us and our family, but as time ticks forward I feel more foolish and naive keeping my hope. “Let's go check.”

I head inside and enter the kitchen, digging out my brown colored plastic-framed gogs from my patchwork quilt hobo bag. I place the gogs over my eyes with building anticipation. Maybe Trevor still loves me. Maybe he realizes how much Lacy misses him. Maybe he misses life here in Austin. Maybe he just needed time and space and perspective so see how much we matter to him. Maybe he will--

“Alpha Priority for Sage Allister. I have reassigned your life purpose. Your new life purpose: Rogue Assistant. Function: Help Rogue Rayn Achari destroy the QUEEN. Your coordinates and reporting location are attached. End message.”

“Is it dad?” Lacy looks over at me, desperately wishing for a yes.

The maybes are popping up like weeds in my mind, but I push them aside. Screw this house and its shadows. I'm an artist. We create our canvas. It's not a lie; it's art. “Yes, he wants us to come to him. We're gonna need to take a trip far from home, and it's not going to be easy to find him. See, he's wanted by the cops.”

Lacy's green eyes widen, a smile growing across her face. “I knew he was alive! This must be a mistake though. Dad wouldn't disobey the QUEEN. We need to find him and help prove his innocence. Where did he message from?”

“Scandinavia. Dress warm.”

Next Chapter: Chapter 3 - SIMON