Writer's block had hit him. Again. How was it possible for a writer to survive if every day he sat down to work, he drew blanks. It wasn't even that there were ideas milling around and he couldn't find the right words. He had nothing. His mind was empty even as he sat staring at a keyboard, or perhaps at a computer-screen page, just waiting to be filled. No words would come to him of the trees outside, or of the sky, the flowers…nothing. Oh standard words were still there. “The luscious petals of the inviting lily beckoned to be picked” but they were so overused, and boring. But mostly, they came from his sarcastic wit, his emulation of writers he had never deemed worthy of the title, and not from him. His well of words, the one that had been constantly brimming and spilling over at the most inopportune moments had dried up. Thoughts didn't stay, they didn't even dare to come visit a while in his mind. He had lost his muse, he supposed. But then was there ever a muse guiding him? If there had been a muse, wouldn't it had made him more of a success, more original in his phrasing, more proud of his work? What vanity had had philosophers and artists of ancient times believe a deity or even just a creature such as the muses they envisioned so clearly would even bother with the mortal realm? Why would a creature of infinite inspiration bother inspiring others rather than just living in the fantastic realm their own imaginings could have inspired? What could make someone - anyone - give up a demi-deity status and lifestyle for the sake of these paltry humans, who tended to take them for granted? A random thought or word inspiring elegies did not come from a muse, it came from inside…it came from experience and life, or simple adoration of the subject. He had always thought so. No, had always known so. What fallacy and frailty to need inspiration from an outer source? We think! We are cognizant! It is our lives and our words and ideas and feelings that inspire these works of art. If muses did exist they favored those who had no innate inclination to art, for those who did suffered endlessly from writer's block or other such inabilities to produce what was aching to pour out of their souls!
It is thus deep in thought that he was found. Found and chosen and ignored all at once. How arrogant and vain indeed to think muses would favor one over another. They were there to inspire to produce, not inspire ideas. Ideas are not inspiration, the production of them is, so how could muses be expected to do anything until an idea had struck? Such utter blame and condemnation, for a world he knew nothing of, and creatures he could not begin to fathom! Oh she would show him what a muse was for, all right. And suddenly he began to write.
Forget your worry and your woes
Forget your friends, family, and foes
They do not matter. It is we
The muses, elves, and the fairy
Who give up everything to you
We do not care if it is just
We don't complain because we must
It is our duty to inspire
We do not bother to conspire
Against one or another of all thee
We slave away for your sake only
You do not care if we are lonely
Or that we wish for a place to stay
A place to pause from our weary way
You just demand the inspiration
Without a single word of thanks
And yet we do not play the pranks
You so believe we're meant to do
The ones I wish I could with you
For then you'd notice me
The muse that stands beside your chair
You never think if I am there
Except when ideas do not flow
And then you wallow in your woe
And blame poor innocents like I
Now read these words
Make my voice heard
I must not give you any dreams
I must just leave you to your whims
Yet you blame me.
You cannot see till I will it so
But the fates won't let you go
On believing not in us
Who guide you still without a fuss
And so your eyes will clear.
And you'll see me.
And her words worked. They were like a spell she hadn't meant to cast, and so one that of course manifested in an unexpected way. Slowly, her very form began to take physical shape, and he could feel her standing next to him, leaning over him to guide his words, her hair brushing his shoulder. She didn't notice him staring at her, examining the unexpected pixy-like girl that had just suddenly appeared in his line of vision. Her face was flushed with the frustration she had poured into the words he had written, frustration that stemmed from the unfathomable pain of years of watching and guiding others to her dreams, while all she could do was stand by silently. She had poured out her soul innumerable times for these ungrateful wretches and for what? to be sent to help another one.
Turning away from him and his work, she started stalking about the room. It was amazing how calmly she walked around, examining his possessions, scoffing at his mess, as if he were inconsequential to what she was doing, as if he wasn't there. The drapes of silken cloth he supposed were meant as a dress floated about her body like a cloud. The white, nearly transparent material shifted as she moved, exposing numerous glimpses of flesh to his curious eyes. Yet she still didn't notice him staring at her. How had she come to be there? Was she his muse, sent as a joke by the G-ds as a response to his mental ranting? But no, muses were supposed to be invisible to the human eye. In desperation he looked down at the computer screen, and was shocked to see words there. Words he definitely couldn't remember thinking, much less typing. They weren't even written in his usual style. Muses? Muses that were mad and thought humans were ungrateful? Right. Was she a witch, that had enchanted him to write those words upon the screen, and hadn't realized the enchantment had broken as she had stopped coming up with new words? He had to get a grip on himself. Muses? Witches? “They don't exist, Brett” he muttered under his breath, and was surprised to see her turn. But even then her attitude towards him didn't change.
After a brief glance at him she continued her exploration of his ancient trophies and posters. Not to mention whatever other clutter he had lying about. Quickly his assessment of her changed. It wasn't that she didn't notice him, it was rather that she thought he couldn't notice her. She didn't touch anything, as if scared of making any noise and attracting his attention, but rather just moved with a quiet grace that surprised him, considering the anger he could see in her stance. Anger at him? What could he have done to offend this faerie, for that is what she now seemed to be to him. Lots of people had fey blood, or at least that is what the Celts believed. Sitting there, watching her stride about his room, completely indifferent to the fact that she was breaking and entering, he could see why such a ruse could have passed for so long, and how descriptions of this other race coincided to such an extent.
Having examined all his useless possessions she turned back to her charge. And saw him staring at her. She looked behind to see if there was something there he would be staring at but there was only a blank wall. Not even one of those posters he had hung elsewhere to capture his attention. Which meant he was looking at her. But he couldn't be looking at her. No human could, until she cast a spell to let the worthy see. But she had promised herself never to do that until she found someone who appreciated her and her race, her work. He definitely wasn't it. She thought about the words she had forced him to write, in her own way. A crime of passion, she supposed, but easily dismissed. The fabled race was after all what he himself had been thinking about. She tried to come up with a reason as to why his gaze seemed so penetrative, so aware of her presence, and only one came to mind. And with this came another, more startling revelation, as the wind blew into the room from the slightly opened window. Unlike common misconceptions that had developed with their media, muses were not all slim, and tan, and beautifully shaped. But their clothing was made to be free, and it was made of clouds, notoriously reluctant to stay put when wind blew them in other directions, and so her garb had nearly dissipated.
Embarrassment flooded her cheeks with warmth, replacing both the curiosity and fury he has seen there before. It was not surprising since her outfit had been slowly disappearing ever since he had started watching her. But not disappearing. It was as if what he had taken to be cloth had turned into clouds that streamed out of his den through the window, and some were still floating around by the ceiling. Mentally shaking his head, Brett resolved to stop reading so much folklore, because no matter how fascinating it was, there was no way a fey lady had come into his room, dressed in clouds that slowly drifted away, to write a bitter poem about muses.
Slowly he looked her up and down again, willing her to dissipate as her clothing had, to become no more than a dream, perhaps his inspiration to get past his writer's block. But there was no denying the pale vision standing with her arms crossed, covered by only a very, very thin layer of…something. As his eyes came back to her face he noticed fury had replaced her embarrassment again. Clearing his throat he started unbuttoning his shirt, which had her taking a step back.
What must he think of her to be taking off his clothing? If he could see her, which it was fairly obvious by now that he could, why would he be stripping?! Her chin went up a notch with the pride that surged into her at the thought that anyone would just take it for granted that she was sexually interested. But then what else was new? Everything she had to offer had always been taken for granted. Her ideas, her words, why not her body now that someone outside the fey realm could see it? How that had happened still baffled her, and it was all she could do to not break down crying right there in front of this worthless human. Things like this weren't supposed to happen! She was supposed to have control over who could see her, and until she figured out what had happened in the first place, she could never go back to faerie or any of the other beautiful places muses were granted to pass the time between assignments, because until she reversed it, she wouldn't be able to find her way. Tears started welling up in her eyes, which nudged her chin up a bit more in defense.
Brett had stripped off his shirt, and could see the tears in the eyes of this apparition who was trying so hard to not let him see. He stepped forward, trying to not seem menacing, and held out the shirt for her, as he heard his air conditioner start humming, worried about the rest of whatever that was she was almost wearing.
She stepped back, wary of the outstretched shirt and noticing the air begin to shift more forcibly in the room. Fear slowly crept into her eyes. What was it that he expected her to do? Why would he hold out his man-cloth to her? Glancing behind, she realized one more step and she would be trapped in front of a bureau he had wedged into the corner of the room. Almost frantic now, it took everything she had not to break down but at least pretend she knew she looked cool and collected.
Her expression reminded him of a caged animal, afraid of injury, yet with no available means of fighting back, and nowhere to go. Not wanting to frighten her further, yet almost desperate to get her into some clothes so he could try to rationalize out what happened, he stepped forward and draped the shirt over her shoulders. This brought him to within an inch of complete contact with her body, and so he rapidly stepped back, not noticing the slight perspiration that clung to his jeans where they had been touching the remnants of her clothing.
It was a big shirt, falling down to her thighs, and realizing she had no other choice, she turned around to try to fasten it about herself as the last of the clouds left her to face this stranger, this assignment, on her own, with nothing fey to help her. They had yet to say a word to each other, and yet she felt beholden to him for the slight cover she had from his scrutiny. “Thank you.”
Her voice was so melodic, not reminding him of chimes or anything quite so cliché but rather like the deepest sound of violins, and yet he felt if she sang it would be as a soprano. “No prob.”
The room fell into silence again as they examined each other. She could see more of him now that his upper body was clad only in a tight white tee-shirt. She had always thought the way someone took care of his or her body was a good way of judging personality. And he took very good care of his body. He took pride in what had been granted to him, and yet he wasn't an athlete or a body builder, just in shape, a bit more than as if it was just for health. So he wasn't lazy, so what? He still took her and her kind for granted, not even believing in their existence even when it was so blatantly proven to him.
Noticing the shift in her expression to scornful rather than admiring, he couldn't resist asking, “See anything you like?”
The embarrassment that flooded her face as her eyes jumped back to his face was more than enough balm for his ego after seeing the scorn in her eyes with regards to, well, to whatever she had seen that she didn't like.
“No. Did you?” She immediately regretted the words. Her temper had often caused her to react in such an unsavory way with other fey, but they knew her, and knew her temperament. This human did not, and she didn't want him to involve human authorities to figure out how she had gotten in, since she had a feeling whatever had caused this calamity had to do with the words on the screen behind him.
“Yes.” He said it just to see her eyes widen in shock. It wasn't the affronted shock that would have put him off right away, but rather almost shock that, well, he had seen something he liked. “How did you get in here?”
“The answer is within you. I cannot give it to you.” The skeptical look in his eyes had her wishing she had used different words. But it was just not allowed for muses to tell things to their assignments. They were only there to, well, inspire those on the right track.
“Don't play games with me. I could very well just call the police and have you arrested for trespassing or breaking and entering. How did you get in here?” The steely edge in his voice had her wishing she wasn't still backed into a corner, trapped, with those cursed tears starting up again. She looked down, trying to blink them away before he noticed, but that was not to be. He stepped forward, lifting her chin with his hand so he could look her in the eyes. This brought him dangerously close to her once again, but the vulnerability in her eyes that she was trying so desperately to hide caught more of his attention than even her enchanting body could. The image of a trapped animal came back to him, but whereas the first had been of a tigress, perhaps injured yet powerful and ferocious still, this new image was that of a unicorn. And back he was again to the mythical creatures. If he went so far as a unicorn, why not a faerie, lost and captured? It was as if the very idea sparked more inside him. Not a faerie, a muse. His muse, somehow transformed into a physical apparition. Shaking his head, he cast aside that image yet again. “Who are you?” but this time the words were more a whisper than the menace his last question had been.
Submission Name: Muse(working title) 1
