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tamingthemuseTitle: Torturing The Muse
Fandom: None
Pairing: None
Warnings: None
Rating: G
Previous Prompt: #63-Enamored
Summary: Sometimes it is hard to come up with a prompt response-hence, torture of the muse. It doesn't escape the notice of those it matters to, however.
She sits there in her tiny gold cage on my bedside table, her wings drooping and her chiton dirty. Her despondence is almost palpable in the room as I sit in front of my laptop thinking over the ideas for stories that she’s already thrown out. It wasn’t that they weren’t good; they were excellent as always, new twists on old ideas that had come down through the ages as legends and oral history. No, that wasn’t the problem.
The problem lies with me. I know this, even as I take the little feather and poke her for another idea, another storyline that may or may not work. I have taken her ideas and twisted them many times, redoubled them many times over until they became mine and mine alone. I hate to type and I hate to write; it bothers me to think that all the stories that spin themselves in my head will never be heard.
Maybe it was my own arrogance that has brought us to this juncture of life. Maybe if I hadn’t been the supercilious bitch that I was, I wouldn’t have drawn attention to those in power, the ones that saw to the muses’ well being.
That was exactly why I jumped off my bed, my laptop tumbling to the floor as a crack of thunder split the air and my room was sucked into a whirlwind. Chaos ensued, and I stood before the throne of Zeus himself, his lover Mnemosyne next to him whispering in his ear.
He raised his brows, white and bushy over blue eyes that could pierce my own body through to my soul. I felt his stare as it battered my body, aching through my bones and making my nerves hum with tension. I wasn’t sure if I could tolerate this for very long; the fact that I was only human and facing a god, although he wasn’t a god that had been in power for years, frightened me.
He leaned forward and glared down at me. I found myself staring at the muscles bunching in his arms and across his shoulders, staring at the perfection of a god in all his glory.
“Mnemosyne tells me that you have been holding one of our daughter’s essences hostage in a cage. She claims that you torture her for some kind of writing community and keep poking at her with a stick. Tell me, human, is this the truth?”
I was struck dumb by his stare and dropped my eyes. It seemed to be the only way that I could keep my wits about me to speak. “I have been holding fast to a muse, sir, but I don’t torture her with a stick. I tickle her with a feather and she gives me story ideas and plotlines that I can work with. That’s all. I feed her regularly—”
“But you do not release her. Do you not understand that a muse held captive like this will die? Her purpose in life is to share ideas amongst all mankind, not just one who holds her captive and forces her to be a slave to whim.”
I shook my head. “It didn’t start that way, sir. When we met, she became enamored of my talent. She stayed on her own, not because she was forced. She gave me such good ideas, I couldn’t let her leave! I realized that I was nothing without her and so I built her a home in a beautiful gilded cage. She doesn’t want for anything.”
“She does, human—she wants her freedom. You have already captured her with your talents and words, but a muse’s ideas are formed from her experiences. Without the freedom to travel and live without reins, she becomes tired and used. A hack, if you would. She will lose her ability to come up with ideas for new and refreshing things and recycle ideas, rework old plots, coming up with nothing new.”
I bowed my head as understanding shivered through me. “I didn’t understand, sir. I will release her immediately.”
“I suggest that you do. It would be beneficial to you and her. She will return to you with new stories and you will be able to write without resorting to torture.”
I woke with my head on my laptop and my heart throbbing painfully in my chest. Turning to look at the golden cage on my bedside table, I reached out and turned the latch, opening the tiny door as I broke the circle around her to let her free.
Her wings perked up and she stood to dust herself off. “Maybe you should write about this to warn all those writers that imprison and torture their muse. My father does what he can to protect us, but you mortals have means beyond what he is familiar with.”
“I never meant any harm.”
“Perhaps not.”
“Will you come back?”
She turned to look at me from the sill of the window. “One day. You’ll see me again and wondered why you ever kept me.”
I couldn’t help the tear that rolled down my cheek. “I’ve enjoyed having you, even if it wasn’t for very long.”
I watched her sparkling presence as it flew away on the breeze of dreams. I know that I will see her again, but until then my writing will be flat and lacking something. Her effervescence lingered in the air and I thought of a story that would fit the prompt for the week.
With busy fingers, I began to type, hoping that it held the zing that I felt in my soul.
Fandom: None
Pairing: None
Warnings: None
Rating: G
Previous Prompt: #63-Enamored
Summary: Sometimes it is hard to come up with a prompt response-hence, torture of the muse. It doesn't escape the notice of those it matters to, however.
She sits there in her tiny gold cage on my bedside table, her wings drooping and her chiton dirty. Her despondence is almost palpable in the room as I sit in front of my laptop thinking over the ideas for stories that she’s already thrown out. It wasn’t that they weren’t good; they were excellent as always, new twists on old ideas that had come down through the ages as legends and oral history. No, that wasn’t the problem.
The problem lies with me. I know this, even as I take the little feather and poke her for another idea, another storyline that may or may not work. I have taken her ideas and twisted them many times, redoubled them many times over until they became mine and mine alone. I hate to type and I hate to write; it bothers me to think that all the stories that spin themselves in my head will never be heard.
Maybe it was my own arrogance that has brought us to this juncture of life. Maybe if I hadn’t been the supercilious bitch that I was, I wouldn’t have drawn attention to those in power, the ones that saw to the muses’ well being.
That was exactly why I jumped off my bed, my laptop tumbling to the floor as a crack of thunder split the air and my room was sucked into a whirlwind. Chaos ensued, and I stood before the throne of Zeus himself, his lover Mnemosyne next to him whispering in his ear.
He raised his brows, white and bushy over blue eyes that could pierce my own body through to my soul. I felt his stare as it battered my body, aching through my bones and making my nerves hum with tension. I wasn’t sure if I could tolerate this for very long; the fact that I was only human and facing a god, although he wasn’t a god that had been in power for years, frightened me.
He leaned forward and glared down at me. I found myself staring at the muscles bunching in his arms and across his shoulders, staring at the perfection of a god in all his glory.
“Mnemosyne tells me that you have been holding one of our daughter’s essences hostage in a cage. She claims that you torture her for some kind of writing community and keep poking at her with a stick. Tell me, human, is this the truth?”
I was struck dumb by his stare and dropped my eyes. It seemed to be the only way that I could keep my wits about me to speak. “I have been holding fast to a muse, sir, but I don’t torture her with a stick. I tickle her with a feather and she gives me story ideas and plotlines that I can work with. That’s all. I feed her regularly—”
“But you do not release her. Do you not understand that a muse held captive like this will die? Her purpose in life is to share ideas amongst all mankind, not just one who holds her captive and forces her to be a slave to whim.”
I shook my head. “It didn’t start that way, sir. When we met, she became enamored of my talent. She stayed on her own, not because she was forced. She gave me such good ideas, I couldn’t let her leave! I realized that I was nothing without her and so I built her a home in a beautiful gilded cage. She doesn’t want for anything.”
“She does, human—she wants her freedom. You have already captured her with your talents and words, but a muse’s ideas are formed from her experiences. Without the freedom to travel and live without reins, she becomes tired and used. A hack, if you would. She will lose her ability to come up with ideas for new and refreshing things and recycle ideas, rework old plots, coming up with nothing new.”
I bowed my head as understanding shivered through me. “I didn’t understand, sir. I will release her immediately.”
“I suggest that you do. It would be beneficial to you and her. She will return to you with new stories and you will be able to write without resorting to torture.”
I woke with my head on my laptop and my heart throbbing painfully in my chest. Turning to look at the golden cage on my bedside table, I reached out and turned the latch, opening the tiny door as I broke the circle around her to let her free.
Her wings perked up and she stood to dust herself off. “Maybe you should write about this to warn all those writers that imprison and torture their muse. My father does what he can to protect us, but you mortals have means beyond what he is familiar with.”
“I never meant any harm.”
“Perhaps not.”
“Will you come back?”
She turned to look at me from the sill of the window. “One day. You’ll see me again and wondered why you ever kept me.”
I couldn’t help the tear that rolled down my cheek. “I’ve enjoyed having you, even if it wasn’t for very long.”
I watched her sparkling presence as it flew away on the breeze of dreams. I know that I will see her again, but until then my writing will be flat and lacking something. Her effervescence lingered in the air and I thought of a story that would fit the prompt for the week.
With busy fingers, I began to type, hoping that it held the zing that I felt in my soul.
