Soria
09-06-2006, 07:44 PM
I did for a cllass, enjoy!
Where the Muses go.
By Shanon Whyte.
Diana sighed cleaning a mug, lost in her own thoughts. At first glance, Diana looked like your regular pretty bartender/waitress. Long black hair pulled out of her face in a simple but messy bun. From the toes to waist it was black dock martins, faded and ripped jeans and a worn dark blue apron tied around her waist. A light blue t-shirt finished off the petite brunette’s casual look. It was when one looked behind Diana that they saw that made her more then just the average bartender. Large black angel wings sprouted from her shoulders, curving elegantly above her head and tips all the way down at her ankles. But despite of her mammoth feathery appendages Diana did not even get a second look from the patrons of the Ink Pot Pub and bar. Probably because half the patrons were as odd looking as Diana and the other half looked even odder. The Ink Pot was a place where muses hang out. Muses are sprites of inspiration. They lend their vast imaginations to those who need them, usually attaching themselves to one person, but occasionally hopping to others.
In those moments when a person reaches the preverbal mental road block in the middle of a piece of work usually, and can’t get started, it usually mean the muse has stepped out for a refresher. Their other muses would be there though, so they wouldn’t be totally without inspiration. There are muses for every style, mood and genre of writing. As well as muses for art, science, or anything else that needs deep thinking, including homework. The Ink Pot was a writing muse bar and pub.
Diana sighed, remembering when she was nothing more than patron at the Ink Pot. Diana did not become a bartender for finical reasons, since muses do not use or need money. No Diana became a bartender in her spare time because she had too much spare time. For whatever reason, the writer she had attached herself to seemed not need Diana as much as she used to. And getting yourself absolutely pie in the sky rambling drunk got boring, especially when the hangovers made you feel like yesterdays road kill. So, out of boredom, Diana did what every other left-on-the-shelf muse, became a bartender. Well, not all no longer used muses became bartenders, but about ninety percent of them did.
Diana sighed, filling a regular’s glass.
“You know Monty,” Diana began, “ I miss the teenage years. She needed me all the time back when she was a teenager. Angst ridden poetry, angst filled short stories, long drawn out crying sessions running over with angst in full stories. The works! It was like working for a soap opera writer. Not any more though. Bah! I get called in for maybe a paragraph or two in a 20 pager!” Diana finished, nearly slamming the drink in front of Monty.
Monty sighed and took a long pull from his frosty beer. Monty was one of the odder-looking muses. He was a muddy brown gecko with a dark frill from his head to his tail, and duck feet, supposedly from his mother’s side. Before he began, Monty nodded in sympathy.
“I don’t envy you angst muses. I mean you all have to deal with the same crap. First you are needed for a while. All day and night they’re asking for ya. You can barely slip out for a cup of coffee. But unless you are tied to a fan fiction freak, you are dropped the minute the writer turns seventeen! Mind you we silly muses don’t have it much better. I mean, most of us don’t get called out unless the writer is bored, stone, or a sugar high. Monty spoke in a New Yorker accent, heavily punctuated by coughing fits brought on by his excessive smoking. If the poor lizard had to swallow his lungs back in once, he probably had to a hundred times. Monty couldn’t quit smoking if he wanted to. For whatever reason his image was a smoking tie wearing half gecko half duck critter.
As Diana was pouring a glass of red wine for Desdemona, another angst muse dressed in Renaissance clothing, the bar went quiet. Looking up Diana saw her. Now normally, muses didn’t create rivalries, even those with the same writer. But this wasn’t and a normal case, at least not for Diana. Jessie, the name of Diana’s hated foe, started coming around to Diana’s writing around the same time Diana did. They got along all right. Jessie, a fantasy muse, let Diana come in and make some angst-ridden scenes once in awhile. But that changed quickly. Jessie never got pushed away from the writer. In fact the writer started to depend on Jessie more and more. Diana was sure that Jessie had gone behind her back and convinced the writer that she didn’t need Diana anymore. It probably wouldn’t so horrible to be replaced by a fantasy muse if she didn’t look so damned plain. No wing, no horns, nothing! Jessie did not even wear weird clothing like Desdemona and some other muses. Not even her hair, a plain old boring reddish brown, was odd. It drove Diana crazy to know she replaced by a muse who did not even look the part. By the Great Muses Jessie looked more like a writer then a muse!
“ And what are you doing here?” Diana asked icily, giving Jessie the coldest stare she could muster. Jessie just smiled sweetly.
“ How I’m just dropping in for a few drinks and some chicken wings. This place has the best chicken wings!” Jessie bounced over to a corner.
She should have been a bloody well card muse… Diana thought to herself. It was coming along to the Ink Pot’s peak hours, so Diana wasn’t able to keep an eye on Jessie. But she had a sneaking suspicion she should.
After a few hours Diana noticed Jessie had barely moved from her spot.
Not even to get up to use the bathroom. She was about to check her out when the waitress serving Jessie called out, “ Jessie is writing this all down!”
“And that is all I got before they booted my butt out of the place.” Jessie said, leaning against the ‘denim blue’ wall of the bedroom.
“ I mean Christ. Its not like there some rule that states Writers may not know where we go when we are not with them!” The muse sighed shaking her head.
From her desk the writer nodded, his messy brown curls bobbing as she busily wrote.
Where the Muses go.
By Shanon Whyte.
Diana sighed cleaning a mug, lost in her own thoughts. At first glance, Diana looked like your regular pretty bartender/waitress. Long black hair pulled out of her face in a simple but messy bun. From the toes to waist it was black dock martins, faded and ripped jeans and a worn dark blue apron tied around her waist. A light blue t-shirt finished off the petite brunette’s casual look. It was when one looked behind Diana that they saw that made her more then just the average bartender. Large black angel wings sprouted from her shoulders, curving elegantly above her head and tips all the way down at her ankles. But despite of her mammoth feathery appendages Diana did not even get a second look from the patrons of the Ink Pot Pub and bar. Probably because half the patrons were as odd looking as Diana and the other half looked even odder. The Ink Pot was a place where muses hang out. Muses are sprites of inspiration. They lend their vast imaginations to those who need them, usually attaching themselves to one person, but occasionally hopping to others.
In those moments when a person reaches the preverbal mental road block in the middle of a piece of work usually, and can’t get started, it usually mean the muse has stepped out for a refresher. Their other muses would be there though, so they wouldn’t be totally without inspiration. There are muses for every style, mood and genre of writing. As well as muses for art, science, or anything else that needs deep thinking, including homework. The Ink Pot was a writing muse bar and pub.
Diana sighed, remembering when she was nothing more than patron at the Ink Pot. Diana did not become a bartender for finical reasons, since muses do not use or need money. No Diana became a bartender in her spare time because she had too much spare time. For whatever reason, the writer she had attached herself to seemed not need Diana as much as she used to. And getting yourself absolutely pie in the sky rambling drunk got boring, especially when the hangovers made you feel like yesterdays road kill. So, out of boredom, Diana did what every other left-on-the-shelf muse, became a bartender. Well, not all no longer used muses became bartenders, but about ninety percent of them did.
Diana sighed, filling a regular’s glass.
“You know Monty,” Diana began, “ I miss the teenage years. She needed me all the time back when she was a teenager. Angst ridden poetry, angst filled short stories, long drawn out crying sessions running over with angst in full stories. The works! It was like working for a soap opera writer. Not any more though. Bah! I get called in for maybe a paragraph or two in a 20 pager!” Diana finished, nearly slamming the drink in front of Monty.
Monty sighed and took a long pull from his frosty beer. Monty was one of the odder-looking muses. He was a muddy brown gecko with a dark frill from his head to his tail, and duck feet, supposedly from his mother’s side. Before he began, Monty nodded in sympathy.
“I don’t envy you angst muses. I mean you all have to deal with the same crap. First you are needed for a while. All day and night they’re asking for ya. You can barely slip out for a cup of coffee. But unless you are tied to a fan fiction freak, you are dropped the minute the writer turns seventeen! Mind you we silly muses don’t have it much better. I mean, most of us don’t get called out unless the writer is bored, stone, or a sugar high. Monty spoke in a New Yorker accent, heavily punctuated by coughing fits brought on by his excessive smoking. If the poor lizard had to swallow his lungs back in once, he probably had to a hundred times. Monty couldn’t quit smoking if he wanted to. For whatever reason his image was a smoking tie wearing half gecko half duck critter.
As Diana was pouring a glass of red wine for Desdemona, another angst muse dressed in Renaissance clothing, the bar went quiet. Looking up Diana saw her. Now normally, muses didn’t create rivalries, even those with the same writer. But this wasn’t and a normal case, at least not for Diana. Jessie, the name of Diana’s hated foe, started coming around to Diana’s writing around the same time Diana did. They got along all right. Jessie, a fantasy muse, let Diana come in and make some angst-ridden scenes once in awhile. But that changed quickly. Jessie never got pushed away from the writer. In fact the writer started to depend on Jessie more and more. Diana was sure that Jessie had gone behind her back and convinced the writer that she didn’t need Diana anymore. It probably wouldn’t so horrible to be replaced by a fantasy muse if she didn’t look so damned plain. No wing, no horns, nothing! Jessie did not even wear weird clothing like Desdemona and some other muses. Not even her hair, a plain old boring reddish brown, was odd. It drove Diana crazy to know she replaced by a muse who did not even look the part. By the Great Muses Jessie looked more like a writer then a muse!
“ And what are you doing here?” Diana asked icily, giving Jessie the coldest stare she could muster. Jessie just smiled sweetly.
“ How I’m just dropping in for a few drinks and some chicken wings. This place has the best chicken wings!” Jessie bounced over to a corner.
She should have been a bloody well card muse… Diana thought to herself. It was coming along to the Ink Pot’s peak hours, so Diana wasn’t able to keep an eye on Jessie. But she had a sneaking suspicion she should.
After a few hours Diana noticed Jessie had barely moved from her spot.
Not even to get up to use the bathroom. She was about to check her out when the waitress serving Jessie called out, “ Jessie is writing this all down!”
“And that is all I got before they booted my butt out of the place.” Jessie said, leaning against the ‘denim blue’ wall of the bedroom.
“ I mean Christ. Its not like there some rule that states Writers may not know where we go when we are not with them!” The muse sighed shaking her head.
From her desk the writer nodded, his messy brown curls bobbing as she busily wrote.