Muse, Still Working Out, Kenosha, More Devvi

His cigarette trembles, “I didn’t fail you.  Really – I wrote the words.  I told the story.  I did ask you asked!”

She pauses.  She looks at him, a darkness running across her face, “If you wrote them, where did they go?  They don’t just disappear dear.  Where are they?”

“I think,” he gulps, “I think Fear got them.”

Her eyes flash, her disapproval searing into his soul, “Again?  That little twerp.”  She strokes his hair for a minute or two, calming him, soothing him.  Don’t abuse your toys, and if you do, never leave them broken.

The Muse walks into Fear’s domain.  There he sits in front of an Atari 2600 playing games.  Short hair, parted to the side, still manages to look unruly. Unlike The Writer or The Muse, he shifts slightly in appearance from time to time.  He’s no zit faced basement dwelling teenager, but his young age shows.  Sometimes he looks geeky, then mean or downright sadistic, then handsome, then sad, then petrified with fear.  He finally notices her, and sits down the joystick to giver her his attention.  His adams apple bobs slightly.  He knows she holds no control over him, but he is Fear – and as such, he fears her.

“Yeah?”

“Why did you take The Writers work again?”  The Muse looks genuinely perplexed.  She rarely found herself in the same room as Fear.  She couldn’t control him, and he could banish her instantly.

“I dunno.  Just ’cause.”

“Because… please fill in the blank for me here.  Just ’cause,” the world ’cause slurred slightly since such poor speech was alien to her, “doesn’t explain it for me.  Please, explain it.  I want to understand.”

He sighs.  His manner of speaking changes, more abrupt, and shifts form to a meaner appearance.  “Because I’m Fear.  That should be enough to know.  Because those words could have caused Us pain.  It could have caused Him pain.  Whatever her name is might not have understood.  And any more information given to her could be used against Him later.  It’s my job to help avoid that pain.”

She looked at him as sternly as she dared, “And He has requested that we always tell the truth, that we are always open with his…” she paused, looking for a word, “Distraction.  He says she has earned it through her trust in him.”

Fear snorted, “I’m part of his decision making process.  He can say anything He wants, but in the end, I’ve got to be addressed.  I will protect Us at all costs!”

She stepped back, and took a more neutral stance.  “I understand what you are saying.  But He has willed it.  And even I think She deserves it.  We both have a job to do – you protect Us, and I further Us.  Please, what did you do with the words?”

Fear’s appearance became sad.  He reached into darkness, and pulled out a few pages of paper, typewritten, stained with nicotine and splashes of alcohol on them.  “Here.  Take them.  But it’s too late – the moment has passed.  I picked my own words to say – these are now useless.”

The Muse took them, and a wry grin appeared.  “Oh no, it’s never too late.  A moment as passed, but it’s just a moment.  There are other moments.  He will tell the Distraction what He wanted to say.  It might not even be these exact words, but the same ideas will be there,” She turned walking into the darkness, “It’s never too late.”

She appeared in The Writers room, dropping the pages on his wooden desk, and then leaned against the desk.  He looked at her, raising an eyebrow.  “Darling, I’ve got another job for you,” she said in a silky voice.

“You want me to call The Orator,” he said pointing at the old rotary phone, “and have him ready for the words, maybe give him a little extra time to polish his delivery?”

She smiled.  “No, this time we’ll do it a little more directly – Fear has less power on the Internet.”