Monday, October 1, 2012

The Muse Is Thy Master 3

Click here for part 1 and part 2

Stunned, the young lady grabs the handrail to steady herself as the realization that her ultimate play toy was turned on by similar looking play toys and not by play toys such as herself sank in. Once that realization snagged its talons in her soul and turns her from an overly sexualized society lady to the ugliest girl in the village, the young lady starts to cry. Not tears of sadness but tears of rage.

Rage over a public humiliation. Rage over being played for a fool. Rage for trusting her personal writer to do the right thing. With her rage sufficiently amped, she climbs the handrail and before the painter can intervene, executes a perfect swan dive off the veranda.

The sun playfully bounces off her skin and somehow the young lady briefly finds peace within her troubled spirit. However, being focused on the task at hand, the young lady pulverizes that sliver of peace and everything suddenly turns pitch black. Unable to see either forward or behind, the young lady pulls her arms in and goes into a major power dive.

The writer, happily oblivious to the pain that he's about to experience, is pounding the keyboard at such a furious pace that smoke is pouring out from the monitor and keyboard. Suddenly, his attention is diverted by three very large words that appear on his monitor.


The moment the young man turns around, his world is rocked by a deafening explosion and he's pelted by a plethora of debris. Within seconds the young man is buried up to his neck with organic and inorganic debris and dust.

When the dust finally settles, the young man sees the young lady standing some twenty feet away, breathing heavy with smoke billowing from her head. He tries to stick out his hand but the amount of debris has him snugly and safely entombed. Failing in that endeavor, he says in his chirpiest voice, "My favorite sparkly person! What is going on?"

The young lady doesn't respond right away. Instead, she snaps her fingers and raises her arms. Instantly, and much to the young man's disappointment, the young lady is now dressed in a slightly form fitting casual ensemble of b-ball sneakers, jeans, chain belt, blue flannel shirt and long-john top. She shakes her head for several seconds, then pulls out a scrunchy and puts her long carmel colored hair in a ponytail.

She steps forward and within a couple of minutes, methodically climbs the rather large twenty foot pile of debris until she hits the top and stares down at the young writer. Flashing an evil smile, she sits down and wraps her legs around the young man's head. Normally, the young man would be in heaven with the breathtaking view he was experiencing. However, in this particular instance, the young man simply closes his eyes and mumbles a silent prayer.

When he opens them after finishing his prayer, he finds himself staring into the young lady's belly button. He tries to look up, but an incredible weight keeps his head still. He tries to speak but a strong yet highly fragrant hand covers his mouth, and a voice soon bathes his ears with a few choice words.

"I thought when we'd last spoke," said the young lady as she stretched her arms for a minute. "That we had come to a mutual understanding of what needs you were to fulfill for me. I specifically stated that I wanted to be in something that was more in line with your early stuff, than what you were currently working on."

"But I did," said the young man emphatically.

The young lady clamps her hand over his mouth and says, "No, you didn't. You put me into a fairy tale setting that had the makings of an absolutely over the top unforgettable experience. And when I went to act on those feeling, you made my love interest a hot homosexual painter!"

The young man mumbled for a moment, and the young lady removed her hand. "Did you bother staying for the rest of the story?"

"I didn't need to. I saw what I needed to see," said the young lady defiantly.

"I figured as much," said the young man, who at this point had managed to wiggle a hand free. He sticks a finger in a belt loop and starts to pull on it.

The young lady suddenly finds herself losing her balance and with it, her grip on reality. "What are you doing?!" she yells.

"Trying to put you back into the story."

"Why would you want to do a stupid thing like that?"

"Because there's," answers the young man emphatically, as with a burst of strength, he pulls the young lady into a somersault.

The young lady goes into an unstoppable somersault and seconds later disappears into a small supernova. The young man takes a deep breath and spends the next several minutes plowing his way through the mountain of debris. When he finally breaks through, he walks around the pile and goes into the bedroom. A minute later, he reappears with pen and paper.

Opening the front door, he says, "Trust me on this. I promised you a story that would rock your world and I intend to keep my word. I'm going to the park, which should give you ample enough time to do whatever tantrum you want to throw."

(c) 2012 by G. B. Miller. All rights reserved and enforced