The Muse
Bookshelves lined every wall of the dorm, except for one. Pictures of a hundred different people hung on that wall. Some were fuzzy and in black and white, some crystal clear images in vibrant colors, but the strangest ones of all were the tiny paintings hidden among the pictures. Every bookshelf was full of journals, some leather, some plastic. Sitting in the corner was a maroon armchair, and on the armchair sat Lynn. She held a blue journal in her pale hand, as she wrote her entry for the day. Her wavy black hair was tied up and her sea green eye glanced about the page.
She finished just as her phone alarm screamed at her to get to class. She shut it off and pushed the blue journal into the empty space on a bookshelf. She muttered to herself as she slipped on her shoes and coat. Rushing out the door she glanced back at the wall of photos with a sad smile. Walking down the halls a plucky blonde girl named Joyce ran and tackled her with a hug.
Lynn pushed her off and they head to class with only the occasional interruption from Joyce. Sitting through the art history lecture Joyce played on her phone, and Lynn fought the urge to correct the professor. But it became too much to handle the obvious mistakes.
“Now we come to the suicide of Vincent Van Gogh.” The professor continued as he wiped the white board clear of his scribbles.
“But he was murdered!” Lynn bursted out her hand flying to cover her mouth.
“I have dedicated my life to art history,” He said, “Everyone in my field agrees that he committed suicide.”
“Yes sir I know that but?” She faltered her common sense screaming at her to stop.
“What makes you think you know more than every historian?” He asked with a smug smile.
“Because she was there!” Joyce jumped in eagerly, only realizing a split second too late what she had said.
Before a single word could be said Lynn bolted from her chair, knowing that this made her a dead woman walking. Joyce came running after her only a moment too late. She ran to her friend’s dorm throwing the door open to an almost empty room. Every bookshelf and picture was gone, but Lynn stood in the center of the room.
“I’m so so sorry. I’m an idiot! I’m sorry.” Joyce babbled tears pouring down her face.
“Can we take a picture together?” Lynn asked ignoring her apology.
“Of course I’m so sorry.” She agreed wiping her tears away.
Lynn pulled out her phone and wrapped her arm around Joyce’s shoulders. They took a picture, both of them with a sad little smile on their faces. The girls hugged and Joyce began to sob again. Lynn pressed her hand against the still image on her phone screen, and a print lifted from the glass. She pressed the photo into Joyce’s hand and whisper a few words in the tongue of the Muses.
“Don’t go.” Joyce pleaded.
“You and I both know my kind isn’t allowed in this world.” She replied wiping away one of Joyce’s tears.
“Then take me with you.” Joyce begged trying to push the photo back into Lynn’s hands.
“I come from a world of sounds and paintings,” she said bitterly, “if you came with me you would become words on a page, nothing more than mere fiction.”
“I know.” Joyce admitted hugging Lynn as tightly as possible.
“Goodbye my friend.” She said and vanished from the room.
“I’m so sorry.” Joyce crumbled to the floor, hugging her knees and rocking back and forth.
Many years passed and Joyce was alone, she poured everything in her into the arts. Thinking of her Muse that she had accidentally betrayed. She painted, wrote, danced, and sung. But it all felt empty inside. Eventually the ban on the Muses was lifted, but by then Joyce was an old woman close to death. On her finale night Lynn appeared by her hospital bed.
“Hello old friend.” Lynn whispered as she took Joyce’s hand.
“You came.” She said struggling to speak.
“I come with one last gift,” Lynn said and they both disappeared into the world of the Muses.
Joyce became a story, bittersweet. But even though her life was hard, it would inspire generations of humans to except their immortal Muses. To embrace the guidance from these ethereal beings.
