The Muses were ice cream for the soul; each one a flavor to tickle the brain with a hint of frost that shocked awareness of your own creativity.
They were my guilty pleasure, though I couldn’t readily identify why they affected me. All I knew was that once done tasting their gift, I could write.
Before I knew of The Underground Palace, I was an unpublished writer living in a dank hole, unable to afford much in the way of warmth. Having spent every dime on my old computer, it provided enough warmth only when it began to overheat.
Now I had a shiny new laptop I paid for with the money from three published novels. Though I still lived in the same dank hole, at least I could afford a decent quilt on those cold February nights.
I shivered. I understood my addiction. I was a junkie. I had no thoughts or ideas. I stared at the blank screen before me, appalled by lack of inspiration.
I had seen my Muse a week ago. It used to be every six months. Once I’d get enough inspiration for a novel. But six months turned to three, and then a little taste every month or so. Lately it was every two weeks.
When I first was published I lived the high life. I went to parties and explored New York’s museums and parks, her glory found with every corner turned. Yet what was once a thriving playground for my senses, now turned to a blank foundation with which to eat and contemplate when I’d visit my Muse.
Standing up, I grabbed my jacket and checked the wallet in my pocket. I had half enough cash for the Underground Palace. I needed inspiration. I’d beg if I had to, though I knew it was crazy.
I grabbed the keys and locked up behind me. I took the elevator down to the dark lobby with its flickering lights. My bones rattled intensely. I felt my brain nearly shake its way out of my nose.
Outside, I realized I didn’t have shoes. The hail and wind bit into my feet but I didn’t have time to go back up. I felt if I didn’t get to her my body would break and fly apart.
I ran as if trying to escape February’s icy claws. I arrived at the bus station and waved down the driver who opened the door to a blast of overly warm, stale air.
Despite the heat, my body still shivered uncontrollably. I sat, my legs bouncing and my teeth chattering. My stomach rolled with hunger but it didn’t matter. I realized then that I hadn’t eaten all day; had lost track of time. I’d been staring at my laptop since that morning. I asked the lady in front of me the time.
“11:48,” she responded. She eyed me up and down and then turned around.
I slammed myself back into my seat. It was almost midnight! There was no way in hell the Underground Palace would be open this late. My heart pounded in my chest, vibrating my ribcage, demanding to be free. My mind swirled as surely as the gusts of wind and ice outside.
I ran my hands through my hair and constantly fidgeted with the buttons on my jacket. I felt my nails digging into my palms, scratching at my legs through my jeans. I looked out the window and could see my own hazardous reflection like a ghost.
I heard whimpering and realized it was me. But I couldn’t stop; couldn’t stop moving or breathing hard or dying inside.
The bus pulled to my stop. I stood on wobbly legs and fled back into the cold. I ran another two blocks on ice before I finally saw the park. A rusted set of stairs led down the side of a grassy hill, what one would assume to be a maintenance door of some kind. I slipped down the stairs and knocked. I knocked again.
No one would be there I knew. I waited. I knocked, hoping and shivering and breathing hard. My pulse tried to push hot blood through my veins.
I felt tears freezing on my cheeks. I banged and screamed and banged some more, until my legs couldn’t hold me and I slid to the ground. I felt the cold freeze the last of my sanity.
The door opened and I looked up. I stared into the face of an elderly woman. She smiled at me. I scrambled to my knees.
“I… only have… half… p-please…”
She helped me stand, her fingers digging into the flesh of my underarms. She was shorter than I. Her hair was too white, her eyes a pale blue with crow’s feet at the corners. When I stood solidly – mostly – she led me inside.
Inside was a good warm. Sandalwood and vanilla assaulted my nose; smells that simultaneously muted my craving and built up my need. I still pled with her as she led me down a long corridor.
It wasn’t until we reached a familiar door that I finally shut my mouth. I reached into my pocket, hastily pulling out my wallet and producing all the cash I had.
She placed her hand on mine and shook her head.
“You have paid enough.” Her smile stretched until it looked uncomfortable. She led me through the door.
Paranoia began to wrap its poisoned barbs around my mind. Who was this woman and why wasn’t she charging me?
“Who is your Muse,” She asked. This too, was strange. I had a file with my preferences.
“Never mind,” she said and took my hand again. “We’ll find her together.” The hallway was long with doors lining each wall. Each door was made of heavy steel with a rusted, 8×8 window. I looked through each one.
Some Muses looked familiar. Each one was suspended by electrical cables, their arms pulled horizontally and their legs tied together and stretched toward the floor. The females had white, nearly sheer cloth wrapped tightly around their chests and hips. The men wore white pants. All their heads were bent, their eyes closed.
In each room sat one chair just out of reach. Attached to it was a collar.
My first time using the collar, there was pain. Electricity shot straight down my spine from the neck and then climbed its way to my brain. It was then that my Muse opened her eyes and saw me. She saw me. I looked for her now.
The woman followed behind me silently. I could choose any flavor, of course. They were all capable of so many things. So many sources of inspiration lay behind those doors. I didn’t want them. I wanted her.
The hall stretched forever to the chagrin of my stiff legs. I began simply glancing through each window without really paying attention. I knew my Muse. I wouldn’t miss her.
Suddenly we reached the end of the hall. I turned around, confused.
“Where is she?” I demanded. The anxiety was back. The shivering intensified.
“You didn’t check that door.” She nodded to the last one.
“I did. It was empty.”
The woman passed me and walked to the door, opening it. She went in and I stood there for a moment.
“Here she is,” she called.
I stood a moment longer, confused, uncertain and aching. Then I took one slow step at a time into the room.
The old woman sat in a chair, her arms and legs attached to electrical cables that extended into the wall. As I watched, blue liquid filled the cables and traveled to her extremities.
Her skin grew dark; the color of milk chocolate with gold undertones. Her eyes were the same light blue and her hair the same shade of snow white. But her face was younger, her skin smoother and I recognized her instantly.
Something in my chest released. I took a step forward but she held up one constrained hand.
“I am required to offer you the chance to turn away.” Even though I’d heard her speak already since arriving, the fact that the voice was coming from a face I’d never heard speak before shocked me.
Her eyes flashed and for a moment I felt heat in them.
“What are you?” I managed.
“We are the Djinn. You call us Muses. We are the gift keepers, the dream givers and the takers of will.” Her eyes never leave mine, never losing their smoldering hatred. I could burn forever in her glare.
She held out her hand and I took it. Then she walked me towards the dangling cables and picked one up. At the end was a needle.
“You want this.” It is a statement, but a sad one. All I could do was nod.
Slowly she stuck the needle into my arm. I sat down on the floor. And I felt it. I felt the words fill me; my imagination soar.
This was home.
Becoming Writer 2016 Anniversary Contest 