I had hopes for this one, I really did…

But alas, the literary elites didn’t see my genius.

Here’s “A Musing”.


A Musing



“Get up, it’s time to do your thing.”

     “No. Where were you yesterday? or for the last month for that matter?”

     “I had things to do, people to see.”

     “Put the cigarette out; you know I hate smoke.” I can feel a sneeze working its way out. Got that annoying vice closing on my nose and sinuses. Just keep your face in this pillow, don’t make eye contact.

     “Get up.”

     “You can’t just leave whenever you please, then barge in unannounced. Start flinging orders. I’ve got needs. And if you’re not around I just might move on, find someone nicer.”

     There’s the gentle crackle of her cigarette, followed by the release of blue dream-stuff through her lips. That’s all the concern she can show. “I know. You prefer mornings. Every morning if you can get it. I’m here now, so do your worst, or best.”

     My left eye escapes the pillow’s hide. Man, those legs are great. I hate that. Really. A man should have a choice in the matter. I tell you it’s highway-rapery if you ask me. Just stretch that long, slim appendage out in front of me and I’m a groveling idiot. Just make me feel like a man. Give me something to say. Give me a reason for waking up.

     Not this time. I ain’t falling for it. “Go away. Who knows who you’ve been with in the last month. What? Things didn’t work out with Mr. High Society. You should have known, Honey. He may have money, a nice car, nice clothes, but the problem is, he had a nice childhood too. And that took his sorrow away. And Sweetie, you’re nothin’ without a man who’s sad.”

     She moves in for the kill now. Starts rubbing my back. Moves to my shoulders. Kisses the back of my neck. Her perfume is a dark intoxicant concocted by the alchemists of a dark god. I turn over on my back.

     “That’s a good boy. I can see you’re ready.”

     Why’d she have to wear her red sundress? The one that I bought her. The one that shows what a great ass she has? And her hair, of course it’s up in the back so I can see her neck, a neck like a porcelain lightning bolt striking into that crimson neckline.

     “Go away. Now,” I say.

     Shadows seem to gather from the corners of the room, converging on her face.

     “Damn you! You have to do what I say. I’m your muse! And you’re a—a wounded soul…a tragic poet.” She twirls into the center of the room, spinning and dipping. Her head and hips move in slow ellipses. I expect to hear an Arabian number begin to play. The prance ends with a sudden jutting of her leg and toe, lean thigh exposed and her hand mysteriously lifting her dress against her leg, just enough so that I wonder if she’s wearing underwear. “And besides, Darling,” she bites her lower lip and walks heal to toe toward my bed. “You know I can make you do it whenever I want. It’s just better for me when you want it too.” Thin fingers, bristling with purple nails, trace my jaw line. “You wouldn’t want me to play some nasty little joke on you, would you? Like, oh maybe, making you think you can pull off a piece as good as Hemingway. So simple. So terse and lean. Anyone can do it, right?”

     I sit up and lean back against two arms. “You wouldn’t dare.”

     “Hmm. No. Even better. Let’s make a post-modern nitwit out of you. Joyce maybe. Or Pynchon. You’ll be all smarmy while everyone laughs. Because you’re not Joyce or Pynchon—you’re you!”

     Her lashing fingers describe her serious intent.

     “Okay, alright. You win. Again.” I throw my covers back. “Be right back.”

     Parting an ocean of three-month-old condiments, I reach into the back of my refrigerator and gather up a can of cheap beer. I walk back into the bedroom, where she’s now sitting on the edge of my bed, legs folded. Her eyebrow arches and a corner of her mouth curves up. It’s time to do my thing, I guess. I crack the can, throw it down my neck, and find my comfortable chair beside my desk. An austere, almost-bare desk with a laptop, a thesaurus and a stack of sci-fi novels: Zelazny, Dick, Bester, Heinlein.

     “What do you think, Hon?” I pat my lap. “Come on and have a seat. You know these guys, right? Just a little help’s all I need.”

     She glides to me, and sits, one arm around my neck. She begins to nibble on my ear. “Sure, Handsome, I’ve done ‘em all.”



4 Responses to “I had hopes for this one, I really did…”

  1. 1 How You Doin Blondie
    April 15, 2008 at 6:45 pm

    Oooo Doug! It’s like having sex in a library 😉

  2. April 15, 2008 at 7:32 pm

    My Muse has lost her libido of late. All she wants to do is read…

  3. 3 How You Doin Blondie
    April 15, 2008 at 7:38 pm

    Maybe she’s just playing it cautious right now, you know what heartbreaker’s rebel authors can be.

  4. April 16, 2008 at 2:30 am

    Suzie the Muse. That could work.


    I love this story. Suzie, show your love by helping get this published! How can so many lame 2 pagers get published, but not this?

    Can’t you just pretend to be gay just long enough to get this published?

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