Capturing the Muse

by Madison Avery

  "What the fuck, Molly?" he yelled at her. She stepped back at the loudness, shying away from his angered voice. "What the fuck is all this?"

  "Stories. That's it. Nothing more." She instinctively took another step back.

  "Sure the hell doesn't read like nothing."

  Because they weren't. They were dreams within a dream. They were all the things she still wanted to do with her life. The places she wanted to go. The love she desired. They were her heart and soul, poured out onto the pages. Her blood, sweat, and tears, mixed with what she knew—if only a little—she deserved and what she could’ve gotten out of life, if only she could have been stronger.

  He closed the distance, seizing her arms, gripping them so tightly it hurt. It scared her.

  "Are you having an affair?" he spat in her face.

  "No. I swear, I—"

  Ryan pushed her back, just as he let the ironclad grip he had on her go. She fell fast and hard.

  "I don't fucking believe you!" He knelt to the ground, grabbing at her again. "After all I've done for you. I've taken care of you, and this, this is how you repay me, you slut." He raised his hand as if to strike her. She braced for it.

  The searing white hotness that flared violently over her cheek caused fireworks to shoot behind her eyes. She cried out and scrambled to get away, worried he would hit her again.

  From out of nowhere, Molly screamed. "Atticus!" She yelled it again. But as Ryan looked around the kitchen, unsure if someone would come to Molly's aide, she realized something. Help would never come. Not for her. The one person she cared most about in the world wasn't real. Atticus couldn't save her, just like he couldn't ever really be there for her. He couldn't offer her a life. Not the one she wanted. Tears welled in her eyes. It occurred to her, for the first time, just how imaginary he was. He wasn't real. Not even close. Sure, he may have offered her a life, but at what cost? Her sanity?

  Her muse. The creative spirit inside her soul had become one of her greatest conflicts. She had spent so much of the last few months wrapped up in the need to feel loved, that she found it in the entirely wrong place. Atticus had enabled her. He hadn't let her see life exactly how it was. The lines between reality and fantasy had become so blurred that Molly had lost her way.

  She had wanted to create stories. To not feel alone. But what she really needed was to stand on her own two feet. To understand she could have everything she wanted if she would just simply reach out and take it, knowing for sure she was deserving.

  Ryan and Atticus had power over her only because she allowed it. But not anymore. She had seen someone, a stranger, pay just that bit of extra attention towards her. Which meant she was worthy of affection. It didn't have to come from a drunken boyfriend or an imaginary muse. It could come from anywhere. She just had to open her eyes. That feeling had sparked the ember, causing the flame, but now it was up to her to stoke the fire and let it rage.

  Molly pushed herself from the floor, standing unsteadily. "I deserve better. Better than you," she spoke slowly, clearly, assuredly. She turned and headed out of the kitchen. To her surprise, Ryan let her go. Molly hesitated at the door. She looked back to see Ryan looking confused, but she also saw the collection of her and Atticus on the floor. Instead of caring, she turned and walked away. She didn't need them, either of them, anymore.

  "That's it, that's your choice?"

  Molly didn't bother replying to the voice of Atticus inside her head. He already had his answer, because he had been a part of her.

  Atticus might have shown her love and affection. He allowed her to dream, to create, and as it turned out, to prepare her for the future. He had also showed her how to be strong; what real love should be like when she finally found someone to open her heart to.

  As Molly walked down the street, arms wrapped around herself, having left everything behind, she smiled. She wondered if she had created Atticus based on someone she had seen once, no matter how briefly. And that deep down, maybe she had always known her perfect man, the character in her forever story, was really out there, but she just wasn't ready to see that.

  Until now.

  Filling in the Blanks

  LILAH BURST through the doors, breathless. She was late and thankful when no one seemed to raise their eyes towards her. She might not have been able to handle that; blushing fiercely, tripping over her own feet, and creating even more of a scene. Instead, she was able to work her way through the seated crowd and find an open chair at the back of the auditorium.

  She settled in her seat, pulled out her notebook, and tried catch up with what was being said. By the program she had read earlier, Lilah remembered that this was a panel about genres and subgenres, and the next big thing. A mash-up of conversation, really, because reading was subjective. What one person loved, the next would hate. And judging the market was nearly impossible when it came to which genres sell and which ones didn't. There was no true way to know what would inspire readers and send them to the bookstores. It was always a big gamble.

  "Who are you with?"

  Turning, Lilah settled her eyes on the person beside her. He was young, maybe about sixteen, hair curling over his ears and in his eyes. He pushed it aside and smiled at her. Funny, she’d been sure the seat had been empty just a minute ago. But then, she hadn't been paying that much attention as she quickly plunked down and began to listen, immersed in what the panel of industry professionals had been saying.

  "Me?" she answered back, confused.

  "Yeah, who are you here with?" he repeated as he tapped a pencil on his own pad of paper, a few messy scrawls visible.

  Lilah was still uncertain what he meant. "Myself, I guess. I mean, I'm just taking notes."

  He laughed. "You must have come with someone, or are you a newbie?"

  The statement felt odd as it washed over her. Why couldn't she have come by herself? There was nothing wrong with that, was there?

  "Well, I am. Here. By myself," she said defensively and decided to stand from her seat. She made her way to the end of the makeshift aisle and tiptoed across the worn brown carpet, closer to the front, eyes narrowed on another empty seat. There were two together, and she jumped at the chance to move closer, still intrigued by what the panel was about. The attendees around her, who seemed to be listening, engrossed, still hadn't even bothered to acknowledge her presence as she shoved her way through another aisle stepping on toes, kicking over a purse, and nearly falling into an open lap.

  When she had made it to her new seat, she adjusted her top, smoothed down her pants and sat with a sigh of relief. She uncapped her pen, poised to take notes.

  "Werewolves have been played out. No one's buying them," one of the panelists said. But another was quick to toss out, "True. Publishers aren't. But readers still are."

  "And dystopian, if you haven't already written one, sold it and it's in the queue to get published, it ain't worth a damn anymore," another one said.

  Lilah wrote down what had been said and adjusted in her seat, leaning forward slightly, just to make sure that she heard everything clearly.

  "Mermaids are just breaking the market, now, but again, don't bother writing one. You have to remember, that what is coming out tomorrow was written years earlier. You're actually trying to figure out what readers want four years from now, and not what they want to read in a week."

  That made sense to Lilah and she scribbled feverishly.

  "But there are some things that never grow tiresome."

  "Like vampires?" Someone from the audience shouted out.

  "As long as they don't sparkle," the panelist, a man, with brown hair and glasses said with a grin. He looked very studious, more so than the others, and Lilah had wondered who he was. "Like I said, Vampires are still attracting readers, but I think there is a fine line that can't be crossed. There can only be one sparkly vampire, human girl, and an unhealthy relationship, out there."

  "Horror always sells. It never gets old. There are always new and interesting ways to kill
people and readers are drawn to that. Suspense and thrillers, too."

  This got the audience to laugh. At the mention of horror, Lilah got a sickening rumble in her tummy. She wrote the word down, only to cross it out, as she noticed she'd done with some of the other genre's and sub-genre's, and basically anything else they'd talked about. She was starting to wonder why she was there. None of it sounded as appealing as she'd hoped.

  "I'm with her."

  Lilah jumped with a yelp, her body becoming rigid. She craned her head to the left, looking over her shoulder, towards the voice that had caressed the back of her neck, sending the tiny hairs to raise up. It gave her a chill.

  His hand was still pointed forward, towards the panelist on the far right. She was older, mid-fifties, maybe, glasses and graying hair. She wore a simple black top and a pink cable knit sweater over it. Very old fashioned.

  "What?" she said, annoyed.

  "I'm with her. She's brilliant. I've given her tons of ideas about her latest work."

  "That's great. Good for you. But if you don't mind..." She left the end of the sentence hanging in the air between them as she turned back around.

  "The name's Eric, and you know, I think you're in the wrong place." Eric leaned far forward, resting his arms on the back of the empty chair beside her. He steepled his fingers as he continued, "You look more like some guy’s wet dream. I think you've got your genre already figured out."

  Did he just say that? To her? Out loud? Self-consciously she looked around, expecting to see angry faces from the disruption. When it appeared no one had heard, Lilah exhaled, and said, "Excuse me?" She shook her head, thinking perhaps it would have been better to just ignore him.

  "No, I meant it as a compliment. Sorry. I'm a teenage guy. I see boobs and ass before anything else," he said as though that was a perfectly reasonable explanation.

  "Yeah, thanks. Look, I really want to hear this. It's important."

  Eric seemed to get the picture and leaned back in his chair, folding his arms over his chest. Lilah sighed, and looked down at herself. Was she some guy’s wet dream, as he had put it? Maybe, a little, she thought, not remembering getting dressed in the morning, or if that had been what she was trying for. Her top might have been a little low cut, dipping between her breasts, hugging her curves. The jeans were tight, and though the heels on her feet caused an ache, she liked the way they looked.

  As if the panel had heard Eric's comment, one of them said, "Sex sells. It always has. Boundaries are continually being pushed, and these days, you can get away with anything." When had they jumped to that? she wondered, letting out a huff, having missed the last few minutes.

  The pen in Lilah’s hand began to write. Sex. It gave her the opposite feeling of when they had talked about horror, for sure. This gave her a tickle that spread through her insides.

  "See? Some guy’s wet dream. I'm more of a hardy boy meets... well, I don't remember what, but I've heard her say it a few times before."

  Instead of giving Eric the satisfaction of a response, she simply pressed her lips together and shushed him. But she had lost focus, heat radiating inside her. She wiggled in her chair but couldn't seem to make the tantalizing sensation go away.

  "Like I said. You're in the wrong place. They're talking about romance in the next room. Maybe that'll spark something more." He flashed her a lopsided grin.

  She'd had enough. She turned all the way around in her chair and yelled, "Shut up!"

  He laughed at her. Lilah flushed with embarrassment and frustration, chin quivering.

  "Okay, okay." He raised his hands like a white flag. "But you're here for a reason. Gaining perspective, perhaps. But just wait. The people around here get kinda crazy. This is my third time, and if you haven't found someone to be with yet, you will."

  Whatever he was blabbing on about only infuriated Lilah further. She threw up her arms in protest and stood from her chair. "Thanks. For ruining this for me."

  "Anytime, babe."

  His cocky grin needed to be slapped off his face, Lilah thought, as she gathered up her paper, pen and her purse. She was halfway down the aisle when he called out to her, "Romance is in the room on the left. It's a riot. All nipples and wet folds."

  "God, grow up!" She clamped her hand over her mouth. Please, please, no one say anything to me, she thought, as she made it to the end of the aisle and sprinted, as best she could in her heels, towards the door.

  "Trust me, I wish I could!"

  * * *

  The door slammed shut behind her, and she pressed her back against it, breathing heavily. When she felt composed, she pulled out the program from her purse. She flipped through the pages, trying to figure out what to attend next. Most of the panels were an hour long, so she had plenty of time still, to slip into the back of another one.

  Nothing of interest jumped out at her, not really. She scanned the titles, read the descriptions and finally settled on one about character-building.

  Lilah walked through the hotel, passed by the stairs and headed for the elevator. Impatiently, she waited, and when the doors opened she was nearly toppled over as a girl rushed out, slamming her shoulder into Lilah. She wobbled unsteadily, but was able to keep herself upright.

  Rude! The girl hadn't even bothered to stop and apologize. She shook off the encounter and slipped through the closing elevator doors just in time to ride it up.

  On the second floor, she read the nameplates on the doors until she found the one she wanted. This time, she slowly turned the knob until she felt it release and gently pulled it open, just wide enough for herself to get through.

  This was a much smaller room than the other, and many of the seats were empty. She had her pick, but still chose to slip in and sit at the back. She settled into the plush paisley, pulled out her pen and paper, and again, tried to figure out what was being talked about.

  "You need to know who you're writing about. Who your character is. Think about them in terms of a person, a friend, and create a life for them. Give them more than just basic demographics. Think deeper, create a past, if you want."

  That seemed like a smart idea. Lilah knew people weren't flat. They had a history. Not just birthdays. So she wrote that down on her page.

  "You're really pretty. Do you have one?"

  Lilah looked up from her notes to find a girl looking towards her. She smiled warmly and waved her hand. She had red hair, green eyes, and freckles on her cheeks. She had almost expected it to be Eric, but was thankful it wasn't. Lilah returned the friendly gesture with a smile of her own. This stranger had a pleasant face, and she doubted she'd have strange outbursts in the middle of the panel.

  "Have one what?"

  "A birthday. Sorry," she pointed towards the notebook cradled in Lilah’s lap, "I shouldn't have been spying on you like that."

  Lilah laughed and waved her hand. "It's okay. And yeah, of course I do. Who doesn't?" she said, not meaning for it to come out the way it did. Sounding absurd. But as the stranger frowned, she felt guilty.

  "What it is? I don't know mine. That's why I'm here. Sort of trying to hash out all my details. I'm Cassandra, by the way."

  It was a peculiar thing to say, but Lilah didn’t give it much thought, not quite being able to figure out what she had meant by it. Cassandra looked a little jittery like she'd had one too many cups of coffee that morning. But when Lilah went to reply, opening her mouth, she couldn't remember what was supposed to come out. It was on the tip of her tongue, she swore, and yet, no matter how much she tried, she couldn’t form the words.

  "It's okay. You don't have to tell me. I'd guess late twenties or early thirties. It's always hard to tell that about someone. Probably the most difficult thing to come up with. You know, male or female, age, hair color, and eye color. You need all that before you can come up with the rest."

  Having just been tongued-tied, it took Lilah a second or two before she found her words again. "Yeah, that's true. That's what actually starts the development process." Bu
t couldn't figure out why that shivered her with an unnerving feeling. She'd met some strange people so far, but then, eccentric did often come with the territory. She made a few more notes on her pad, letting her hand take over, and writing out whatever it wanted to.

  "See, there you go." The stranger smiled.

  When Lilah looked down at the blue writing, she had written a few things about herself. Or at least, she thought they were about herself. As she read the words back, it became clearer in her mind. She was twenty-nine. That felt right. Born in late January, on the 22nd. She could still tell people she was in her twenties. It made her feel younger, somehow. But then, suddenly, she looked down at her low cut top, skinny jeans and heels, thinking that might not be the best outfit to be running around in. She'd have to remember to change it later.

  "Yeah, thanks. It's hard stuff."

  "Just wait till you have to decide the other details. I mean, are you single, married, in a committed relationship? What's your plot going to be about, what do you do for a living, where do you live?"

  Thinking about it, Lilah came up empty. Even stranger, she thought, as she closed her eyes, to realize she couldn't quite remember who she was. It had been there a second ago, hadn't it?

  "Don't listen to her."

  Another voice joined the conversation, as Lilah began to feel a little dizzy and lightheaded. When she opened her eyes again, another friendly face was turned towards her.

  "You don't have to know all that right away. There's always the delete button. Nothing's concrete. Nothing in this life is permanent, not until your story is bound in a book if you're lucky enough to get that far."

  Cassandra was quick to add, "You're thinking too hard. It's not going to all fall into place at once." Then she added, with concern, "Maybe put your head down between your legs. Might make that nasty case of uncertainty go away."

  Doing as she'd been told, Lilah stuck her head down, letting her forehead rest on her thighs. Her long brown hair touched the floor and tickled the tops of her feet. Inhaling a few deep breaths helped calm her further.