The Storyteller's Muse

by Traci Harding

  Peter was amused by her terminology, but understood well enough. ‘I will certainly do that.’

  ‘I think it is fabulous that you have dragged Penelope into the twenty-first century.’ Fabrizia voiced her view in a playful yet scolding tone. ‘I’ve been advising her to hire someone to do exactly that for ages.’

  ‘I attempted.’ Penelope washed her hands of blame. ‘But they all talk gibberish I can’t understand. Peter is the first person under fifty I’ve been able to understand.’

  Fabrizia served her client a sympathetic smile. ‘In any case, it’s a positive move in the right direction for promoting 4 Kismet Way.’ She looked back to Peter, with a thankful smile.

  ‘She loves the title,’ Penelope informed him in an aside.

  ‘I do,’ the agent freely admitted. ‘I can hardly wait to read the manuscript — or a synopsis at least!’ She raised both brows, expecting someone to start reciting one.

  ‘We’re only up to chapter five,’ Penelope said, encouraging her not to get too excited.

  ‘I can start a bidding war with three chapters.’ Fabrizia grinned confidently.

  ‘But you can’t guarantee completion.’ Penelope raised an eyebrow in challenge and Fabrizia appeared stumped by the implication.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ her agent rallied in all seriousness. ‘I haven’t seen you with this much vitality in years!’

  ‘I’m only being realistic,’ Penelope advised, devoid of emotion. ‘But if it is any consolation, I believe my muse is very determined that this story sees the light of day.’

  ‘You speak as if this book has been brewing for a long time,’ the agent noted.

  The statement amused Penelope. ‘A very long time. Since the beginning, really.’ She raised both brows in emphasis, her gaze lost in space.

  ‘An entire career in the musing!’ Fabrizia saw the sales pitch. ‘Very exciting.’

  ‘Over a million likes,’ Peter updated them both, believing this must have been some kind of promotional meeting. ‘And with your award news, I’m sure we can get you trending in the twitterverse.’

  ‘All the better,’ Fabrizia concluded.

  ‘An old chook like me, trending.’ Penelope had a chuckle at that. ‘Fancy . . . even if it is in a universe for twits.’

  Peter couldn’t contain his amusement this time and laughed out loud, as did Fabrizia, knowing Penelope was being deliberately facetious now.

  ‘Be that as it may, everyone is on the internet these days, and if you ask me, it’s the social media work Peter has done on your behalf that has reminded everyone you’re still alive and that has prompted this sudden recognition,’ Fabrizia asserted. ‘That’s how powerful a tool it is.’

  ‘I don’t care about being famous any more.’ Penelope waved off the lecture, looking from Fabrizia to Peter. ‘And I have no desire to be paraded out in public in this decrepit condition. I much prefer to leave my readers remembering me as I was in the picture you found of me in my heyday.’

  This honour being bestowed on Penelope was the fabric from which Peter’s greatest aspirations were woven. ‘But surely you’re excited —’

  ‘Not really,’ Penelope cut him off, as if having anticipated his view. ‘That is why I would like you to accept the award for me.’ The statement was like a sucker punch to the gut for Peter. ‘What?’

  ‘Now don’t pretend you haven’t dreamt of such an honour,’ Penelope chided.

  ‘Yes, for one of my own books,’ he stipulated.

  ‘Well . . . reality doesn’t always deliver our desires in the form we anticipate,’ Penelope advised, ‘yet we must graciously accept the gift nonetheless. Perhaps the experience is meant to drive you to achieve the same in your own right?’

  ‘But Fabrizia . . .’ Peter felt she should accept it on her client’s behalf.

  ‘I am scheduled to be overseas with another author at that time,’ the agent explained.

  His fear of giving an acceptance speech in front of hundreds of Penelope’s industry peers left him feeling completely overwhelmed.

  ‘We shall write the entire speech for you,’ Penelope included her agent in the equation as she buzzed for her nurse. ‘And I’m sure Nurse Valdez won’t mind accompanying you for some moral support,’ she added as Gabrielle entered.

  ‘Accompany Peter where?’ the nurse queried, wide-eyed with interest.

  ‘To an awards night, held in my client’s honour,’ Fabrizia explained.

  ‘How exciting, Ms Whitman,’ Gabrielle commended her patient. ‘Of course, I would be delighted to represent you.’

  ‘We’ll need to find something appropriate for you both to wear.’ Penelope sweetened the deal. ‘My shout, of course. Actually . . . why don’t the both of you go shopping for the event together?’ the crafty old woman suggested, as if the idea had just come to her, and she hadn’t been plotting to use this event as an excuse to get them dating.

  ‘I couldn’t spend your money, Ms Whitman —’ Gabrielle declined the lovely offer.

  ‘Then spend my money.’ Fabrizia handed over a cash card to Gabrielle. ‘There is a thousand dollars on there and I want to see every cent spent.’

  Peter felt so set up as to be a little annoyed. ‘This is too much.’ What person would say no to a spending spree and an all-expenses-paid VIP night out on the town?

  ‘I know I’m asking a lot, Peter,’ Ms Whitman conceded with a hint of heartfelt appeal in her voice. ‘But it would mean so much if you would do this for me.’

  ‘Of course we will.’ Gabrielle turned back to Peter with a ‘be more considerate’ glare. ‘It would be our honour.’

  ‘I’ll have my secretary arrange a limousine to drop you off and pick you up from the event.’ Fabrizia began collecting her belongings, obviously feeling her mission here was done. ‘I’ll be in touch with the details . . . and we shall work on the speech over the next week.’ The agent approached to kiss her client farewell. ‘Speak soon, my darling.’

  Clearly Peter was outnumbered — he was no match for the will of three determined females, and so he resigned himself to go along with their plans for him. ‘So when is this . . . event?’

  ‘Two weeks,’ Fabrizia advised. ‘So, best get shopping!’

  ‘We certainly shall.’ Gabrielle was oozing excitement, and Peter supposed he should have been delighted also.

  Peter smiled politely, despite feeling bulldozed, and thanked both author and agent for the honour, vowing to execute their request to the very best of his ability.

  THE TRANSCENDENTAL CREATIVE

  There is a place inside the artist

  where time and space eclipse.

  Inspired thought is the pathway there

  and interruption — a swift exit.

  Once discovered, this place is ever sought,

  one exists only to reach it.

  The prize is innovative genius.

  The cost — most of one’s waking life.

  Tyme was so excited to be having her turn in the studio. The visual artist finally had a few uninterrupted days alone to explore her craft, while her daughter was safe and happy at her grandma’s. Her tiny house had now been cleared of clutter and she had a car full of art supplies, works in progress, film, photographic and computer equipment. This haul had to be unpacked before she could do anything, but she was highly motivated, and planned to be creating within the hour.

  No sooner did she have her hands full of gear than the phone in her back pocket rang. ‘Must be Julian,’ she grumbled, setting her load down in front of the elevator door — he always called at the most inopportune times. ‘Julian,’ she answered without checking the screen for confirmation.

  ‘Hey,’ Julian replied, ‘I didn’t interrupt anything, did I?’

  ‘No, I’ve only just arrived at the studio,’ Tyme lied, as she always did, so they could avoid an apology and small talk, to get to the point. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘I’ve bought a new amp —’

  ‘Yes, you can drop it in,�
� Tyme cut in. ‘No, you won’t be disturbing me, provided you don’t.’

  ‘Thanks heaps,’ Julian sounded relieved. ‘I’ll be quiet as a mouse.’

  ‘Later.’ She hung up, stuck the phone in her pocket, and continued hauling her first load into the lift.

  Upstairs, away from the peak hour traffic, the studio was fairly quiet. Tyme shoved a bag in the elevator door to prevent it closing and walked inside to take in the auspicious moment.

  The first things she noticed were the unwashed dishes in the sink of the small kitchenette, which put a bit of a dampener on her mood. ‘Oh Mon . . .’ She gave a quiet sigh, having expected the dancer to be a little more respectful of her fellow artists. She cast a more critical eye over the place to see what other mess might have been left behind for her to dispose of.

  In the furthest left-hand corner of the studio, where Tyme was storing all her gear, she was shocked to find her new canvas on the floor and Monique passed out, naked and covered in chalk, alongside it. ‘What the —?’

  Her initial reaction was rage, but within a breath this was quelled by curiosity. Her sight became fixed on the canvas and she moved closer to view a very sensual work of great beauty. The impression was a little obscured by the excess chalk dust, but Tyme could make out a vague outline of one body looking down upon another, and energy radiating outwards around them in an ombré effect.

  Although she feared losing the amazing imprint, she was compelled to raise the frame to its vertical position. The excess chalk fell away, and the abstract image remained and was perfectly defined. ‘She painted this with her body?’ Tyme felt the precision of the strokes was so purposeful as to render that thought impossible, but the piece was absolutely breathtaking.

  ‘I painted it with dance.’

  Tyme swung around to find Monique raising her upper body off the floor.

  ‘I think,’ she added, sounding a little groggy. ‘I’m so sorry about your canvas; I bumped into it and it fell and tipped one of the buckets of chalk dust over.’ She did not turn to face Tyme or the work.

  Tyme walked around in front of Monique, who was looking over her chalk-coated body in amazement. ‘How did I get —?’ She gasped and looked up to Tyme as if she was disoriented. ‘Are you early?’

  ‘Nope, you’re late.’ Tyme waved that off as a minor concern. ‘You painted that canvas with dance?’ Tyme wanted to be sure she understood correctly.

  ‘I know, I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me.’ Monique raised herself to standing in front of Tyme, unashamed of her nakedness. ‘I’ll pay for a new one, and clean up —’

  ‘You are missing the point entirely.’ Tyme turned her around to view the work. ‘It’s incredible.’

  Monique gasped upon sighting it, for she only remembered experimenting with colour and movement. ‘Oh, mon Dieu!’

  ‘Please tell me you remember how you did this?’ Tyme entreated Monique, who was absolutely speechless as she wandered forward to view the work more closely. ‘It could be both the exhibition I’m looking for and the performance piece you’re hoping to create.’

  Monique laughed and turned back to Tyme. ‘I’m not sure I’m ready to perform naked in public yet.’

  ‘In a unitard then,’ Tyme suggested.

  ‘It won’t work.’ Monique pointed to the body shapes. ‘These lines are so defined because this is where my sweat and the chalk mingles. Material has drag and I doubt it will leave the same beautiful imprint . . . that’s why I got naked.’ She nodded, as if only just realising, and moistening her lips with her tongue, she began blowing chalk out of her mouth and wiping the excess from her face. ‘Yuk!’ Monique hung her head upside down, and threw her hair backwards, whereupon puffs of chalk erupted around her.

  See that? An inner voice queried Tyme, as the moment slipped into slow motion, and Monique appeared like a goddess shrouded by swirling celestial energy — at least that’s exactly how it would look on film, or in a high-speed photograph, or both!

  ‘That’s it!’ Tyme exclaimed, near jumping out of her own skin with excitement. ‘What are you doing today?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Monique shrugged, uninspired. ‘Just heading back to the ’burbs.’

  ‘Then you must stay and be my muse,’ Tyme insisted, and Monique smiled.

  ‘I’ve never been a muse before.’ She grinned, rather liking that idea.

  ‘Think about it,’ Tyme suggested. ‘If you and I collaborate on the same project, we can —’

  ‘Double our studio time!’ they both concluded at once, screaming with excitement, as they served each other high-fives.

  ‘Let’s play!’ Tyme clapped her hands and headed back downstairs to collect the rest of her equipment.

  ‘Wheels! Bloody brilliant!’ Julian was loving this new guitar amp, which he was rolling with ease into the elevator. ‘I’ll be in and out before Tyme even knows I’m there.’ He hit the lift button for the top floor, and the doors closed behind him.

  This warehouse was a sweet arrangement, so he didn’t want to cause any dramas before he’d had the chance to take advantage of it. Only three more days and he could use this amplifier without anyone telling him to turn it down.

  When the lift door opened Julian was hit by a wall of music, reminiscent of a pagan orgy. After pushing his amp to the front door, he knocked a few times, but his knocks were no match to the conga drums of the tribal piece blasting out of the speakers within.

  ‘What the hell kind of music is that anyway?’ Julian dug deep into his jeans pockets for his key. ‘Music for possessed people?’ He fished out the key, inserted it into the lock and let himself in.

  The first glance of what was going on inside the studio sent Julian’s sensibilities into heated conflict and he was shocked to a dead halt.

  Monique and Tyme, completely naked, were rolling around on a canvas covered in colourful dust, and the event was being filmed and photographed simultaneously by Tyme’s computer. His first assumption was that they were shooting porn, which naturally would have delighted him completely, but for the shadowy entity Julian perceived writhing around on the canvas between his two friends.

  ‘What the fuck is going on here?’ he yelled to protest the incomprehensible scene before him.

  Only the shadowy spook reacted — it rose up and vanished, leaving the women as they were.

  Julian ran over to the sound system and shut it off, jolting the women out of their delirium and back into reality.

  ‘What the —?’ Tyme sat up, looking straight to the sound system and Julian. ‘What are you doing? You said you wouldn’t disturb me.’ Then realising she was naked, she crossed her arms over her breasts. ‘Turn around!’ she demanded.

  Realising he was probably ogling, he did as requested. ‘I saw something I can’t explain —’ he began.

  ‘It’s not how it looks,’ Tyme grumbled.

  ‘I saw a ghost!’ Julian spun around to spit out, to find both the colour-stained women tying on robes. ‘Rolling around between you.’ He pointed to the canvas on the floor, as both women stared at him wide-eyed.

  ‘Are you serious?’ Monique queried, seeming somewhat enchanted by the notion.

  ‘No,’ Julian folded his arms, ‘that’s the kind of thing I’m proud to go around shouting from the rooftops . . . of course I’m serious!’

  The women looked to each other stunned. ‘I thought it was you directing my body movements,’ said Monique, and Tyme shook her head.

  ‘I thought you were directing mine.’ She bit her lip, before they both burst into huge smiles.

  ‘How amazing!’ they both declared at once.

  ‘Did you even hear what I just said?’ Julian appealed — it scared the shit out of him — why were they so jovial?

  ‘He’s definitely an artist,’ Tyme appraised.

  ‘Absolutely,’ Monique agreed wholeheartedly, still grinning broadly.

  ‘This is not a pet we’re talking about!’ Julian stressed. ‘Don’t you get it? We’ve been duped into
renting a haunted house!’

  ‘So?’ Tyme clearly wasn’t worried. ‘Lots of houses are haunted, and our ghost is creative —’

  ‘Which is completely wicked!’ Monique did a little happy dance.

  ‘You’re both fucking nuts!’ Julian waved them off. ‘And since when did you start shooting porn up here?’

  ‘It’s not porn!’ Tyme was insulted. ‘It’s a performance piece.’

  ‘Well, I’m definitely coming to your show.’ Julian’s fear and anger fled as he contemplated the notion.

  ‘We are not performing this live.’ Tyme wasn’t sorry to disappoint him. ‘That’s why I’m shooting it.’ She motioned to the camera, and then gasped. ‘I wonder —’ Tyme shut off the equipment that was feeding directly into her computer, which she made haste towards.

  ‘Do you think you might have captured Julian’s ghost?’ Monique followed Tyme to view her monitor.

  ‘It’s not my ghost,’ Julian objected.

  ‘Who would have thought you were clairvoyant?’ Monique eyed Julian over as if the premise made him somewhat more attractive and interesting.

  ‘You never know your luck.’ Tyme began viewing the film.

  Monique, noting Julian had come to stand beside her and was intently observing their efforts, covered his eyes with her hand. ‘We’re going to edit this tastefully.’

  ‘Aw . . .’ Julian complained, ‘the uncut version will make more money.’

  ‘I’m not seeing any ghost,’ Tyme commented, fast-forwarding through the footage.

  ‘It was there,’ Julian insisted, and irked about being so sure about that, he walked away from the viewing session to check the fridge for a beer. ‘Do you seriously think I would’ve interrupted your delightful little romp without an insanely good reason?’

  ‘Wait a second,’ Tyme uttered under her breath.

  ‘Something?’ Julian was stoked to find a couple of Coronas. ‘Thank you, Nat.’ He pulled a bottle from the fridge, kissed it, and after opening it up, he sculled half of it down.

  ‘Do you see?’ Tyme pointed to her monitor and Monique looked closer.