《Lilly's Shorts》


 Musings.

    Scene 1. Lilly ''Gets My Goat''!


    So, I turn to my capricious muse,


    ¡°Lilly, come over here and help me with this.¡±


    Lilly looks up from her TV movie, munching popcorn,


    ¡°What is ¡®this¡¯ that you are working on? Baa?¡±


    I hold up a pile of blue scribbles on a yellow ruled pad.


    ¡°It¡¯s my new book, Lilly¡¯s Shorts.¡±


    Lilly broadly smiles.


    ¡°Another book? About me? Baa?¡±


    I nod.


    ¡°Yes. It¡¯s an anthology. It''s all the story ¡®bits¡¯ that didn¡¯t ¡®fit¡¯ in the other novels.


    Stolen novel; please report.As your ''bits'' didn¡¯t ¡®fit¡¯ in your ¡®shorts¡¯ from last summer, this summer.¡±


    Lilly scowls at me.


    ¡°Don¡¯t be rude! Or I won¡¯t help you.


    Those shorts were my favorite  old and worn out Capri pants.


    The seam was <u>already</u> split. Baa.¡±


    I ignore Lilly¡¯s scowl.


    ¡°This book will be a collection of short stories and funny vignettes.


    I¡¯m doing the dust jacket and book cover artwork for it now.¡±


    Lilly face brightens into a smile as she thinks.


    ¡°A book needs a ¡®sexy¡¯ cover showing a ¡®cute lady¡¯ to ¡®sell¡¯.¡±


    Lilly stretches up, smiles, bats her long eyelashes and suggestively poses, while dropping articles of clothing.


    ¡°So, <u>I¡¯m</u> going to be on the cover, au naturel. Right? Baa?¡±


    I ignore Lilly''s display as I look down at the pile of papers on the desk.


    I am depressed as I reflect on all the writing and transcription work ahead of me.


    ¡°A misleading book cover image is too easy, and too obvious.


    So, I thought I would go with a ¡®geometric design¡¯,


    And sell the book on its ¡®quality content¡¯.¡±


    Lilly immediately laughs out loud at my statement.


    ¡°''Quality content''? From you?


    Baa. Haw. Haw. Haw.¡±


    I scowl at Lilly''s statement of the cruel truth.


    ¡°Who¡¯s being rude now.


    Okay, I get it, Lilly, put your clothes back on.


    Since I can¡¯t get a ¡®cute lady¡¯, we¡¯ll go with <u>your</u> image. Clothed.¡±


    Lilly gives me'' the raspberry'', with her large pink tongue projected towards me.


    ¡°Baa.¡±


    Lilly shuts off the TV and rises from the couch.


    ¡°Okay, I''ll help you. I know you can¡¯t do anything without me.¡±

 The Fall of 2018 - Part 1, Autumn.

    Q: ¡°So, how did you start your ¡®creative writing¡¯?¡±


    A: ¡°I ¡®fell¡¯ into it.¡±


    Scene 1. Cable TV


    I liked Cable TV, when it became widely available in the mid-1960s. I first watched Cable TV programs on a service that was provided to me ¡®free¡¯ by the landlord at the apartment I was renting at the time. He even provided the TV and the Cable TV tuner-box.


    But, as with most things that I like, Cable TV has become an ever decreasing good-deal. My favorite channels and programs were moved into the ¡®premium subscription only¡¯ tiers. Cable TV was originally sold as commercial-free television. However, Cable TV service providers began to insert commercials into the Cable TV programming, claiming that running commercials would keep subscription costs down and provide for more programs. As the percentage of the program schedule time dedicated to commercials increases, more time is cut from the programs.


    The subscription fees also increased, adding mandatory fees for the inclusion of local broadcast TV channels and sports programming, thus becoming the most expensive household utility, more than all the other utilities combined.


    So as the half-gallon ice-cream tubs shrank over time, the cost-value of Cable TV also shrank. A ''Cable Box'', only available for rental from the service provider, is now required for access to the new ¡®digital-only¡¯ service. A special adapter is required for each TV in the house, to access the ¡®free¡¯ cable programming. These adapters must be provided by the Cable TV service and can only be rented for a monthly fee. ¡®Premium service¡¯ cable boxes, to record programs and provide wide-screen, high-definition TV service are also available, at a price.


    All of this aside for their lousy customer service, with their take-it-or-leave it attitude.


    Scene 2. Cancellation


    In January 2017, I find myself standing by my mailbox. I open an envelope marked ¡®Legal Notice, Please Read¡¯, in large font. It is a letter from my Cable TV service provider informing me of a substantial subscription fee increase, to be imposed automatically next month.


    I laugh as I read the notice cheerfully boasting, in bright color lettering, of the new cable channels they will be offering. Of course, the new channels are only offered on premium cable service subscription, none will be included in my current subscription tier. They do offer the premium service free for the first month. Of course, I would have to call and cancel the premium service or be billed for it from then on.


    The new channel line up also moves many of my present subscription tier channels up into the premium tiers. The letter goes on to boast that these mandatory changes are to improve the quality of their service and the viewer¡¯s experience. I shout to the street.


    ¡°I don¡¯t think so, guys. Thank you for making this decision easy.¡±


    I immediately called my Cable TV service provider to cancel my contract. The Cable TV service provider¡¯s phone troll takes my call and attempts to keep my subscription.


    ¡°Sorry sir that you are canceling your service with us. May I offer you a deal?¡±


    I am adamant.


    ¡°No deal. I wish to terminate my service effective immediately.¡±


    The troll proceeds with a threat.


    ¡°Sir, you will be charged a service cancellation fee. You will also be charged for the cable box and associated hardware. To avoid the hardware charges, you must return the items personally to our service center, by ¡®appointment only¡¯.¡±


    I was furious and did not schedule an appointment.


    ¡°I will be over.¡±


    I immediately drove over to their strip mall service-center and stood in line for ¡®only¡¯ an hour.


    Why waste a bad mood? I say.


    Eventually, I am called. I set the cable box and remote control down on the service counter. A large male customer service troll gathers my old Cable TV hardware and trundles it to a back room, no doubt to issue it to someone else.


    The troll returns to the counter, surprised that I am still there. He grumps at me.


    ¡°Would you please stand aside and let the next person up?¡±


    I stare right back at him.


    ¡°Where is my receipt?¡±


    The troll continues.


    ¡°You will get a receipt in your final service bill.¡±


    I fold my arms and stand my ground.


    ¡°No. I would like a receipt now, please. If there is a problem, let me speak to the manager.¡±


    The troll gives me a grimaced smile.


    ¡°I am the manager, and we don¡¯t give out receipts, so would you please move out of the way¡­¡±?


    ¡°Yes, you do, and I am not leaving here without one. I am not having your company sending me a bill charging me hundreds of dollars for all this old, obsolete crap. I have paid you pirates enough. Please don¡¯t make me call the police. You know as well as I that you are required by law to give me a receipt for returned hardware.¡±


    The troll slams his fist on a pad, drags it and scribbles something on it, with a


    ¡°Grump, Grump, Grump.¡±


    He scribbles the device names and serial numbers on the pad and violently tears a page off, wads it up, and throws it at me. I pick the wadded receipt up from the floor, read it to see if it is complete, not moving from my place at the counter. The troll walks out from behind the counter.


    Is this troll going to slug me?


    He starts talking to the person in line behind. He continues to aggressively stare at me, but I avoid eye contact. I walk out of the service center, now crowded with people holding cable boxes, no doubt to cancel.


    The Cable TV business model must be pass¨¦.


    Vowing to never do business with that company again, never receiving any subsequent communications until,


    Scene 3. Solicitors


    January 2017, when two cheerful young men materialize at my front door. They are both wearing shirts displaying the logo of my erstwhile Cable TV service provider. I open the inner door, and we regard each other through the metal bars of my security door.


    I am happy to give them my opinion of their employer, but I know they will not relay my message, as my opinion is not essential to anyone at that company. All Cable TV service providers regard their service as ¡®essential¡¯, take it or leave it!


    I am glad that I have my Internet access through a Digital Subscriber Line (DSL).


    I listened to the boys¡¯ sales pitch, featuring the usual a first-year bait-and-switch subscription rate, with a subsequent three-year commitment at a much higher rate. They cannot tell me what my subsequent higher rate would be. Saying only.


    ¡°It depends.¡±


    I related my prior experience with their company, and they both nodded their heads, as if they were listening and agreed with me.


    They are pulling out subscription forms as I shout to them a final ¡°NO¡± and firmly close the front door in their smiling faces.


    Through the door, I hear one say to the other.


    ¡°He¡¯ll be sorry¡­¡±


    Scene 4. OTA-TV


    A modern digital Over-The-Air Television (OTA-TV) receiver system works much like the 1950s analog television receiver systems. An antenna is mounted as high up as possible, usually on the roof of the house, for best reception. The TV channel selector is projected on the screen. The old channels, such as 2, 4, 5, etc. still exist, but these channels may host sub-channels 2-2, 2-3, 2-4, each with separate, typically unrelated, programming schedules. The modern OTA-TV ¡®digital¡¯ format allows for many more channels, so periodic re-scanning is necessary to add them to the channel selector TV display. The old analog TV video small screen aspect ratio of 4:3 with a video definition of 480i, has been augmented by the new wide screen size ratio of 16:9 and high definition video formats of 1080p or greater.


    In March 2017, I decided to set up an OTA-TV system to augment my Internet streaming services. Free ¡®electromagnetic¡¯ station broadcasting was the only home TV service available in the middle of the last century. Broadcast TV has become obscure, with the rise of Cable TV and Internet streaming services.


    I called my ¡®construction friend¡¯ who installed a metal pipe antenna mast with a large VHF-UHF TV antenna, ran the cable to the Cable TV distribution box in my attic, providing service throughout my house.


    All went well for a few months. I received hundreds of stations, in many languages, from several transmission sources. But, with time, the received signal quality declines. We used interior-grade cable, and the sun baked off the insulation, leaving the bare wires. In addition, the wind draped the TV cable over the garage floodlight.


    One beautiful Fall morning, I am standing in my driveway, waiting for my sister, as we are going out to breakfast, then shopping. I looked up to see the deteriorating antenna cable dangling down, teasing me.


    I can fix this! It will only take a minute!


    Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.


    I retrieved the extension ladder from the garage and leaned it against the garage roof. I deliberately placed the ladder legs far out from the wall to avoid crushing the rain gutters.


    Too far out.


    I climbed the ladder and onto the house roof, quickly and successfully completed the task of running the new cable.


    Stepping on the third rung of the ladder, preparing to descend to the driveway.


    Scene 5. Splat


    I stepped onto the top rung of the extension ladder, feeling satisfied with my accomplishment. The extension ladder leg footings suddenly slipped out away from the wall on the slick concrete. Trapped, standing upright on the top rung of the ladder, I plummeted feet first, watching the hard concrete driveway as it rose to smite me.


    There was a sudden burst of painful red and a loud bang as the ladder struck the driveway pavement. I collapsed over the fallen ladder. All is quiet.


    I tried to stand and cannot. My left foot, still attached to my ankle, was lying at a grotesque angle, to one side of my leg. Staring at my leg, confused, I did not immediately realize what had happened.


    Did I break my leg? Why isn¡¯t there more pain?


    Fortunately, I had my trusty old ''flip-phone'' on my belt.


    I called my sister who, on answering, thinking I was calling because she was running late, says to me.


    ¡°I¡¯m coming! Don¡¯t give up on me!¡±


    (I miss my old LG flip-phone. It was subsequently removed from service by my wireless telephone service provider. My new smart-phone ''replacement'' would not have survived my Fall.)


    ¡°I think we may need to take a detour to the county hospital emergency room before breakfast. Oh, and be careful pulling into the driveway. Don¡¯t run over me.¡±


    ¡°What did you do?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ll see¡­¡±


    My sister arrives at my house and carefully pulls next to me lying in the driveway. She tries to drag me into her van, but I am too heavy and I cannot help. I am stuck in the driveway.


    ¡°I had better call The Truck.¡±


    I called ¡®911¡¯ on my flip phone. The county sheriff¡¯s emergency receptionist answered.


    ¡°County emergency services. What is your emergency?¡±


    ¡°I have fallen, and I can¡¯t get up.¡±


    ¡°The Truck is in-route.¡±


    Scene 6. ER


    A few minutes after my call to ¡®911¡¯, I heard approaching sirens blaring, to alert all the neighbors to come out and look at the old man, who was lying dead in the driveway. A large red fire truck and an ambulance then arrived from nearby County Fire Station 21. Several large ''fire-dogs'' emerged from the fire truck and examined me and my foot. They don¡¯t ask about the incident, as the torn-down rain gutters and the collapsed ladder piled in the driveway told the story. They gently lifted me onto a stretcher and loaded the stretcher into the ambulance. The ambulance then backed out of the driveway and headed to the County Hospital a few miles away, with my sister following in her van.


    We arrived at the County Hospital Emergency Room entrance area. I was then taken out and carried to the ER waiting area on the stretcher. After waiting in the ER entrance hallway for some fraction of an hour, I was wheeled into the ER ward and two polite but large bovine orderlies gently lifted me into a bed. This ER ward room had ten mostly occupied beds separated by draw curtains.


    An ER doctor entered my curtained area after a short time. She is young and slight, like a mouse in a white coat. She bent down and peered into my face through her wire-frame, nineteenth-century style glasses, precariously perched on the bridge of her narrow nose, with the wire earpieces framing the high-cheekbones of her thin bony face over prominent incisor teeth. The large round lenses of her glasses comically magnified her bulging eyes into saucers. Her face was alive with expression, darting black pupils, wrinkling pink nose, and curling pink lips.


    How do glasses even stay on that nose of hers? Tape? Glue?


    The doctor examined me thoroughly, but she caught me staring at her odd face movements. She turned her head to face me and grinned into my stare, she asked,


    ¡°What happened to you?¡±


    I gave her a summary version of The Fall.


    The ER doctor then moved quickly to the end of my bed and stared at my left foot. Without any warning or permission, she grabbed my limp left foot with both hands. Presuming that my foot issue was a simple joint dislocation, she attempted to set my foot back into the shattered ankle socket by violently pushing, pulling and twisting my foot with all of her strength.


    I was startled by the doctor¡¯s sudden actions. Although her actions were probably painful, I didn¡¯t react, but laid limp, oblivious to my pain while being jerked back and forth. I was fixated on the bouncing ER doctor and her succession of facial expressions with her physical effort.


    Meanwhile, my poor sister witnessed the doctor¡¯s possibly destructive activities, panicked, jumped up from her chair, reached out over my bed, guarding me from the doctor, protested.


    ¡°Stop it. You are hurting my brother. Get away!¡±


    As the ER doctor retreated out of the booth curtain and away from my angry sister, I was sad to see the cute doctor go, waving to her.


    ¡°I am hungry, I didn¡¯t get breakfast.¡±


    The doctor nodded and waved back with her odd smile. The doctor returned, handed me a sandwich with a wink, and turned to walk out. I asked her.


    ¡°Doctor, how would you like to adopt and old weasel? Free to a good home. Housebroken (usually).¡±


    ¡°I already have one.¡±


    As she left, she waved back to me again, laughing.


    My sister sat down, still grumbling about the doctor¡¯s treatment of me. I stared at the ceiling and the curtains.


    The curtains suddenly move aside, revealing a large bear of a man, a sharp contrast to my small female ER doctor. Smiling as he walked up to the side of my bed. I presumed him to be the resident orthopedic doctor, standing tall and wide, blocking out most of the room light. He spoke in a low melodious voice, with a friendly, but toothy grin.


    ¡°Hello and welcome, I am doctor ''Smokely''. What happened to you?¡±


    I am not used to seeing giant monsters up close, even if they do appear friendly. He peered down at me, the victim, lying in the ER bed on my back like a dead slug. He appeared to me to be a large brown bear: massive, handsome, reassuring and strong. I also notice that inside his white coat he is wearing a smartly tailored suit.


    Where did that big bear find such a good tailor?


    The orthopedic doctor reached for my foot, wiggling his large paw ¡®fore-toes¡¯.


    ¡°Let¡¯s have ¡®a look¡¯ at that stubborn ol¡¯ foot!¡±


    I don¡¯t think he is planning just ¡®a look¡¯ with those large sausages.


    The doctor firmly grasped my left foot and began to rotate it in the broken ankle socket. I screamed in pain.


    He stopped rotating my foot and smiled.


    ¡°Am I hurting you? Do you need a painkiller?¡±


    ¡°I have trouble with painkillers, they make me sick, and I hallucinate.¡±


    His efforts at resetting my left foot proved no more effective than the ER doctor¡¯s attempts. However, his attempts were much more painful, as he was much stronger. He finally stopped with my sister¡¯s screaming.


    Egad! What a ¡®grip¡¯ he has!


    The ER staff had had enough of my screaming. An orderly pulled up a gurney and drug me into it. I am wheeled into a near-by storage room. Nothing more can be done for me in the ER, they were busy and needed the bed.


    Alone in the stark white storage room, my sister stared at me as we waited for the doctors¡¯ decision on my fate.


    Scene 7. Writer''s Block


    The county hospital is located adjacent to a busy and poorly marked, multi-interstate, freeway interchange. The hospital gets a lot of ¡®ground meat¡¯ business from those freeways, so emergencies from the road above are usually the highest priority for the orthopedic (and other) surgeons.


    So, I wait most of the day in the storage room for the surgeons to finish their high-priority cases. Toward the end of the day, I am wheeled into a surgery suite, laid out onto a surgery table, strapped down and immobilized. A nurse stabs my arm with a hypodermic needle with a plastic tube connected to a hanging intravenous drip. The surgical process begins with the anesthesiologist asking me to count backward from ¡®one hundred¡¯. I do not remember saying ¡®one hundred¡¯.


    My eyes focus on the ceiling of a different hospital room. I look down at my bare legs and see that my left foot, ankle, and part of my lower leg are encased in a massive white plaster block, the same shape, mass, texture, and color of a standard concrete wall block. The block has eight thin, bright silver, metal rods sticking out at odd angles.


    I presume that these long rods go all the way through the flesh and into the ankle bones, to immobilize everything until the reconstruction surgery.


    As I am meditating on the events of the day, staring at my new Block on the end of my left leg. I hear a soft knocking sound at the open door frame. I responded to the polite knock.


    ¡°Please come in, the door is open to all.¡±


    Four large, hunched, male figures in suits, slowly enter the room and face my gurney. I presume they are hospital administration staff pronouncing my ¡®disposition¡¯. They are all wearing solemn frowns and dower facial expressions, suggestive of Asian and European dragons.


    Uh oh. It looks like bad news.


    The center entity, presumably their boss, speaks.


    ¡°We must wait several days to a week or more, before reconstruction surgery, for the swelling to subside. Furthermore, we are not sure when we will have surgeons and the surgery suite available, so we are sending you home to wait. We will call you to set an appointment for the surgical reconstruction.¡±


    I was mortified and protested.


    ¡°I can''t go home like this!¡±


    My sister added.


    ¡°My brother lives alone. No one can care for him at home in this condition. We will have to send him to an assisted ¡®medical care¡¯ facility.¡±


    The orthopedic surgeon that I first met in the ER was outside the room listening to the administration¡¯s conversation. He enters the room and speaks.


    ¡°I don¡¯t think we should wait. His severe fracture should be set promptly, or it may not set at all, especially at his age.¡±


    He must be responsible for my care, he has my age working to my advantage.


    The hospital administrators grumble to each other about whether to let me stay in the hospital until the reconstruction surgery that the lead surgeon says is a priority. The oldest entity turns away from the scowling, grumbling group and walks over to the side of my bed. He turns and faces  me through his rimless square framed glasses.


    With that thin mustache, short beard, high cheekbones and large nostrils, he does look like a dragon.


    ¡°The hospital is short of ward rooms. Because of the new hospital construction, more ward rooms were torn down that have been replaced. This is another reason we wanted to send you home. If you stay, you will be moved to a ward room of the old hospital wing that is still standing, where we are sending our patient ''overflow'', at least until the new hospital ward wing construction is completed.¡±


    ¡°Services and staff are limited in that building, especially at night and on the weekends. Telephone and TV service have been discontinued, room heat is limited. The room will likely be cold and isolated.¡±


    Before I can reply, the old dragon stares up at the ceiling, pausing before revealing something else to me. He speaks again.


    ¡°That old ward wing is scheduled to be demolished soon. It is all that remains of the original County Hospital that was built even before my time. This old building is ''settling'', and we have had comments and even complaints about sounds claimed to be heard in that building, especially at night. You must agree not to complain about the isolation, services, or any sounds you may hear, day or night.¡±


    Facing the monster and his Draconian terms for me to stay, I forced a smile up at his clinched teeth, having no choice but to nod in agreement and capitulation.


    ¡°Yes, I promise to be good.¡± I lied.


    And what is with that weird warning?


    End of Chapter 1. Fall of 2018

 The Fall of 2018 - Part 2, Voices.

    ¡°I ain¡¯t afraid of no ghost!¡±


    Scene 1. Isolation


    All institutional buildings worldwide, occupied for several decades or more, such as schools, hospitals, asylums, and military barracks are haunted. Thus, living long-term ¡®guests¡¯ of those institutions often get the pleasure of ¡®ghostly visits¡¯. Most people that receive a ¡®ghost experience¡¯ do not discuss their experiences in polite company, fearing the ¡®rubber room¡¯, perhaps already confined to one.


    I was wheeled from the ER area over to a sad-looking partially demolished building that was visibly torn from the now demolished old central hospital building. From the building¡¯s external state, it is difficult to believe that it can serve any purpose, even long-term non-critical care for ¡®patient overflow¡¯.


    Hopefully, they won''t finish demolishing this building until after I have been discharged.


    As I waited for my ankle reconstruction surgery, I meditated on my conviction for the crime of being stupid and my sentence to solitary confinement.`


    My hospital ¡®overflow¡¯ ward room was large enough for two beds, but I was always alone. The room was completely white, with gloss white painted walls and ceiling with white floor tile. It was always very clean, smelling strongly of hospital disinfectant. A hospital television was mounted to a turret arm projecting from the far wall and a black hospital telephone was on a stand next to the bed, both of which I assumed to be non-functional. A curtain was hung on a wall, but there was no window behind it.


    There was some relief to my isolation. During the week-days, my sister visited with her therapy dog, Amelia. Amelia was already known to the hospital staff, as she had visited the hospital several times before my accident for the hospital staff''s ¡®health care provider therapy¡¯. She brought me my old and new cell phones, but neither worked through the effective electromagnetic shielding of the old building¡¯s thick concrete walls, so no telephone, no Internet.


    My ¡®construction friend¡¯ visited periodically to cheer me up, insisting that I call for his help for projects involving ladders or that are up on the roof. He took pictures of me and my ankle block with its projecting rods and delivered my Amazon books, rescued from my front porch before the packages could be collected by the neighborhood ¡®porch pirates¡¯.


    The entire hall seemed to host only me. I heard no sounds from the other rooms. The nurse¡¯s station is at the far end of the long hall, abandoned on the weekends. My solitude is occasionally interrupted by visits from the night nurses, who check to see if I was still breathing.


    The dim illumination, from far down the hallway, was my only light at night.


    My room had only wisps of air circulation and no heat;


    My night confinement was: Cold; Dark; Silent.


    I was alone most of the time, but more aware of it at night.


    At first, I was afraid to be alone. As a child, I was afraid of the dark.


    Having little else to do, I reflected on my situation:


    The TV received only static;


    The hospital telephone was dead;


    It was too dark to read print;


    My cell-telephone had books, articles, or music, and wireless reception was blocked.


    I was experiencing sensory deprivation for the first time in living memory.


    Am I a target for ¡®spiritual entities¡¯?


    Do I hear their ¡®voices¡¯?


    Scene 2. Voices


    The old administrator was right about the sounds the old building made at night, creaking and groaning, protesting its impending doom by the wrecking-ball. The building¡¯s noises were as incoherent as the noises of the wind, but the building kept me company from the silence of the night.


    However, one night, I was awakened by a new sound, a muffled scratching at the edge of perception.


    Is this sound coming from inside the walls? Does this ¡®old wing¡¯ have rats?


    I was awakened by this sound every few nights, growing progressively louder. Eventually, the sounds began to condense into vocal speech, incoherent as muffled speech heard through a wall from a neighboring apartment.


    Do I now have neighbors? Talking in the other rooms?


    I stuffed tissues into my ears as ear plugs to muffle The Voices. I felt creepy as I realized that the indistinct speech I heard was not through my ears, and I had no way to block or even diminish this sensation.


    I grew used to the building sounds and The Voices, and was able to ignore them to sleep at night and read during the day. However, one night I was awakened by The Voices in intelligible soft clear speech. The speech was as if someone were sitting in my room softly and slowly reading out loud from a book. I see no one in the darkness of my room. I asked The Voice.


    ¡°Is someone here?¡± ¡°Who are you?¡±


    The Voice did not reply or stop its narration. The Voice continued without interruption, as a voice on a tape-recorder¡¯s playback. I finally relaxed, laying back, listening to what The Voice was saying. Intrigued I started to follow The Voice¡¯s story narration, momentarily startled as I listened I witnessed images in my mind, illustrating the story.


    The Voice did not come every night, but on those nights, I would be awakened from sleep by The Voice, always from sleep. When one Voice finished a story, a different sounding Voice began another story. The stories were about everything in all genres, some stories may have been records of actual events while other stories were obvious fiction.


    In the morning, I was aware that all of these perceived ¡®extrasensory phenomena¡¯ from the night before could be explained as simple ¡®dreaming¡¯.


    But what dreams! I love The Voices¡¯ stories and unlike most of my normal dreams, I could recall The Voices¡¯ narratives and images for a while longer.


    I asked my sister to bring me yellow ruled writing pads and a couple of blue Bic pens.


    I started my media project by drawing pictures and storyboards, thinking that I could make an animated movie. But I quickly realized that I really had to start with a complete, written story, regardless of the destination medium. So, I began scribbling text, something I could still do in the near total darkness of my ward room. I created dozens of pages of rambling, stream-of-consciousness fiction stories.


    This sudden interest in fiction writing was strange for me, as I have not read a fiction novel for thirty years.


    And I have never written fiction.


    Scene 3. Nightjar


    The total bed confinement, the spooky night sounds, and The Block on my foot, make sleeping uneasy and difficult. So, instead of sleeping, I used the ''dark time'' to listen to The Voices and write down their stories. When the night nurses came to check on me, I heard the clicking of their shoes on the hallway tile, hiding my writing materials under my bedsheets to avoid a scolding.


    I was used to the daily stream of young people, visiting me during their educational rounds through the hospital. I agreed, when admitted, to providing anything I could for education or research, as I believe in it, especially for medicine. The students find me off in the old building. They came in groups or individually to ask survey questions or just to talk to me. The students were young, cute, enthusiastic, cheerful, and smart. They were of every race, nationality, and persuasion that this planet has to offer. I looked forward to their visits and their interest in me. I saw the attraction of the Munchhausen Syndrome.


    But the students did not come around to the old building on the weekends. The weekend nights were calm and quiet, ideal for concentration and writing. I was surprised when I heard a knock on my door at nearly midnight.


    ¡°Tap, tap, tap.¡±


    I heard a woman¡¯s low voice.


    ¡°Are you awake? May I come in? I have some survey questions for you.¡±


    ¡°Yes, I am awake, please come in.¡±


    While I was stuffing my tablet and pen under my sheets, in to my room walked a tall black lady, as a silhouette against the dim hallway night light. I motioned to the visitor¡¯s chair next to my bed.


    ¡°Please, come in and have a seat. I am sorry that I cannot stand to greet you.¡±


    I apologized with a chuckle, pointing at The Block over my left ankle and foot. The Lady smiles, making me aware of her large white teeth.


    ¡°I am glad that you will talk to me and help me with my survey.¡±


    She regally and gracefully sat down on the simple folding chair next to my bed. My visitor is a tall, thin black woman in a fashionable black business suit as I consider.


    She isn¡¯t a student or a nurse, she appears to be older. OMG, she is a queen!


    As I was effectively immobilized in the bed by The Block on my left foot, I tried to face The Lady the best I could, and take in her ambiance. I noticed that The Lady was attractive, with large, expressive eyes. Her pupils were dilated by the darkness, with her narrow white sclera highlighted by her dark complexion.


    The Lady had shiny, curly black hair piled up on her head, banded with a gold ribbon, as a headdress or a crown. Long strands of The Lady¡¯s curly hair flowed from her ¡®headdress¡¯, down the back of her neck across her back, a mane of black feathers. The Lady continuously displayed an engaging white smile, below the slight hook of her nose. The Lady continued.


    ¡°Good evening sir, my name is Lynnette. I am doing a survey for the hospital Marketing Department. I would like to ask you a few questions, if I may?¡±


    She doesn¡¯t just look regal, she looks like something from another world.


    I nodded. ¡°Sure, what have you got?¡±


    As I continued to stare at this unique looking woman, I reflected.


    I am not surprised that she is in sales and marketing, with her voice and her looks.


    Lynnette¡¯s questions were the typical ones I have answered before for others, so I am practiced.


    ¡°What happened to you, why are you here?¡±


    I recited to her my short version of The Fall.


    She asked about my hospital experience.


    ¡°How do you find the food, is it good enough with no salt?¡±


    ¡°The hospital food is good, better than what I make for myself. I only hate the decaff coffee, it is pretty good for decaff, I just hate decaff.¡±


    ¡°How are the hospital doctor¡¯s, nurses and staff treating you?¡±


    ¡°I like them all. I have been a patient in this hospital before, I am impressed by how nice they all are.¡±


    Gradually, her questions moved to relaxed and casual conversation, about popular culture, music, movies, current events and family.


    I was unconsciously being drawn in by her slow and careful diction in her calm low voice. Her hypnotizing voice was easy for me to follow, even with my deteriorating hearing.


    But mostly I remembered laughing with her over conversation subjects. She was a natural at comic narrative delivery.


    If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.I also remembered that she had an unusual, high-pitched laugh, which she tried to suppress by covering her beak with her wing.


    ¡°Key, key, key.¡±


    As the cry of a small nocturnal hawk, a ¡®nightjar¡¯.


    I couldn¡¯t help thinking.


    Why is this talented beauty wasting so much of her time on me? But I ¡®dig¡¯ the attention¡­


    With our noise and laughter, considering the hour, convenient that there are no neighbors and the nurse¡¯s station is vacant at night.


    The night faded, and I don¡¯t remember how our meeting ended, Lynnette leaving my room, or anything else from that night.


    I bolted up in bed. It was the morning and the hall lights were fully on. My yellow pad was still under the sheet and my blue pen was poking me in the butt. I quickly retrieved and secured my writing gear under the bedsheet at the appearance of the morning nurse.


    ¡°How are you this morning?¡±


    I coughed in response, but I asked.


    ¡°Who was that student from the hospital Marketing Department that came by my room late last night for a ¡®survey¡¯?¡±


    The nurse looked up at me, confused.


    ¡°Last night? No one is allowed into the ward rooms after 7 pm. Does the County Hospital even have a ¡®Marketing Department¡¯?¡±


    I grinned as the nurse laughed at my statement.


    ¡°What would you like for breakfast?¡±


    I weakly smiled and jested.


    ¡°Ghost Toasties.¡±


    I watched the morning housekeeper sweep up what appeared to be black feathers from the floor.


    Scene 4. Reconstruction


    After a few days (and nights) waiting in the old ward room, I was collected by an orderly and my gurney was wheeled from my room in the old ward wing to the new hospital. My gurney was parked at the door of the orthopedic surgical suite, where I waited for my surgeons to finish with the ''emergency'' cases. Eventually, I was wheeled in for the reassembly of the bones of my lower left leg, ankle, and foot. The start of the procedure was the same, I was to count backward from 100, getting about as far as I did last time.


    I didn¡¯t remember being returned to my room. I did remember that my ¡®construction friend¡¯ was waiting for me there.


    ¡°You lost The Block. Where is The Block?¡±


    Although I was conscious, I was out-of-it from the fentanyl surgical anesthesia. I raised my head and looked toward my feet. I noticed that The Block was gone and my left foot and ankle were wrapped in thick layers of bandages. I exclaimed to my friend.


    ¡°The Block, they took The Block away. Wait, what are you doing in THIS nightmare. This is MY nightmare!¡±


    I lost focus of the room, becoming patterns of abstract lines and tumbling geometric shapes. I tried to describe these visions to my friend in streams of incoherent nonsense.


    So, I had a witness. My ¡®construction friend¡¯ was watching me closely as I freely conversed with the spirits in the room and also those spirits in the next dimension over, spirits only I could see and hear. I regretted that I couldn''t write anything down. Only by the next day had my shaking declined enough for me to hold a pen, although my penmanship was much worse than usual.


    That night after the reconstruction surgery, I experienced a terrible, fitful night, feeling painful demon pitchfork stabs, over my whole body, withdrawal symptoms from the fentanyl anesthesia. My body was hot, feeling ever-increasing pain from my left leg, ankle, and foot.


    Wow, I didn¡¯t feel much pain before, but now I¡¯m feeling a lot of pain. What did those doctors do to me?


    A cheerful morning nurse stuck her head into my ward room doorway and saw me lying on my back with eyes open, gritting my teeth and staring at the ceiling,


    ¡°Are You awake? Is it okay if the doctors see you now?¡±


    I grunted, ¡°Ugh!¡±


    Which the nurse took as a ¡®yes¡¯.


    Six large males in white coats filed into my room.


    Presumably these are The Doctors, the orthopedic surgeons, that reassembled ¡®Humpty Dumpty¡¯. All the king¡¯s horses and all the king¡¯s men have been replaced by a half dozen giants!


    Even though there was only my bed in the large ward room, these large entities filled all the space, too large even to stand next to each other around my bed. These athletic, broad-shouldered men, were suggestive of the mythical Minotaur, with only the light reflected from the white ceiling visible between their (horned) heads. The team was widely grinning their friendly bovine smiles with all of their large white teeth displayed. I took heart in their smiles.


    At the end of my bed was a large bear of a man that I presumed to be the lead surgeon on my case. After some rustling noises from the other figures for space in the room, he spoke to me.


    ¡°How are you today?¡±


    I lied, ¡°I am fine, how did my surgery go?¡±


    The bear feigned a worried look,


    ¡°Well, you were in a lot of little ¡®pieces¡¯. You had what we call a ¡®post¡¯ fracture. Here, take a look.¡±


    The lead surgeon pulled up a display-screen to my bed, took a page of dark plastic film out of his folio and placed it on the screen, an x-ray view of my leg before the reconstruction operation, with all the shattered bones.


    ¡°This is what we started with.¡±


    The lead surgeon replaced the page with another film, an x-ray view of my leg after the reconstruction operation. The shattered bones were replaced by metal: screws; a plate; several rods. I exclaimed on seeing this x-ray.


    ¡°Wow! I have a ¡®hardware store¡¯ in my leg!¡±


    The lead surgeon softly chuckled, always smiling,


    ¡°Yes, you do. We used everything on you.¡±


    I leaned back, resigned,


    ¡°I guess that this means I will be confined to a wheelchair for a while. Can you say how long?¡±


    ¡°That, we will have to see. It depends very much on you, and your healing. But we will start with three months with no pressure on that foot.¡±


    I groaned, ¡°Three months, and maybe more?¡±


    The lead surgeon assumed a serious stare, directly at me.


    ¡°Like I said, much depends on you, no weight on your left leg and foot, don¡¯t fall, do your rehabilitation exercises and eat proper foods.¡±


    He turned with the rest of the herd, they clomped out of my room, single-file, ducking down and turning sideways to fit their tall broad bodies through the room¡¯s narrow hallway door. I reflected.


    They are off to ¡®reassemble¡¯ another ¡®unfortunate¡¯, no doubt.


    Scene 5. Psych-Ward


    After the reconstruction surgery, I was moved to an ¡®in-patient recovery¡¯ ward. Once again, because of the construction, another medical building near the hospital had been re-purposed for these accommodations:


    The Psychiatric Hospital;


    The Psych-Ward.


    My visitors told me about large automatic inner and outer airlock type doors, no doubt to allow checking to make sure the correct entities are being let in, or let out.


    I believe there are psychiatric patients somewhere in this wing, perhaps on another floor, but I do not see or hear them.


    My Psych-Ward ''surgery recovery'' room was newer and more cheerfully decorated than my old, and soon to be demolished, ward room, and both the telephone and the television were operational. The room even had a real window facing a courtyard. Once again, I was alone in the room. My room was located at the far end of an activity room, a single room at the end of a hall. I was unused to the quiet at night, without the building noises, hearing only the whirring of the air circulation system fans.


    I thought that The Voices would leave me alone now that I had been moved from the old hospital ward wing. However, The Voices from the hospital were quickly joined by The Voices resident in the Psych-Ward. All The Voices were invigorated, inspired, strident, and impossible to ignore. The Voices argued with each other and shouted at me. Each of The Voices was anxious to have their stories told.


    Please be patient, I will write as fast as I can. I¡¯ll get to you all¡­


    I wrote and wrote, on yellow tablets in scribbles of blue ink.


    Although the nights were chaotic with writing, the days were restful and the hospital¡¯s Physical Therapy program was enjoyable. The technicians are very polite and knowledgeable. They had to take more time with me as I lived alone.


    With these folks'' help, I get the feeling that I just might recover from all of this.


    I only protested when they took me outside to get some sun. Once I realized where they were taking me, I waved my arms,


    ¡°Help, help, I am a vampire and cannot tolerate direct sunlight!¡±


    After a week of institutionalized physical therapy, and scribbling bundles of yellow sheets with a blue pen, I was released to ¡®home care¡¯ (confinement).


    As I rode home in my sister¡¯s van, I felt the cold evening wind of the late Fall, soon to be Winter. My sister had had enough of her brother and his self-inflicted suffering. So, I was briskly ¡®dumped off¡¯ at home and my sister promptly left town.


    Suddenly, I was alone. Stunned by the transition, I sat motionless, in the center of my living room, in my wheelchair. I decided to press random buttons on my entertainment system¡¯s remote control.


    Maybe some sounds will distract me and improve my mood.


    As I listened to familiar YouTube music and meditated on the weirdness of the events of the last several weeks, the electrical power to my house was suddenly shut off. I plunged into darkness.


    (I later learn that this unannounced power cutoff was the power company''s response to the California wildfires in late 2018.)


    As I peered out into the darkness of my living room, I considered.


    The power company is helping me too! Eliminating distractions that might come from: telephones; entertainment centers; computers; the Internet.


    I screamed out, to the ¡®no one¡¯ that might be listening.


    ¡°Even my cell phones are nonfunctional, I am disconnected from everything and everyone, this is a gift!¡±


    I was used to writing in the dark. I picked up the pad and pen my sister left on my end table and resumed the blue-scribbling of the stories dictated by The Voices.


    I reflected.


    The ¡®ghostwriters¡¯ must have followed me home.


    Scene 6. After-Life


    Trapped at home in the wheelchair and denied most physical activities, I read books and watched TV. But mostly I wrote, as I found writing to be the best distraction from focusing on my physical limitations.


    Eventually, after the required minimum of three months in wheelchair confinement, my doctors decided I had healed enough to release me to walk, so I returned to my more-or-less normal life, walking with a very cool cane, courtesy of my physical therapist. My writing diminished, as I resumed other life activities with my entertainment center, computers and Internet, but I never stopped writing, The Voices wouldn''t let me.


    My sister was dropping off groceries at my house one day and saw an untidy heap of blue scribbled yellow tablet pages sliding off my desk and on to the floor of my office, many pages had already reached the floor.


    ¡°What is that?¡±


    She asked, grimacing at her brother''s office mess and pointing to the untidy, sliding pile. I cheerfully smiled back.


    ¡°It¡¯s my ¡®book¡¯.¡±


    My sister glared at me.


    ¡°Okay, and what are you going to DO with your ¡®book¡¯?¡±


    Sheepishly, I smiled.


    ¡°Well, I don¡¯t know, I have nothing planned.¡±


    My sister stated with arm akimbo.


    ¡°You know, when you die, we are just going to throw your ¡®book¡¯ into the trash.¡±


    For drama, she made a throwing motion with her arm, towards my office trash can, then paused and meditated for a moment as she regarded my pile of pages.


    ¡°I have a friend who is a ¡®writer¡¯. She gets her stories printed into books and published by Amazon. Have you looked for resources or publishers on the Internet?¡±


    A few days later, I sit in my chair reflecting.


    I have to thank my big sister for shopping for me every week. And she does have a good suggestion about me seeking Internet writer resources and on-line publishing.


    Then I looked over at my sliding yellow pile of pages with blue scribbles.


    Well, I might as well look into posting ¡®my pile¡¯ somewhere on-line. It is either that or my sister¡¯s ¡®disposal¡¯ method.


    And so, in reaction to my sister¡¯s threats and suggestions, I searched for, and found, an on-line publisher with many positive ratings.


    And furthermore, I read on this on-line publisher¡¯s website that they are hosting a fiction writing ¡®challenge¡¯:


    To write and post 55,555 words of original fiction, in one month.


    I rocked back in my office chair and laughed.


    ¡°Why that¡¯s easy!¡±


    I cheated, of course, having already written over a hundred pages, with outlines for many more, during and after my hospitalization from:


    The Fall of 2018.


    The transcription was a pain, though.


    Scene 7. Post-Script


    My wheelchair and my cool cane were long gone. I was up on my feet again walking slowly, but thanks to physical therapy, good enough.


    After my freedom in 2019, confinement had returned for me, and many others, throughout 2020 and beyond. This time because of the COVID-19 virus and my primary risk factor: ¡®old¡¯.


    I continued to write, meeting the on-line publisher¡¯s challenge. Of the seven hundred and fifty writers who started the challenge, I and about two-hundred and fifty others, completed the challenge successfully.


    I sat back in my office chair from writing this chapter and reflected, as I had no shortage of new material. Even as, or perhaps because of, I was sinking into senile insanity.


    My ¡®work¡¯ may all be nonsense, but I am accomplishing my goal of learning to write fiction.


    So, my secret sources, take a bow and ¡®thank you¡¯:


    The Voices.


    End of Chapter 2. The Fall of 2018 ¨C Part 2, Voices.

 Muse - Part 1, Encounter.

    ¡°May I help you?¡±


    Scene 1. Home


    After my surgery, recovery and a bit of physical therapy, the hospital administration finally kicked me out, even though I told them that I wanted to stay longer as it is a great place to write.


    After my sister dumped me back at home, I did everything from a wheelchair for three months, much of that time in the dark. I continue writing stories in my dark house, as I did in the dark hospital ward rooms. I continue to use the narratives from my invisible friends, The Voices that came out of the walls at the hospital and may be with me for the rest of my life.


    Eventually, my friends and family became aware of my new interest in writing stories, helping by referring me to established authors to critique my writing and recommend references. These author friends provide many useful criticisms and comments, recommending books that I might find helpful. Their book lists include classic and contemporary story collections, as well as grammar and punctuation style guides.


    I am able to resume driving after a few months of home physical therapy. I don¡¯t go far, just out to visit the local retail stores in my neighborhood, in 2019 before COVID-19. Thanks to my critics, I now have an extensive list of reference books. So one clear sunny California winter day, as I am driving over to my local Barnes & Noble book store, I thought,


    These popular class textbooks are likely to be found at this store with its broad inventory.


    Scene 2. Barnes & Noble


    I drive in to the mall parking lot, parking out a way from the store to avoid ¡®door damage¡¯. Entering the store, I walked over to the rows of classic literature, seeking the books on my list and finding, George Saunders¡¯, A Swim in a Pond in The Rain. While examining the book, I see a pair of erect black rabbit ears, bobbing up and down over the top of the shelf of books on the other side of the aisle. The view of the owner is otherwise blocked by the aisle bookshelf.


    What the hell is that?


    I look up from the Saunders book I am holding and stare, as the owner of the ¡®rabbit ears¡¯ walks around the end of the bookshelf into my aisle. She is a young, petite black woman, walking toward me with her head turned, scanning the books on shelves along the side of the aisle.


    Is she going to collide with me? I needed to move out of her way, but the aisle is not wide enough to move aside. I¡¯ll have to back out of the isle or say something to her.


    Staring at the woman, I see that she has her curly black hair tied up into two vertical black buns on the top of her head.


    Her hair buns do look like black rabbit ears. Have I noticed her before? Has she been following me?


    The young woman is cradling a thin large-format book in her arms across her modest chest, appearing to be a children¡¯s picture storybook, on the cover is a distinctive fairy-tail castle illustration, a painting.


    She must be a grammar school teacher or maybe a children¡¯s book author. She appears to be very young, perhaps a student.


    The shape of her head is vaguely non-human, with eye sockets facing out to the sides of her skull, suggestive of the side-facing eyes of a prey animal, such as a rabbit. The projecting hemisphere of her right eye is large for the size of her head, filled with her light violet iris with a jet black horizontal bar for a pupil in the center.


    She has the eyes of a sheep, her odd eyes are drawing me to her.


    Her head is still turned to the book rack as she stops walking forward. Not turning her head, her right eye moves to stare directly at me, magnified by the lenses of her glasses. Her peculiar wire-frame glasses rest high up on the bridge of her nose, customized to accommodate her wall-eyes.


    As her large violet right eye is carefully regarding me, her lip curls up slightly as she smiles. Then she suddenly winks with her large violet right eye, flashing her long black eyelashes.


    At me? Oh no, I¡¯ve been ¡®spotted¡¯, she has caught me staring at her.


    Surprised by her wink, I stepped back. She stands, still facing the shelf only a few paces from me.


    She knows that she caught me.


    Turning her right eye back towards the books on the bookshelf, never turning her head. I am fixated, continuing to stare at the strikingly unusual features of her sideways standing profile, even after I have been ¡®busted¡¯.


    Her face is either dark brown or jet color, with a smooth and glistening texture, such as with short fine black fur, lying flat, and shiny, reflecting the bright light from the overhead lights in the bookstore.


    Her fluffy curly black hair is piled high on her head, crowned with a golden band. She has numerous long beaded black braids streaming down the back of her neck to the center of her back. Her curly black hair flows down the side of her head, hiding her ears. She has high, slightly projecting cheekbones. Her eyes are shadowed by a deep wide skull brow with thick black eyebrows that project out to the sides of her long narrow face.


    She has a thin petite figure and is wearing semiformal business office attire: a light solid violet skirt; matching long sleeved shirt; light yellow jacket; yellow boots with tall spike high-heels; and yellow gloves. Her violet dress color matches the color of her iris. Although I am embarrassed at my behavior, I cannot look away.


    I really am becoming a creepy old stalker.


    The woman paws at the books on the shelf with two fingers of her yellow glove. She draws her lips back from her long jaws into a closed-lip smile. Her mouth and lips are also long for her head, extending back beneath and behind her high cheekbones.


    She lets me stare a bit longer, then standing up straight and away from the shelves, turning, staring at me with her black-barred pupils that have moved forward to each side of the bridge of her long broad nose. I gaze at the wire-frames of her spectacles, customized for the unusual shape of her face.


    This young lady has a supernatural, alien presence that extends out into the universe far beyond her petite stature.


    As she stands motionless staring at me, I feel her narrowing eyes as if they are shooting lasers beams at me, burning holes in my soul, frozen as a mouse stared down by a cobra. I begin to feel dizzy, as if I will faint if I do not move. I close my eyes in an attempt to regain my composure. Upon opening my eyes, I see that she is still staring at me. I begin to panic.


    Is she about to scream for help? Am I about to lose consciousness and collapse in front of her?


    Scene 3. Hello


    I am relieved when her face relaxes into a smile, but she is still holding her grip on me with her unblinking stare. She breaks her stare with a nod of her head, a communication in an ambiguous body language. She then speaks to me with perfect diction in a slow deep voice, lilting with an unidentifiable foreign accent.


    ¡°What are you looking at, sir? Bah. I mean, what book are you looking for, sir? Are you an author? You look like an actor, playing the part of an author. Bah. Haw, haw. Oops, sorry.¡±


    Do I really appear to be a ratty-looking author actor? Did also I hear short ¡®bleats¡¯ in her phrases?


    Now that she has spoken, I am even more fascinated by her. As she is facing me, I notice that her black upper lip and philtrum are slightly drawn up, splitting slightly, revealing her large white upper-incisor teeth. I cannot help thinking,


    She resembles a black sheep with that little rise at the front of her upper lip, especially when she smiles.


    As strange as these features appear, I feel that something more is ¡®off¡¯ about her. Something that I cannot quite pinpoint. She doesn¡¯t seem real, appearing as an anthropomorphic rabbit or sheep character, perhaps one I saw in an old Walt Disney cartoon as a kid. As I stare into her seemingly friendly smile over her imposing and hostile body language, I progress from feeling dizzy to feeling cold. I shake with a case of the ¡®willies¡¯, I have goosebumps on the back of my neck.


    I feel as if someone walked over my grave.


    Looking down, I close my eyes and shake my head to clear it, embarrassed for staring at her for so long. I try to smile back to her, mumbling unintelligible nonsense apologies.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, I don¡¯t get out much. You caught my eye with the book you were carrying. I love the cover drawing. And yes, I did find a book, this one was recommended to me.¡±


    I held out the Saunders book for her to see. She stares at the book I am holding for a what seems like a long moment. She nods.


    ¡°I have read that one, for a class. That¡¯s a good review of the short-story medium using examples from classic Russian authors'' minor works. I also like the classic Russian authors.¡±


    Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.


    Her smile fades, raising her gaze up at the ceiling, trying to remember something from a long-lost world, then speaking slowly, wistfully, she recalls a romantic past.


    ¡°Ah yes, Chekhov, I liked Chekhov. He was a very nice man, very humorous and intelligent.¡±


    She stops and turns to me, her eyes are wide as if she has accidentally revealed a deep secret, then closing her eyes, shaking her head muttering,


    ¡°I mean, his writings, bah. I mean that his writings convey much thought and humor, bah.¡±


    Her eerie comment, punctuated with bleating sounds, freaks me out once again.


    She spoke as if she knew ¡®Anton¡¯ personally.


    Her unsettling looks and weird comments are getting to me. I have to get away from her before I collapse. I grunt again,


    ¡°I have to go now. Nice to talk to you. Thank you for your comments.¡±


    She is still staring at me as I nod and turn from her and stride out of the isle and over to the store¡¯s check-out counter. I feel the winter cold upon me, even on this warm winter day. I panic as I fumble, dropping my wallet and credit cards on to the counter. My mind is a mess.


    What the hell is she? And what was I doing, staring like that?


    I looked down at the floor, trembling, walking from the check-out counter to the exit doors. I calm down as I walk, deciding to try speaking to that woman again.


    My abrupt parting was very rude. She seemed nice and also quite interesting, even perhaps having some interest in me. I should ask her if I might accompany her out to her car, at least, to perhaps make up for my ¡®staring rudeness¡¯ in the store. I also want to ask her about her book¡¯s cover illustration.


    Looking back towards the store to see if she was following me, she was nowhere in sight, vanished, shaking my head as I walked to my car.


    I did buy two books from my list.


    Perhaps I just imagined her?


    Scene 4. Boo!


    Walking up to my car, looking down, fumbling for my keys, I consider the conflicting confused thoughts of my strange encounter and short conversation with the woman in the bookstore.


    She must think I hate black people, or that I am a creep, or both, with all of my staring. Oh, well¡­


    As I stand facing the lock of the driver¡¯s car door, fumbling with my car key, I hear a shuffling sound behind me.


    ¡°Boo! Bah.¡±


    Startled by the sudden voice and bleating, I spring up in the air with a ¡°Squeak!¡± as I drop my keys on the pavement. Turning around, I see the woman from the bookstore standing close behind me, almost touching me. Her arms are crossed, still holding the book against her chest and smiling her odd smile. Her exposed front teeth are glistening white  in the bright sunlight through her split black upper lip. She stares at me, then calmly speaks in the same odd vernacular.


    ¡°I am sorry sir, did I frighten you? You know, you should always be aware of your environment. You might get mugged if you¡¯re not careful. Bah.¡±


    What¡¯s with that odd voice? Did she just bleat at me again? OMG, she is almost touching me! I am glad that I did not swing around, I would have knocked her over.


    I choke up as I try to speak with some humor.


    ¡°Why, am I about to be mugged? Cough.¡±


    She chuckles at my response, grins and continues to tease me,


    ¡°I got you, you stalker! Bah, haw, haw.¡±


    I muster a rapid-fire response, I rattle off,


    ¡°You chased me down in a parking lot. Who is stalking whom?¡±


    ¡°I apologize for jumping just now and for staring in the store. But I did want to ask you about your book. I love the fantasy art on the cover. To answer your question from the bookstore, yes, I am a ¡®fledgling¡¯ author. I am impressed that you could tell that from my ratty clothes. Maybe I can commission your book¡¯s artist for the cover of one of my books. I like the style and the colors of the castle and the background.¡±


    ¡°Are you a teacher or an author?¡±


    The woman rocks forward onto the toes of her boots, moving her face closer to mine. Her nostrils at the end of her long nose twitch as they approach my face. She demurely smiles and softly murmurs, still teasing,


    ¡°Good to hear you that you aren''t some ¡®creepy stalker¡¯ that likes to follow women around in stores, bah.¡±


    I grimace as she smiles with a wink, taking a step back, placing her gloved hand to her chest with pride, expounding,


    ¡°Yes, I sometimes teach, but usually, I just encourage people.


    I am more of a ¡®motivational¡¯ trainer than a teacher, applying ¡®encouragement¡¯ when needed.


    I encourage folks to write and to do other things too, fine artists, explorers, scientists.


    But I prefer to work with authors and writers, where I can help as a ¡®critic¡¯ or a ¡®proofreader¡¯, bah.¡±


    ¡°And I have my own unique method of encouraging my ¡®wards¡¯ to ¡®persevere¡¯, bah.¡±


    She slightly cocks her right foot up and stares down at the large right toe of her high-heeled yellow boot.


    ¡°But to answer your first question, the artist who painted the book cover illustration died more than a century ago. He was another friend. So many of my friends are dead. You humans go so fast, sniff, bah.¡±


    He was your friend? And he has been dead for more than a century? Humans go fast?


    As we are facing each other, she frowns, staring at me intently, slowly speaking in her unidentifiable accent.


    ¡°So if you <u>a</u><u>re</u> an ¡®author¡¯¡­ Bah, hah.¡±


    She raises her arms and wiggles her two large gloved fingers at me.


    Is she about to grab me? Does she only have two fingers on that glove?


    She closes her palms as she notices me staring at her odd gloves. I look up, returning a weak smile, feeling pain as her large lenses of her glasses reflect the image of the bright afternoon sun directly into my eyes, covering my eyes and choking.


    ¡°Cough, cough, I am a ¡®wannabe¡¯ author, attempting to write my first fiction novel.


    You say that you are an instructor who provides encouragement to writers and others.


    If you give writing critique or lessons, perhaps you could help me.


    I could use a tutor, or a critic, or especially, an editor.


    And, I confess, I need help just to keep going on this ¡®writing adventure¡¯.¡±


    I look up, trying to look serious, assuming my most ¡®professional¡¯ pose.


    ¡°I will pay you your hourly rate and work at your preferred venue, of course.¡±


    She turns her head slightly and her glasses suddenly clear of the brilliant reflection. Her face is close to mine, her eyes are magnified by the lenses of her glasses, displaying her strange light violet iris and black-bar pupils, now smaller in the bright sunlight. Staring into her eyes, I reflect in fear.


    She has human Knowledge and Wisdom from The Ages, but how inhuman she looks and acts.


    Deciding to stop frightening me, she steps back, relaxing, dropping her arms to slap her sides. She emits a long braying laugh with her mouth wide open, revealing her large pink tongue, rows of white teeth with long canines.


    ¡°Bah. Haw, haw, haw!¡±


    As she rocks her body back and forth, lost in her world of joyous braying laughter, not finished with teasing me,


    ¡°I thought that my scary looks would frighten you away. This is your last chance to escape, so you had better start running, or I¡¯ll ¡®get¡¯ you.¡±


    ¡°But my car is right here.¡±


    I stood stock still at her teasing, not knowing what to do or think, looking around the parking lot, no one was close enough to hear us over the roar of the nearby freeway. The woman is calm as she sets her fists on her hips, rocks back in triumph, looks straight at me again, pronouncing my sentence in a defiant tone,


    ¡°Of course I can help you and I will. But only if you are willing to work hard and not waste my time. As for my hourly rates and venues, if you accept my help (by your own free will), we will start with a free trial period. If that goes well, we can negotiate ¡®my fee¡¯. Call me over to your working venue when you are ready to start.¡±


    She cuts off further discussion by backing away from me and turning around. She steps out and across the parking lot. I shake my head again, still dizzy and confused, shouting to her across the parking lot, over the freeway noise,


    ¡°Before you go, please tell me how I may contact you. By phone? Text message? Email?¡±


    She shocks me again as she turns her head upside down over her back, like a parrot. She winks at me again.


    ¡°Just ¡®whistle¡¯. I cannot whistle, my lips won¡¯t let me. But you can. You know how to whistle, don''t you? You just put your lips together and blow.¡±


    She feigns a sad sniffle, then she laughs, teasing me once again. She turns her head back forward as she emits as short chuckling laughter with bleating as she walks away, fading into the noise of the freeway.


    ¡°Bah. Haw, haw.¡±


    As her laughing is lost in the roar of the freeway, her short stature disappears behind the parked cars. Gazing out into the bookstore parking lot, my new ¡®tutor¡¯ has vanished. I am alone in the bookstore parking lot.


    I guess she didn¡¯t come here by car. What a strange and fascinating woman. I do feel that she can help me, even as threatening and alien as she appears.


    How do I call her? Whistle?


    What does that even mean?


    Did I really meet her or even see her? Does she really want to help me?


    Will I ever see her again?


    End of Chapter 3. Muse ¨C Part 1. Encounter.

 Muse - Part 2, Visitor.

    Scene 1. Guest


    As the days go by, I forget about my odd book-store encounter with the strange woman. Amusing, but with no physical proof, I attribute the whole encounter to my ¡®writer¡¯s¡¯ imagination.


    I like to sit in bed at night and compose in the low light of my nightstand lamp, scribbling in the blue ink of a Bic fine-point pen onto ruled yellow gum-bound office pads, reminiscent of my nights in the hospital. I write to relax before sleep, dreaming up new material with continuing help from my new and forever friends, ¡®The Voices¡¯.


    Eventually, I am stuck. My issue is not with the volume of new material. I scribble and scribble, but organizing the resulting pile into coherent narrative fiction stories eludes me¡­


    I read the ¡®how-to-write¡¯ textbooks from the bookstore, studying story examples and story analyses, thinking that I am a pretty good creative writer, just having a little trouble with a few technical difficulties: context; pacing; continuity; grammar; dialog; spelling; homonyms; character development; and world-building. Apart from those few trivial things, everything is going great.


    So, why am I sitting in bed staring at my pad, holding my pen, with a blank mind? Where do I start?


    Is this ¡®writers block¡¯?


    My concentration breaks when I hear a soft tapping sound coming from the front door of my apartment.


    ¡°Tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap.¡±


    I am startled by the sudden sound in the otherwise quiet night as I turn to my alarm clock.


    Oh my, it is nearly ten o¡¯clock. I am not expecting anyone to come calling at this hour. Is it the ¡®knock-knock-and-break-in¡¯ burglars?


    I set my pad and pen on the nightstand, arise from the bed, don my robe and walk out of the bedroom into the living room. I looked out the front door peephole to see the top of a head of a short person. The person is a small black rabbit-eared figure, facing my door, staring up at the peephole as if I can be seen through the door. My night visitor is the woman from the bookstore. She appears as I remember her, still holding the children¡¯s fantasy book with the illustration that I liked.


    I flash on my situation and my heart sinks.


    Oh no, I hope my busy-body neighbors don¡¯t spot my late-night lady visitor. My reputation is already bad enough. What to do? I can¡¯t leave her standing outside on the walkway where everyone can see her.


    I open the front door wide without a word, briskly waving my hand to motion my ¡®visitor¡¯ to step inside and out of the widely visible apartment hallway, throwing all caution aside as I nod, shivering with apprehension, choking on my ¡®welcome¡¯ statement,


    ¡°Please come inside!¡±


    Scene 2. Threshold


    The lady stands motionless at the threshold of the entrance to my apartment, staring past me, examining the living room. She speaks as if she is reading from a script,


    ¡°Do I have your permission to enter your residence?¡±


    I again nod and motion with my hand for her to enter. I croak to her,


    ¡°Ahem. Yes. Please come inside.¡± Quickly now.


    That was a weird thing for her to say to me. Does she need my expressed permission to enter?


    The woman looks down at her boots as she carefully steps into my apartment, as if she is walking on her toes.


    ¡°Do you live alone?¡±


    I squeak, ¡°Yes. Sorry about the mess.¡±


    She is eyeing me as she slowly walks in to my apartment. She passes in front of me and enters my living room, softly murmuring,


    ¡°Remember, you invited me in. Bah.¡±


    Have I just agreed to something by letting her in?


    I see some of my neighbors opening their window blinds and doors to peek out at the sounds of conversation, quickly closing the front door behind her with a loud thump, turning to regard my night visitor.


    Wow, she is wearing really high-heeled boots. I hope she didn¡¯t have to walk very far.


    I am gasping for air at the excitement, with my back against the front door. Holding it shut as if my snooping neighbors are going to push it open. As I stare at my night visitor, I reflect.


    She looks the same as she appeared in the bookstore. She is the same unusual black lady, even still holding the picture-book.


    I suddenly felt cold again, as I felt in the bookstore.


    What have I done? I have admitted a young woman, a stranger, into my ¡®single guy¡¯ apartment, alone, late at night, with possible sentencing enhancements for her being underage and a racial minority. I¡¯m doomed.


    I cough into the uncomfortable silence, as if I am already accusing her of either blackmailing or framing me.


    ¡°Choke. How did you find me? Why are you here?¡±


    Scene 3. Tutor


    My nose twitches at the aroma that had followed her in.


    She smells of sweet incense, and of sulfur.


    She narrows her eyes and slyly grins into my frightened face, clenching her teeth into a smile. Her large white incisors are visible, as revealed by her cleft upper lip. Her canines project down over the sides of her black lower lip as slivers of white. We stared at each other for a few moments. After a short, strained silence, she speaks to me in her odd accent.


    ¡°I am here because you called me. Don¡¯t you remember? We were still standing in the bookstore parking lot when you specifically requested my help, so I just followed your smell. Bah.¡±


    Did she really follow me home by my smell?


    She wiggles her nose at me then looks around my messy living room shaking her head.


    ¡°You don''t remember asking me? You poor forgetful soul. You have created a nice ''artist¡¯s garret'' though. What a mess. Maids day off? Bah.¡±


    She does not wait for my reply as she surveys the living room and spots something across the room. Carefully tip-toeing over the debris on the floor to the couch end-table, picking up one of my loose yellow tablets with pages covered by scribbles in blue ink, staring at the page. She speaks in a low tone,


    ¡°Let me guess. You are having trouble with your ¡®writing¡¯ again this evening. Am I right? Bah?¡±


    I look down, shaking my head, still trembling with fear from my vulnerability.


    ¡°Yes, I was having some trouble with my writing this evening.


    Seeing you here tonight is so sudden and unexpected, but I did want to discuss your help with my writing. I think that just having someone to talk to about my ideas would help me very much. Perhaps you could start a ¡®writing tutor¡¯ arrangement with me on a ¡®trial¡¯ basis, as you suggested, to see how well we work together.¡±


    I shake my head again, frowning at the whole situation.


    What the hell am I even saying?


    ¡°But why are you here now, at this hour? Isn¡¯t it a bit late for a young lady to be out on the streets, or to come ¡®calling¡¯ on a male stranger that you only just met in a bookstore?¡±


    She seems taken with my statement and looks towards me. She rocks her head back and bleats her peculiar laugh again, finding my statements hilarious.


    ¡°Bah, haw, haw!


    What ¡®young lady¡¯? Me?


    Is it after bedtime for you? Were you asleep?


    Bah, haw, haw!¡±


    ¡°No. This time of night is when I usually write. And no, if you want to work at this time of night, it is fine with me.


    I do ask that you be cautious about my neighbors seeing you come and go at these late night hours.¡±


    ¡°Are you afraid of a scandal from my ''night visits''?


    Don¡¯t worry. I''m black, so I blend into the darkness of the night.


    Only you can see me,


    Usually.¡±


    Scene 4. Mimi


    My visitor gestures by waving her black arm and gloved hand out towards the living room.


    ¡°Are you going to throw me out, or are you going to be a good host and offer ¡®the young lady¡¯ a seat? And ¡®refreshments¡¯? I could use a drink. My mouth is dry from the ¡®flight¡¯ over here.¡±


    Flight over?


    Then I remembered how she suddenly vanished from the bookstore parking lot.


    Maybe she can fly. Why does that not surprise me? What am I dealing with?


    I motioned back towards the kitchen and escorted her in. I pull out a kitchen table chair for her and one for myself. I set two water glasses from the cupboard on the table and retrieved a pitcher of cold water from the refrigerator.


    ¡°I don¡¯t have anything but cold water, but I can make coffee or tea if you prefer.¡±


    She smiles at my coy glances and nervous antics.


    ¡°Cold water will be fine.¡±


    She¡¯s pleased with how much she upsets me.


    As I pour the water, I ask.


    ¡°Would you like some ice?¡±


    I looked down to see her staring at me. I try to smile.


    I guess this is only fair, as much as I stared at her so much in the store. Are we finally to ''introductions''?


    ¡°By the way, my name is ¡®John¡¯. How may I address you, my lady?¡±


    My guest has finally relaxed her face to a smaller, less toothy, and less frightening, grin.


    ¡°My lady? No one has addressed me as such in modern times, if ever. My modern clients usually address me as ¡®Mimi¡¯, unless they are mad at me, then they call me other things.


    Address me as you like. I don''t have a last name.¡±


    ¡®Mimi¡¯ closes her eyes and smiles in satisfaction, as if she has scored a victory, as she eases down into the kitchen chair that squeaks in protest, as if she is heavier than she appears. Mimi pulls the chair up and sets her book down on the table. I speak in response.


    ¡°I like your name, Mimi. ''Mimi'' is much better than ¡®My Lady¡¯ or ¡®Hey you¡¯.¡±


    ¡°Okay, ¡®Mimi¡¯ it is.¡±


    Scene 5. Demon


    As I am watching Mimi, her appearance undergoes a startling transformation. Mimi disappears into a black, hazy blur. Mimi reappears, dramatically changed in form. She now appears as only vaguely human. Her head was already strongly suggestive of a goat, but is now full-featured. Mimi has long black drooping ears on the sides of her head. Her jaw has become a long, broad snout with two large nostrils at the end. She also has a short black ¡®goatee¡¯ beneath her chin. Her oblong buns have disappeared. She now reveals a black curly mane from the top of her head and down the back of her neck. Her drawn and cleft upper lip is the only feature that remains unchanged from her ¡®bookstore¡¯ appearance.


    Mimi is no longer holding the glass with her two gloved hands. She''s holding the glass with both fore-limb hoof appendages. She places the glass below her mouth and drinks with her tongue and slurping sounds. Her face and exposed skin is covered with a short-napped glossy jet black pelt. I stared at her in shocked silence. Mimi frowns at my staring and sternly glares back at me.


    ¡°Don¡¯t you panic and run away because I have dropped my human ¡®glamour¡¯.


    You knew I was a demon since the time you first saw me in the bookstore! You thought I looked interesting, so you tried to ¡®pick me up¡¯.


    So don¡¯t you look afraid of me now.¡±


    ¡°I won¡¯t kill you, and eat you,


    ¡°Yet¡­¡±


    Scene 6. Contract


    Mimi is still glaring at me as she opens her large mouth, displaying her dramatic long black lips, large white teeth and large pink tongue. She cannot resist teasing me again as she brays,


    ¡°Bah, haw, haw!¡±


    As I lean back in my chair, staring at the real Mimi, I reflect in dismay.


    I don¡¯t think the surprises from my ¡®night guest¡¯ are over yet,


    ¡°Mimi, what are you?¡±


    Mimi closes her mouth and stretches her thin black body as she leans back in the kitchen chair. She looks at me and smiles, trying to look and act like a harmless and innocent little black lamb.


    ¡°Your speculation about me is correct, I have been stalking you. I followed you in the store and before that.


    I am a ¡®muse¡¯, and you are my ''assignment'': my client; my ward; my victim. Take your choice. For the record, a ¡®muse¡¯ is a type of demon, related to vampires, although we (usually) don¡¯t drink blood. I, and my kind, assist artists, and sometimes others: explorers; scientists; leaders.¡±


    She smiles again.


    ¡°And no, ¡®Mimi¡¯ is not my original name. That name is too hard to pronounce in modern languages.¡±


    Mimi looks up as if she is trying to remember something.


    ¡°What was my original name? I forgot. Anyway, I chose a modern name that is short, easy to say, and easy to remember.¡±


    Mimi slyly grins with eyes drawn to slits.


    ¡°And to scream out while being tortured, bah.¡±


    Is Mimi planning to torture me?


    Mimi continues on the unspoken question.


    ¡°Yes. I was human, once upon a time, long ago. I wasn¡¯t a good person, though. I was not allowed to join my sisters in Paradise. I fell from Grace, and was made into a demon.


    Enough chitchat about me. This is about you. Bah.


    So, what will it be, big fellow? Do you want my help? Is it ¡®yes¡¯ or ¡®no¡¯? Bah?¡±


    ¡°I really need a tutor!¡±


    ¡°But how does this work? You¡¯re a demon, so do you need something from me signed with my blood?¡±


    Mimi finds my comment hilarious. She brays her laughter, with her eyes closed, her head back and her mouth wide open.


    ¡°Bah, haw, haw, haw! That¡¯s so old-fashioned! We haven¡¯t done it that way for centuries, although we can if you prefer.¡±


    Mimi closes her eyes and shakes her black furred body like a dog to collect herself and continues.


    ¡°Before I collect your ¡®blood signature¡¯, Oops! I mean, before we get started, please tell me what you want to write about?¡±


    I hand Mimi my pad. She parses my scribbles, apparently able to read it.


    ¡°Wow, you can read my writing?¡±


    ¡°Sure, I have read countless scribbles in my time, your scribbles are pretty easy to read.¡±


    I proceed to ramble about my ideas for a novella story, set in a historical fantasy world.


    Mimi raises her fore-hoof to stop my rambling. She wrinkles her brow and hums.


    ¡°¡®Fantasy¡¯? Bah, hum, hum. ''Fantasy'' is a crowded genre. It won¡¯t be easy for us to come up with a unique story. I¡¯ll have to throw in an extra charge for this, for me to apply a little extra added ¡®kick¡¯. Er, I mean, ¡®inspiration¡¯ to your writing.¡±


    Kick?


    I stared down at Mimi''s muscular thighs. Her yellow high-heeled boots are gone, revealing her black demon shins with ungluigrade ankles. Her ankles are ringed with feathers of long black fluff, ending with large cloven hooves. Her two large, sharp-pointed toenails of her hooves glisten black in the lights of the kitchen. Mimi follows my stare, then she looks up at me, slightly raising her right hoof with a smile. She wiggles her large flexible hoof-toes and laughs as she startles me again.


    ¡°You also agree to any additional charges, such as for ¡®detox¡¯ treatment, or any other medical or behavioral processes that I deem are necessary to keep you alive, and working.¡±


    Mimi scowls at me, as if I may be one of those difficult ¡®detox¡¯ cases.


    Mimi then looks straight at me, in a low, slow, serious, voice, as if she is reciting a spell, carefully pronouncing each word.


    ¡°Think carefully about this unconditional and permanent agreement with me. Are you absolutely certain that you are not under any coercion or force to make this agreement, and you still want to go through with it?


    You do understand that you must always cooperate with me.


    You must always do as I command if you are to attain the results that you seek.


    And that you will be ''mine'', forever.¡±


    I hunch my shoulders and lift my hands, palms up, in resignation.


    ¡°I will agree to ''anything'' with ''anyone'' if that helps me finish my book.


    I wasn¡¯t using my ''soul'' for anything special anyway, so go ahead, Mimi,


    Nibble away!¡±


    Scene 7. Muse


    I then notice that Mimi¡¯s clothes have also changed. Around her chest is a pleated strip of  light violet cloth, open shouldered to reveal the thicker black fur of her shoulder pads. Around her hips and waist is a short light violet pleated skirt, revealing more of her thighs and torso. Her legs are bare except for her short black pelt that completely covers her body except for her ears, lips, and eyes.


    Although Mimi¡¯s body is covered with black fur, it is short napped and flat, down against her hide. Her entire body form, her thin chest, narrow waist and upper torso, is completely revealed, her muscles can be seen rising as she moves.


    Mimi grins as she sees me staring at her newly exposed body. She stands up, stretching for the show.


    ¡°Oh? So, do you like my new look, do you like me? Do you have a thing for demons? Bah?¡±


    As she slowly turns on her back hooves, proudly displaying her thin, vaguely human-female form. Her lower body has also changed, revealing her large, muscular thighs and butt. As she turns around, I see she has large black leather bat-like wings folded against her back. Projecting from her butt is the long smooth flexible rod of her black tail. The tail starts from the base of her spine and ends in a small, broad black spade shape. She wiggles her tail when she sees my examining it.


    ¡°I made this outfit just for you, by reading your mind.


    If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.¡°How did I do? Do you think I¡¯m ''hot''?


    ¡°Don¡¯t look at me like that. I am not naked! Bah!¡±


    I smile at her exhibition.


    ¡°You look cute, Mimi, I especially like your wings and your tail.¡±


    ¡°May I touch your wing?¡±


    Mimi opens her wings for me to examine. Mimi frowns, pulling up the end of her long tail.


    ¡°I wanted a cute little fluffy erect wiggling goat-tail, so I could flirt by wiggling it at my victims, ''er'', clients. The Examiners told me that the spade tail is a known badge of honor and that all qualified demons get one, regardless of what they had before. It¡¯s the ¡®union card¡¯ for demons. Still, I would have preferred a cute little fluffy wiggly goat-tail.¡±


    ¡°I always thought that ¡®horns¡¯ were the demon¡¯s badge, so how come you don¡¯t have any horns, Mimi?¡±


    ¡°The short answer is that I am a black Nubian, so no horns.¡±


    Mimi drops her tail and stares at me intently. Then she relaxes and smiles seductively, with a hoof coyly held to her mouth. I notice that she is staring down at my waist as I am sitting with my robe partially open.


    ¡°Oh, I see that I have ¡®impressed¡¯ you.¡±


    I, too, see the ¡®problem¡¯ and I quickly pull my robe back closed. Mimi pulls her for-hooves under her chin. She turns her head slightly to give me a good look into her eye with the violet iris and the black bar. She smiles and bats her long black eyelashes at me.


    ¡°Okay, you can ¡®have¡¯ me. Right here and now, if you like!


    Tonight, I¡¯m all yours. Bah, haw, haw!¡±


    Scene 8. Spark


    I shake my head.


    ¡°I think you are an attractive demon, Mimi. I like the outfit that you created for me. Thank you for the personal touch, but I am not up to ¡®doing¡¯ a demon tonight. Maybe another night, after we get to know each other better.


    I would very much like to write something tonight. Will you help me?¡±


    Mimi scowls and stomps her hind hoof with a loud ¡®clop¡¯. Her thigh and butt flesh quivers under her black fur with the impact of her hoof on the ceramic tiles of the kitchen floor. I stared down at the impact site, alarmed.


    Egad! Is that what she uses to deliver her ¡®inspiration¡¯?


    ¡°Damn! All of you artists are all alike: ''I want to paint''; ''I want to write''; ''I need to finish my sculpture''; ''I want to begin my beguine''! Bah!


    Don¡¯t you damned artists ever want to ¡®get it on¡¯? Bah!¡±


    Mimi''s tail is oscillating as she grimaces at me, growling with her lips drawn, displaying her large sharp white teeth.


    Is Mimi going to bite me?


    Mimi shakes her head and calms down from her sexual frustration. As she regains her composure, she flatly states.


    ¡°Okay, I guess my ¡®play time¡¯ is over, it is now time for me to get back to work and do my job. I¡¯ll have you later, in your dreams, where you can¡¯t resist me¡­¡±


    Mimi drops her pose, calmly and slowly walks, with her hind hooves clopping on the hard tile of the kitchen floor. She is standing facing me as I am seated in the kitchen chair. I notice that my bathrobe has fallen open again. Mimi kneels and faces me, placing her black fore-legs down onto my bare thighs.


    Is she going to ¡®do me¡¯ anyway? She <u>is</u> starting to ¡®affect¡¯ me, and she can see it!


    Then I have a thrill of terror as she leans forward toward me, reveling her black neck ruff and ropy shoulder muscles. She is also exposing more of her thin, delicately featured chest.


    Her long drooping ears swing forward as pendulums against the bulging jaw muscles of her cheeks that frame her large head and long snout. Even in the bright light of the kitchen, her features are so dark black that they are indistinct and difficult to see.


    As I stare into her beautiful, hypnotizing, violet eyes with their black bars, Mimi suddenly appears as an alien monster. The black curls of her mane fall are glistening with an eerie, iridescent, sparkle in the kitchen lights. Mimi is kneeling before me in her true form: A black ¡®chimera¡¯, a legendary monster made up of both human and animal body parts. She appears as horrifying as an Australian aborigine''s carving of a monster. I sigh, disappointed with myself.


    Mimi looks like a hungry dragon. Is she about to open her jaws and swallow me whole?


    ¡°Mimi, have I surrendered to a minion of Hell?¡±


    Mimi sees my distress, narrows her eyes and slyly grins, teasing,


    ¡°Would you like to meet my ¡®boss¡¯? Bah?¡±


    Mimi¡¯s thin black spade tail is slowly rocking back and forth behind her head, keeping the beat of a metronome.  Mimi slowly raises her right fore-leg and reaches  up over my face to my forehead. She extends a fore-hoof toe with its shiny black nail, glistening like a smooth black jewel in the kitchen lights.


    She softly murmurs, returning to her odd bleating vernacular,


    ¡°Come hither, my renowned author of the future, and witness your destiny. Bah.¡±


    I grimace and shudder.


    ¡°Mimi, is this going to hurt?¡±


    Mimi rocks her body, slowly, and suggestively she continues to lean forward, towards me. I lean back in my chair as far as I can. Mimi gently touches the center of my forehead with her black fore-toe nail.


    As Mimi winks her violet eye at me. Her wiggling curly black goatee on the chin of her long black goat face is the last thing that I see.


    ¡°See you later, my handsome artist. Don¡¯t you worry, this won¡¯t hurt me a bit, bah, haw, haw.¡±


    I tightly close my eyes as my head explodes in the electrocution pain at the light touch of her fore-toenail on my forehead. I see flashes of intense color as I scream. My entire body experiences a strong electric shock and convulsions with a burst of severe pain. I clench my forearms to my chest as I pitch forward and double over, out of my chair. As I plunge into the black darkness of unconsciousness, I fall towards the kitchen floor that I never reach.


    I scream as loud as I can,


    ¡°MIMI!¡±


    End of Chapter 4. Muse ¨C Part 2, Visitor.

 Muse – Part 3, Repossessed.

    Ah, the sweet smell of ¡®inspiration¡¯ in the morning.


    Scene 1. Dawn


    ¡°MIMI! Argh!¡±


    I bolt up, sitting in my bed, still seeing Mimi''s alien smile and feeling the pain of electrocution. As the room comes into focus, my vision of Mimi fades along with my pain.


    Gasping, I stopped screaming as I ran out of air, still shaking, gradually relaxing as the pain of electrocution receded. My vision comes into full focus and I look at my messy bedroom, illuminated by the sunrise from my window. I speak out to the room.


    ¡°Wow! I''m back in bed. What happened?¡±


    Sitting in my bed, as I was when writing on my pad last night, the covers are kicked off. My writing pad has been thrown across the room, lying upside down against the far wall. I felt a stabbing pain  in my butt from my uncapped blue Bic pen, reaching down to retrieve my pen with a splitting headache radiating out from the center of my forehead. As I reach up to rub my forehead, I feel a hot spot, a raised welt. The welt is the size of a dime, in the shape of a teardrop, in the center of my forehead. Suddenly angry, I shout out my complaint to no one.


    ¡°Mimi! You darned demon, you ¡®branded¡¯ me! Am I now your ¡®possession¡¯, your ¡®cow¡¯?¡±


    I sink back into bed with a frown.


    It wasn¡¯t a dream. I am pretty certain that I know the answer to my question.


    Still dizzy from the memory of the convulsive pain, shaking as I stand, wobbling, gazing at my reflection in my dresser mirror, there is a small dark shape in the center of my forehead.


    Is this Mimi¡¯s ¡®brand¡¯? What is this brand, a ¡®half-moon¡¯ shape? I have been marked by a demon, so is this mark the sign of our ¡®contract¡¯? Does she ¡®own¡¯ me now? What does this mean?


    I¡¯ll have to get some make-up to cover up that mark for when I go out.


    I stagger out of the bedroom and into the kitchen, not surprised that nothing has been disturbed from the time I went to bed the night before, except there is still smell a slight smell of sulfur and incense. Calling out for her again.


    ¡°Mimi! Where are you? Are you here?¡±


    I half expected to hear her answer, there was no answer. I listen to the sounds outside as the city comes to life with the morning sun rise. There is no evidence that I ever left my bed last night, even less that I hosted Mimi or any other visitors.


    I only dreamed that Mimi visited me? But man, what a dream. It¡¯s a good story, though, I need to write it all down before I forget it. I¡¯ll include Mimi¡¯s story in my short story anthology volume, someday.


    I gradually become aware that my inner mind is filled with flashing colored lights. The flashing lights morph into seething swarms of disconnected words and dramatic visions. My inner vision then fills with swirling colors that condense into narratives of: past; present; future; contemporary; historical; fantasy; science fiction; action; adventure. I shouted.


    ¡°This is what I wished for! Thank you, Mimi.


    I forgive you, kind of¡­


    Wherever you are¡­¡±


    I quickly glance around the room.


    Where is my pad? I must write down my new visions and my encounters with Mimi.


    I let myself fall backwards, planting my robed butt on the couch, seizing my pad and blue Bic pen from the end table, quickly scribbling, and hearing the distant echo of Mimi¡¯s iconic bleating laughter.


    ¡°Bah-haw-haw. Bah-haw-haw. My Author¡­¡±


    Scene 2. Repossessed


    Over the following days, I scribble the story of my encounter with Mimi, also scribbling as much as I am able of the fantastic narratives I see in my new mind.


    My ¡®dream of Mimi¡¯ story is too outlandish. No one is going to read that. But my ¡®writer''s block¡¯ seems to be gone for now.


    I scribble out pages for my new stories, with no shortage of ideas, pleased with the adventures that I put to my characters. I look at the stack of tablet pages on my end table.


    Someone is going to have to transcribe all of that.


    Then I remembered that Mimi said that she sometimes worked as a proofreader, typist, and editor for her clients. I lay out a few pages and start transcribing on my old Remington typewriter.


    I¡¯ll leave these pages out. Mimi might come back to see if I survived her ¡®treatment¡¯.


    If she goes to work for me, I¡¯ll buy her a personal computer for this and the other office work.


    She can¡¯t have my soul for free¡­


    Then I hear a faint knock,


    ¡°Tap tap tap, tap tap tap,¡±


    at my front door. I walked to the front door, looked out the peephole, and saw Mimi. She is standing, staring at my door once again, as if she can see through it.


    Mimi is in her human ¡®glamour¡¯, her form looking much as she did in the bookstore, only this time she is covered in a long coat for the cold morning.


    As I open the front door, Mimi springs from the doorway and into the center of the living room, as if it is hers, not asking for permission this time. Mimi twirls around to face me, smiling.


    ¡°I¡¯m not interrupting anything, am I, bah?¡±


    As she looks around to see if I already have ¡®company¡¯, although it is clear she does not care.


    In the morning sunlight, I get a good look at her humanoid form. She flips off her long coat to expose a light-violet sports top and a matching short skirt, revealing her bare black midriff abdominal muscles.


    Although Mimi is petite, she is muscular and athletic.


    Mimi notices my staring at her in her gymnasium outfit. She smiles, trying to look modest.


    ¡°Stop staring at me. You really do need to get out more¡­¡±


    ¡°Are you also a gym teacher or a physical trainer? In addition to your offering ¡®encouragement¡¯ to artists?¡±


    This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.


    ¡°One of my artist clients composes while he exercises. He insists that I join him in his workout while I take notes. I don''t mind, I need to stay in shape to drag you artists around.¡±


    Mimi frowns as she reaches down and touches her chest.


    ¡°I¡¯m yucky from the workout, though, could I trouble you for your shower, bah?¡±


    ¡°Yes, you may use the shower, I¡¯ll bring you clean towels.¡±


    Mimi presses a clasp on her chest, shedding her clothes into a pile at the center of the living room floor, also shedding her ¡®glamour¡¯. I check to see that the front door is closed and locked. I wish to avoid any embarrassing interruptions by my snoopy neighbors.


    Mimi has mostly morphed back into her naked true form: a black furry, half-human, half-goat. She slyly smiles as she fakes shyness, drawing her fore-limbs up to partially cover her modest chest with her tail swinging back and forth.


    ¡°If you find me so interesting, why don¡¯t you join me in the shower? I''ll let you wash my wings. I still have some surprises for you, bah.¡±


    I briskly shake my head, ¡®no¡¯, turning to the hall closet where I keep clean towels for guests.


    ¡°And risk getting another paralyzing shock? No, thank you.


    By the way, what did you do to me last night?


    I felt like I was being electrocuted.¡±


    Mimi brays her laugh, ¡°bah-haw-haw-haw-haw.¡±


    ¡°Is there any question about what I did with you last night?


    I ¡®bonded¡¯ to your soul. Remember, you said ¡®anything¡¯.


    I apologize for shocking you, but you wouldn¡¯t have sex with me, so you left me no choice.


    I had to get that piece of your soul somehow, before you changed your mind.


    So, you¡¯ll never be rid of me for the rest of your life, bah.¡±


    After returning from the hall closet with the towels, I reached out to hand the towels to her from a few feet away, fearing that she was still ''radioactive''.


    ¡°And what is this thing you put on my forehead?¡±


    ¡°I can make that mark a different color if you like, green, blue.


    Don¡¯t worry, only you and I can see the mark of the pact ¡®between us¡¯. It isn¡¯t anyone else¡¯s business.¡±


    Mimi claps the towels with the odd two-toes of her fore-hooves. She draws up the towels as a covering, broadens her smile, bats her eyelashes, swishes her spade tail, turns, and proceeds to the bathroom to shower off. I hear shower sounds, then humming, then singing.


    Wow, Mimi has an unusual, but nice, singing voice.


    Enchanting, even with those odd bleats.


    Scene 3. Date


    Mimi emerges from the bathroom, still toweling off, naked. I cannot help but stare at her strange, otherworldly form. Mimi smiles as she wiggles, unsuccessful at drying her thick black fur.


    ¡°Okay. You called me again. What is it this time, bah.¡±


    ¡°I presume that you can go out in the daylight and into town.


    Are there things that you cannot do? Places you cannot go?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t look so good in the daylight. You saw me in the bookstore. I am not that adapt with my ''glamour'', bah.¡±


    As Mimi is still shaking off, I retrieve an electric hair dryer from the hall closet, carefully handing it to her from a distance, as Mimi performs a naked, furry black blow-dry show for my benefit.


    ¡°So, Mimi,¡± ¡°You can eat human food, right?¡±


    ¡°Yes, I can eat human food. I love food, but I usually avoid socializing with my victims, bah, clients, bah¡±.


    Victims?


    ¡°But you said that you liked your job because you could get to know your clients, right?¡±


    ¡°But I am so sad when they die, I mean, when we ''part ways'', bah.¡±


    Die?


    ¡°Mimi, would you let me take you out to lunch tomorrow? We¡¯ll meet at the coffee shop next to the bookstore. Is noon okay? Keep a little more time afterward open, so we can go shopping too.¡±


    It takes a lot to surprise a demon. Mimi bolts up straight, with her eyes wide, dropping her towel.


    ¡°Are you asking me for a ''date''? A ''date'' with me? A demon? But My looks! My glamour! Bah-haw-haw.¡±


    ¡°Here, Mimi, put on one of my shirts while I wash your clothes.¡±


    I carefully hand her a shirt for her to cover up and stop distracting me, as I gather her clothes and towels from the floor to launder.


    ¡°Well, a lunch date isn''t as much as what you were asking from me. Your ¡®glamour¡¯, such as you had in the bookstore, will work fine for a coffee shop lunch visit. Your exotic human look is cute, actually. I think you know that you can pass for human well enough, if it is not too much of a strain on you. You know human society, so wear conservative office-work clothes. We¡¯ll go to lunch disguised as two typical office coworker friends¡±.


    ¡°But I¡¯m black. My ¡®glamour¡¯ cannot change that. It can¡¯t close my ¡®hare-lip¡¯ either, bah.¡±


    I chuckle at Mimi¡¯s sudden shyness.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know if you have noticed, many people around here are black. There is a lot of everyone from everywhere living and working around here. It¡¯s a diverse and ¡®artsy¡¯ neighborhood. That¡¯s why I live here.


    I am quite pleased to have an attractive young woman, with her unique look, a charming foreign accent with a bleat, accompanying me.¡±


    ¡°Other people can see you, can¡¯t they, Mimi?¡±


    Mimi is over her shyness and is smiling, looking forward to an adventure in the city with her new ¡®ward¡¯. Mimi nods.


    ¡°I can only be seen by animals, children and the ¡®mentally challenged¡¯¡­ Bah.¡±


    Scene 4. Caf¨¦


    Mimi emerges from the bookstore when she sees me drive into the parking lot, walking over to meet me in front of the caf¨¦. Mimi is dressed as she was in the bookstore at our first meeting, but without the rabbit-ear styled hair buns that she used to attract my attention.


    As she approaches, Mimi reaches out toward me with her odd gloves. I recoil, remembering my electrocution the last time she touched me.


    Mimi pulls back from me and frowns, then she makes an earnest request.


    ¡°Please take my glove, as a symbol that you want me for a real ''date''. I promise not to shock you this time. I want this, please, as I cannot recall the last time I was asked out on a ''date''¡­¡±


    I smiled as I slowly reached out to her and took her glove in my hand, surprised at Mimi¡¯s sudden and genuine sentimentality. Her odd gloved digits firmly squeezed my fingers.


    ¡°You changed your hair. For me? You still look like a grammar-school teacher in that outfit. We¡¯ll buy you some new clothes, for work and traveling.¡±


    We enter the caf¨¦, smiling as two teenagers out on their first ''date''.


    I hope that this ''date'' works out. If Mimi is working for me, I want us to get used to traveling and doing things together, in public.


    The formally dressed caf¨¦ hostess walks out from behind the reservation counter, greeting us with a smile.


    ¡°Welcome to the Caf¨¦ Parisian. Have you been here before?¡±


    I nod, ¡°Yes, I have, but this is her first time.¡±


    The hostess continues, nodding to Mimi, ¡°The ''dessert of the day'' is complementary with any lunch order, my lady.¡±


    I glance towards Mimi. Her eyes are wide, appearing to be overwhelmed by the sights, the noisy sounds and rich smells of the small restaurant.


    ¡°Dessert!¡±


    Mimi, and you tell me that I don¡¯t get out enough¡­


    I motioned to the back of the seating area, asking the hostess.


    ¡°Please seat us in the back, where it is a little quieter. We need to discuss business. I hope this is okay as the staff will have to walk a little further.¡±


    The hostess waves toward a booth against the back wall.


    ¡°Is this alright with you? I¡¯m sorry, but this place is busy and noisy at lunchtime.¡±


    Mimi slides into the booth seat on one side and I on the other, facing each other. I am pleased that the thick leather upholstery of the booth muffles the sounds from the room.


    This location is good as no one should hear us talking either.


    ¡°This is fine. Thank you.¡±


    The hostess sets menus on the table and departs. I look up at Mimi, who is giving me a hungry stare.


    ¡°No, no, Mimi, I am not ''the lunch'', please order food from the menu.¡±


    We both laugh. I am pleased that we both seem to be able to relax with each other here. I know our work will be very intense. Being able to relax out in the world like this will be important, if we are not to drive each other insane.


    ¡°Mimi, I am so glad that you agreed to this ¡®date¡¯ with me.


    I really would like to get to know you better, as you seem to already know everything about me.


    Can you, or will you, tell me where you are from originally?


    Can you, or will you, tell me how you became a ''muse''?


    I know I am prying, and your guild might not allow you to say.¡±


    Mimi sits back, relaxes and gently smiles at me, no longer glaring.


    ¡°Why are you so interested in me? You are the one with the stories that you want to tell everyone.¡±


    ¡°Maybe I''ll write your story, Mimi¡­¡±


    A waitress appears at our table and curtsies. The waitress is wearing a cute French maid costume, of course. Mimi beams at the waitress.


    ¡°Your dress is so cute. I love it. I want one.¡±


    Mimi is trying to suppress excited braying, and is only partially successful, emitting squeaks through her tightly closed lips. I try to help by changing the focus back to lunch.


    ¡°Mimi, have you decided what you would like for lunch?¡±


    End of Chapter 5. Muse ¨C Part 3, Repossessed.