begin/incipio

 

Clio paced within the confines of the room impatiently. As she strode, tears ran down her face in frustration. “Emoro set forth for the city hurriedly, for he’d decided that what he would do was reunite with his Ilujet in death.” “No, no, no,” Clio whispered; it hadn’t been her who spoke the words. “He wasted little time, upon arriving in Verona, at gazing upon his love’s still body. Her beauty lay in the soul, and it was this that seemed to spur Emoro on to more quickly drink the poison.” “Blast it, I said no!” Clio cried suddenly in exasperation. “It’s already been done!”

 

“Sister!” Urania’s exclamation brimmed with shock as she rushed forward to embrace Clio. Her worry was echoed by Erato, Melpomene, Polyhymnia, Terpsichore, Thalia, Euterpe, and even Calliope, as they arrived on the scene. “What causes you to shout?”

 

Clio attempted a semblance at composure, but failed. “It’s all his fault,” she choked, pointing an accusing finger at the single man to grace their presence.

 

Stephen Marcus Pole gave no indication that he was aware of the Muses’ attention. He continued to write at his desk, and horribly.

 

“He’s penning Romeo and Juliet,” Clio explained.

 

Melpomene hissed dangerously. “He’s not aware of it?”

 

“No, Mr. Pole is convinced he has the groundbreaking American novel in his hands.”

 

Dismay hung obvious in the air; it was not the first time this had happened.

 

 “Girls, what is wrong with us?” Calliope’s voice, once she began speaking, thoughtlessly affected each muse until all present were filled with shame. “Why can we, abruptly, no longer inspire men?”

 

“Men have always been meddling, wheedling, fawning, toading, back-biting, trouble-making, intriguing, and slippery creatures,” Thalia answered vindictively.

 

“Yet we’ve never had a problem with that before,” Urania returned. “Our sisterhood has produced thousands of literary and artistic masterpieces, through the tool called man. Never once has any of our protégés plagiarised!” Urania blanched at the vulgar word.

 

“It’s because man cannot hear us anymore,” Clio interjected urgently. Gesturing towards Stephen Marcus Pole, she clarified, “I have been standing here for more than twenty four hours berating him, and he’s heard not a word.”

 

The longest silence filled the modest apartment in downtown Brooklyn, punctuated occasionally by the scratching of stylus against paper.

 

“Emoro lay down to die with his wife.” “We are made useless then,” the chief of muses uttered disbelievingly. The others’ blank faces mirrored Calliope’s own.

 

end/finis

 

For as long as could be remembered the Muses embodied the arts and inspired the creation process with their graces through song and stage, writing, traditional music, and dance. How had that changed during their century’s long leave, Clio wondered.

 

It was with trepidation that the Muses finally returned to Earth. They had to learn what became of mankind, and if they remained unnecessary, they would be forced to wait another hundred years in exile above.

 

As Clio, Urania, Erato, Melpomene, Polyhymnia, Terpsichore, Thalia, Euterpe, and Calliope touched down in an abandoned square, they were disquieted by the lack of noise. “Where are all the men?” Erato worried, and she was not alone.

 

Terpsichore turned her head distractedly, catching her sisters’ attention. “There is sound of activity down that way, I think.” She spoke of an alley to their side.

 

As one, the goddesses passed single file through the passage, out into the new world. The once-busy street they found was not much louder. However, a lone youth stood at the pavement’s corner, hawking news. This was something the Muses remembered.

 

“Last night the East end of Charlie’s gang’s territory was won over by Rosamund’s group of girls. Theodore of the former’s crew was killed in the battle. All with families in the area would be well-advised to move their household before the end of the day. To be perfectly clear, ownership of the properties between Pacific and Douglass now belongs to Rosamund- ah, good day, Miss Rosamund.”

 

The sisters stared, bemused, at the young man who paused to doff his hat at the passing woman. It hadn’t been a strange habit when they’d departed the world, but the lady of his attentions hardly fit the image of the women they’d left behind. The female in question wore a tight overcoat over a blouse and trousers and, in place of a belt, sported a full-body harness fitted with two long pistols.

 

Erato giggled in embarrassment, but her reaction was of a minority. “Go on with the news, boy,” Calliope muttered, and Clio also observed the distant scene intently.

 

“Ahem, so ownership of the properties between Pacific and Douglass now belongs to Rosamund. Today a mêlée is expected near Nevins so Charlie might dispute the loss of his turf, and possibly secure the areas of Warren and Baltic simultaneously. For that event, it is further advised that the public stays inside. So long, Miss Rosamund, and luck to you this afternoon.”

 

“That girl killed someone? And she has yet another fight to participate in to-day?” Polyhymnia was sceptical.

 

“I believe that’s the truth, sister. I’m afraid this is a different world with new rules made up while we were absent.” Calliope barely half-attended to Polyhymnia, for not once had the newsboy ceased talking.

 

Half an hour later the Muses still stood aghast at the corner of Sackett Street. The list of calamities, and more to come, seemed endless. “Can’t you see what’s happened, sisters? We deserted man, and now he’s turned his creative energies to...violence.” Clio involuntarily disclosed what had been on each of their minds.

 

“Surely it’s not our fault,” Euterpe pleaded. “Our absence was so short-“

 

“We stayed away more than an average man’s lifetime. When you consider that man has always harboured destructive tendencies, and factor in the number of people who live on this planet, we can only conclude that our absence was long enough.” Urania spoke unwilling wisdom.

 

“If he lied about anything-“ The Muses glanced toward the talking young man, so-named Blaise, because he’d recently begun stuttering from exhaustion.

 

“I don’t think so,” Calliope said gently. “This one almost has an artist’s soul; I can’t envisage that he is capable of lying.”

 

“An artist’s soul, you say? Are you sure?” Terpsichore asked thoughtfully.

 

Calliope sighed. “He reminds me of my dear old Leonardo.”

 

“An artist’s soul.” Clio followed the same train of thought as Terpsichore. “Man is easily diverted. If we could take hold of just one innovative mind, like we used to, we could perhaps force man back to the arts.” Some smiled joyfully at the prospect.

 

“If man turned to war merely because he lacked artistic outlets-“

 

“That would work-“

 

“Provided one of us is able to touch that young man’s heart.”

 

after/secundum

 

Nine of the most beautiful women in the cosmos set out to win the heart of one dubbed ‘Blaise Bookchild’. Artists half his worth had turned the Muses out from our world with closed minds, but with an open smile Blaise welcomed the goddess special to him to share a life together; the sparkling wash of inspiration was brought back into the world on their wedding day.

 

Unions between gods and mortals are usually something to avoid, but in this case, Blaise and his beauty could be said to have saved the world.

 

It is a life without imagination nor love that I grow weary of.

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