Even DEEPER Into The Mind of a Protagonizer

A smudged, melted hurricane of sticky, ice-cream colors swirls into formless shapes across the brainscape. The colors arc up across the skull dome and join into a stark white floor, blending at the edges. Van Gogh's Starry Night waves lazily through the haze, breaking from the canvas and shattering in crystal shards of yellow and green.

A figure steps barefoot over the broken brush sweeps, her treads smoothing the colors together in technicolor footprints. Her hair is wild, waving in an underwater air current. The strands condense at the ends, form, and break away in round fish shapes that wink, blink, and disappear - pop - like bubbles. She is in an odd, vaguely toga outfit, with a green smock vest pulled over the front. On the back is screenprinted MUSE in block print, and a nametag pinned to the front says, "HI! My name is Del!".

The girl's eyes widen as a sound enters the mind:

"Good," a boy's voice, trying to sound older and authoritative, "Then her saltiness is done with. We -" it pauses, echoing around the dome, "Wait - saltiness? Crap, Saintliness."

The girl giggles. Outside, the mind she is currently in is reading the play The Crucible; which PJ [a theatrical soul with a passion for violin, not a writer] has so spectacularly messed up. He was handed the part of John Procter the tragic hero, which he relishes and milks [the girl considers that statement: relish like pickles?] with vigor.

She vaguely wonders about the play, conjuring up images of a crowded courthouse full of screaming, fainting girls beckoning at wide-eyed, confused defendants. The meetinghouse forms out of the hazy colors, becoming solid.

The girl smiles and steps into the scene from her technicolor dome. No one at first notices her, hiding in a back shadow of the cabin-style, small windowed court house. She watches the proceedings with some amusement.

"Now, Martha Corey, there is abundant evidence in our hands to show that you have given yourself to the reading of fortunes. Do you deny it?" The speaker is a rough, pious man. His face is scrubbed red and prickled with stubble. His eyes burn at the accused witch Martha Corey in the witness stand.

Martha Corey's face is drawn and pale, but stubborn. She denies the charge. "I am innocent to a witch. I know not what a witch is."

"How do you know, then," Hathorne, the judge, presses, "that you are not a witch?"

"Well, that's a stupid question."

The council spins around in a flurry of starched garments. The onlookers blink confusedly at their odd intruder.

The girl grins, tips her head. Waves at the crowd. "It just seems to me you're all being just a smidge biased. Don't you think?" She strides forward purposefully, her drapery-like garment catching in an imaginary current.

Many in the crowd clutch desperately at their bibles, pressing them to their chests like a holy shield. Others pin themselves to the bumpy log walls, eyelids firmly clenched. The Judge Hathorne himself gapes as another small fish [possibly a guppy] forms itself from her almost liquid hair and swims up to his own bible. It does a little can-can dance on the binding before incinerating in a pink mushroom cloud.

"I know there's nothing I can do about all this," Del concedes, "I've read ahead, I know it's not a happy ending."

Abigail, the leader of the afflicted girls, cries out, "AACK! She is a messenger from the pits of Hell!"

"Shut up." The Muse turns to the court at large. "You're all a bunch of stinky twits! You're gonna die," she begins to point out people in the crowd, "an you're gonna die, an it's all so stupid!"

Ding, Ding, Ding, Di-

An electronic bell rings through the meeting house. The parishoners' eyes flick nervously to the ceiling.

Del grins like a slice of watermelon. "LUNCHTIME!!"

The 16-year-old girl in whose mind the preceding narrative took place jumps, gathers her books and papers.

"I don't think that particular story was all that productive." The Muse flops in the now empty brainscape. She twirls a fish's tail around her finger in a lazy spiral. "Nothing there that couldn't be misconstrued as plagarism."

She looks up, a crooked smile on her face. "Wait, wait - write this down! I've got an idea!"

The End

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