by R. E. Vance
↔
I was right. Well, half right. The police did come and they did fine me, but not for the tree. By the time they showed up, Penemue had already hoisted it up in the air and returned it to wherever he’d stolen it from. The fine was for disturbing the peace and public intoxication. I tried to argue that I wasn’t drunk, but all that came out were tear-filled chortles. Officer Steve, the youngest of the Billy Goats Gruff and one of Paradise Lot’s finest, even called Miral – our angelic local doctor – to make sure I wasn’t, in his words, “broken”.
Miral said I was suffering from the terminal condition of being human.
I couldn’t agree with her diagnosis more.
Eventually the police left and Astarte, who at this point had ripped off enough of the dress that she might as well have been naked, went inside with a lustful wink. Judith rolled her eyes before floating away, and that was when I knew things were returning to normal.
As I walked to my room, I thought to myself that I would keep my promise to Bella – if only for a little bit longer. After all, she was the best part of me, and why throw that away? It didn’t change the fact that I missed her, and that I would give anything to have at least a small part of her with me.
Maybe that was what my promise gave me, that for as long as I kept it, the part of her that cared for everything around her would still be with me. That would have to be enough.
↔
I opened my bedroom door with a sigh, and what I saw waiting for me on my bedside table brought forth sober tears. For, sitting there was a plate filled with chocolate chip and macadamia nut cookies.
Cookies are for Santa, freshly baked and fair,
But even St Nick is willing to share.
And as for believing—you don’t have to! It’s OK!
I believe in you—Merry Christmas and good day!
Muses Musing
by
R.E. Vance
Prologue
Five muses—led by their leader and head muse, Story—walked into the Millennium Hotel with one mission: to finally settle who was the greatest muse of all.
One by one, they walked through the turnstile door, each one taking careful stock of exactly who was present in the hotel.
There was a teenage boy with tattoos littering his dark head, a poltergeist who wore a Sunday dress and a scowl, an angel who dressed his body in tweed and his soul in liquor and, finally, a succubus who hardly dressed at all.
One of them would be the protagonist—and as soon as they saw the hotel owner standing there in his black jacket that made him look more priest that receptionist, trendy monk than hotelier, they knew he would be their main character.
He would be their hero.
As for the rest? Strictly secondary and tertiary characters. But four additional characters were not enough. Not by a long shot. The muses would need more. Many, many more. That was fine—the muses could summon more players to the hotel as needed. After all, they were the ones who enthused and inspired, stimulated and entertained. They were muses, and muses are made from the stuff of dreams. Few could resist their call, for who among us does not dream?
They were unanimously satisfied that this hotel—this stage, if you will—would serve them well for the duration of their story.
Satisfied, they climbed the stairs to the penthouse suite. They had given the hotelier—the protagonist, remember—explicit instructions to strip the room of everything except a single table to be placed at the center of the room. Entering the suite, they saw that the hotelier did as they asked … sort of. A green canvas poker table—which could hardly be called a table at all—sat in the middle of the room.
Still, there were six seats. Six seats for six muses … and given that the game was already afoot, the muses would have to make do with what was provided.
Six name-cards scrawled in black marker sat in front of the six seats, and they read as follows:
Story, Master of Ceremonies
Action, First Person Past Tense
Horror, Third Person Present Tense
Erotica, Third Person Past Tense
Western, Third Person Omniscient Present Tense
Sci-Fi, First Person Present Tense
“So how does this all go down?” asked Action. He wore a char-stained undershirt that was too small for his muscular frame. He also wore a black eye—but anyone who knew Action well also knew that the black eye was most likely make-up. Action always wore make-up that made him look bruised, battered and determined. He was the kind of muse who preferred to come to his wounds with blush and brush, rather than fist and fury. To some he looked like Bruce Willis in Die Hard, or Mel Gibson in Lethal Weapon, or perhaps Van Damme in Universal Solider. It all depended on which action hero you liked and in what role you liked them.
“ ‘Go down,’ ” whispered Erotica. “Ohhh … I like how this is starting.” Erotica wore a London Fog raincoat and nylon pantyhose and nothing else, as we can evidence from the lose lapel flaps that draped off her shoulders.
“Same way it always does,” said Story, jumping in before the rest could chime in—they were all a bunch of attention-seeking melodramatics, in her opinion. “A five-act story. Each of you takes an act. Then, in the end—the actual end, not the dénouement—we vote who did the best job. Sound fair?”
Everyone nodded in agreement. This was how their game was always played, and as long as they had time to burn, this was how their game would always be played.
“Now that that’s settled, tell me—how do we begin?” asked Action.
No one answered Action’s question, and with an impatient fist, he banged against the table and said, “Well?!” Action was always in a hurry to get things started.
“Hold them horses,” Western said, tilting the rim of his ten-gallon hat just enough to stare down everyone with his squinting eyes. He looked, as I’m sure you’ve guessed, like Clint Eastwood. Everyone saw him that way. Everyone. “It always happens the same. You push us into some half-cocked plotline that can only be sustained with action scenes which accomplish nothing but distract from the fact that the story lacks plot. I say we take our time and ponder this out proper-like.”
“Agreed,” purred Erotica.
“That’s rich coming from you, Erotica,” pinged Sci-Fi from behind eyes that sparkled with fluorescent light. “You want to take your time with the story. If there is one trait that Action and Erotica share, it is that a good story only gets in the way.”
“Ooh … kitty got claws,” hummed Erotica.
“Damn right,” Sci-Fi said. Her irises twisted as they focused on Erotica. “Plot is one thing, but setting is everything. I submit the following: a spaceship with an alien loose, or perhaps a desert with giant worms that burrow their way underground. Maybe—”
“Setting doesn’t matter!” grinded Horror without warning. Everyone jumped at her sudden comment—for, if the other muses were to be honest, they had all forgotten she was there. A dangerous mistake to make. “Suspense does,” Horror continued, twisting her head all the way around as she spoke. “Suspense and tension, and the holding of a cracked mirror up to one’s desecrated soul.”
“Charming,” groaned Erotica. “You creep me out, Horror. Take it down a notch. You need to relax. I could help you relax. If you like, I could—”
“Enough!” said Story. “Plot, setting, literary techniques … they are all of equal importance. You will need to treat each with respect and care if you are to win this night.”
“That’s what I was sayin’,” said Western. “But we’re all different genres. How can we be a part of one story? ’Cause I ain’t into no cross-genre dancin’. I say we play it straight and play it true.”
Sci-Fi beeped, “Stop blowing your cigar smoke my way. You were always such a simpleton, Western, and if you think—”
“No,” Story interrupted, “he’s right. Straight and true … and simple. I think I have just the story.”
Setting the Scene
It was a d
ark and stormy night.
---“Really? That’s how you are going to start this thing?”---
---Shut up and let me do my job. Now, where was I? Oh yes …---
It was a dark and stormy night.
“There’s a hell of a storm brewing,” I said, pulling my black collarless jacket around me tighter.
“Oh please, Jean-Luc, the storm is outside. You are inside. Just as the gods intended. Nature does its dance and we higher beings hide under thatch and roof, drinking.” Penemue, the eight-foot-tall angel who lived in the Millennium Hotel’s attic, offered me his bottle of Drambuie.
“No thanks,” I said.
The angel offered his bottle to EightBall, my not-quite-eighteen-year-old employee.
“He’s fine, too,” I said firmly.
Penemue shrugged and took another swig.
“I’m just jittery, that’s all,” I said. “And that storm isn’t helping.”
“It’s just a bit of rain,” Penemue said.
“No, it’s a lot of rain, and it’s Christmas.”
“So?”
“So it should be snowing, not raining.”
“Ahhh, now I see why you’re nervous.” Penemue sipped from his bottle. “Global warming.”
“Ha-ha. Very funny.”
“Don’t know what you’re upset about. It hardly ever snows in Paradise Lot,” Penemue said, looking over at EightBall. “Besides, what is it you humans say? Take a chill pill, dude.”
“Close,” EightBall said. “Still not very human, but you’re getting better.” He turned back to me, and the concern on his tattooed face was almost touching. “Hey Jean-Luc, I saw this thing on TV. It said that the secret to dealing with anxiety is to take off your shoes and socks, and make fists with your toes.”
“Fists … with your toes?”
“I know it sounds crazy, but the guy on the TV swore it works. Even said it was better than a shower and hot coffee.”
“OK,” I shrugged, taking off my shoes and socks. I stopped mid-sock and looked up at EightBall. He was smiling at me; the tattoo of the number 8 (well, an infinity symbol, really, but I wasn’t gonna spoil it for the kid), front and center on his forehead, acted like a secondary, vertical pair of eyes. “This isn’t some kind of joke, is it?”
“Cross my heart.” EightBall crossed the wrong side of his chest.
“OK, if you say so.” I took off my second sock and started balling my toes. There was a nagging voice in the back of my head that screamed, What are you doing? This isn’t you, but I ignored it. My heart was beating a mile a minute for some damn reason, and right now I was willing to do anything to calm my nerves.
“Are you sure you are feeling OK?” asked Judith, who floated behind the reception desk.
Hellelujah … if my poltergeist of a mother-in-law was worried about me, I must have looked like a mess.
“Yeah, I think I am. Something is just … off. Like I’m nervous about something happening, but I have no idea what. I mean, there are three sirens staying on the fifth floor, and the muses upstairs, but other than that, the hotel is empty. Everything is completely normal, or at least as normal as—”
And then it happened: she walked in like she owned the place and started up the stairs. And even though I didn’t have another reservation, I knew she belonged here.
Enter the Love Interest—
No one else seemed to notice her. But I did. She walked up the stairs, and up to the penthouse suite on the seventh floor. I immediately followed her up, leaving my shoes and socks abandoned on the hotel floor.
Penemue called after me, “Where are you going?”
“Going to see about a girl.”
Penemue shrugged as if that was a perfectly normal thing for me to say, and as I walked along the second floor foyer, I heard him ask EightBall, “Does making fists with your toes really work?”
EightBall hesitated and in an uncertain voice said, “I’m not sure. It was just something I saw on Die Hard.”
↔↔↔
“Oh hello,” she said. She had left the door wide open, and I got the strange feeling she did so for me to follow her into the room. She spoke with a familiarity that I didn’t expect, partly because I wasn’t used to pretty women talking to me, but mostly because I didn’t know who this person was.
At least, I didn’t think I knew her. For some reason the name “Holly” swam around in my head.
Holly … Holly … Holly …
“Jean-Luc,” she said, a slight hesitation in her voice. “Come in already.”
She was holding a dry-cleaning bag with one of those exquisite black dress numbers that makes an average woman look divine. Given that this woman was far, far, faaar from average, the black dress would make her look absolutely godly.
She left me standing at the doorway and walked into the bathroom. I stepped inside, feeling as if she had pulled me in, and closed the door behind me.
As soon as I did, I realized that I had closed the door while standing in a room with a woman I did not know. If that didn’t scream assault—or worse—I don’t know what does. I was about to open the door again when she came out of the bathroom in a robe, her makeup kit in hand. If she noticed that the door was closed, it didn’t seem to bother her. And if she hadn’t noticed, well, I wasn’t about to draw attention to it by opening it.
She walked over to a mirror that hung on the hotel room wall and started applying her makeup. “If you are here to fight, I’m not interested,” she said in-between brush strokes. “Not today, at least.”
“Fight?” I echoed. Why would I get into a fight with someone I didn’t know? And I didn’t know her, right? I mean, it’s not like we were married or anything—
“When we got married,” she said, still doing her makeup, and I felt like she had plucked my thoughts right out of my head, “you said to me, ‘Holly, I don’t want to be one of those passive-aggressive couples that say one thing and mean another.’ And I agreed. Hell, that was part of my wedding vows. So I’m telling you what I mean—I don’t want to get into a fight. Not tonight.”
“Tonight?” I was so taken aback, echoing her words seemed to be all I was capable of.
“Yes, tonight.”
She walked back into the bathroom and from the angle where I was standing, I watched her disrobe in the bathroom mirror. She was wearing lingerie and, well … lingerie. Hellelujah! I turned away. I could hear the soft rustling sound of her shimmying into her tight black dress.
I walked deeper into the room. “What’s special about tonight?” I noted that she had no luggage and that little items littered the wardrobe and dresser tops: jewelry, keys, loose change and a gun.
What the hell was a gun doing here?
“Come on, Jean-Luc, tonight is Christmas … and then there are the festivities to consider.”
“Festivities?” Back to echoing.
“Yes, festivities.” She walked out in her black dress and, by the GoneGods, poets would not be able to capture her beauty. She was … phenomenal. “You remember—the Christmas party you said I could throw.”
I gave her a blank look.
She rolled her eyes and opened the door, and now I was too bewildered to worry if she noticed I’d closed it. “Festivities,” she repeated, walking to the railing and pointing down.
I followed her and looked down. The Millennium Hotel had an open-concept stairwell and I could see all the way to the bottom, where dozens of Others dressed in tuxes mulled about. Elves played classical music while gnome waiters served finger foods on silver platters.
“I didn’t know we were having a party …” I shook my head. I knew we weren’t having a party. I was sure of it—wasn’t I? I couldn’t tell. My head was fuzzy; vague memories of booking the catering company swam in the back of my mind.
“Ahhh,” I said, rubbing my eyes. “I must be tired.”
“You are, honey,” Holly said, touching my cheek. Then she eyed me, confusion in her eyes, before shaking her head. “You’ve been
working so hard. We all have. I tell you what … you stay up here, have a rest. I can hold down the fort.”
With that, she led me back inside the room, gently kissed my cheek and left, closing the door behind her.
↔
I took off my coat. In just my white T-shirt and pants, I paced the room. Everything was off—the storm, not remembering Holly’s name, not remembering that Holly was my wife, forgetting about the Christmas party … Just off.
“Everything is just off,” I said to the empty room.
Confused and more anxious than ever, I made fists with my toes.
“Son of a bitch,” I mumbled to myself. “This actually works.” And thought about how I would have to get Miral to check me out to see if something was really wrong with me, or if it was just the toll of dealing with Others’ daily drama. Perhaps I wasn’t—
My thoughts were cut off by a sound erupting in the lobby.
Gunfire.
The Scene has been Set—
“OK, Action,” Story says. “You’re up.”
“Finally,” Action says, and cracks his knuckles (to which Sci-Fi rolls her eyes). “Let’s do this.”
ACT ONE
DIE HARDLY
by ACTION
and told in First Person Past Tense
I stuck my head out of the room and saw several gunmen distributed along the foyer floor. They fired their guns up in the air. Others cowered on the ground and the terrorists circled them.
Then one of them walked into the center of the room. Even though I couldn’t quite see who he was, I noted that he wore a finely tailored suit, and a very expensive watch gleamed on his wrist.