Finale

I am really going to miss these stories. All were delightful, and a wonderful perusing for the weekend. I eagerly anticipated Fridays for exactly that reason. Granted, I was not always able to contribute, though I would have liked to do so. I really wanted to get something up for the finale, so my afternoon consisted of walking, writing, meeting the Princess's boyfriend, and going to a friend's swim meet this early evening. When I got back, I wrote the last paragraph and trimmed to 1000 words.

I'm not even sure if I like what I've written yet, so let me know, honestly, your feelings about it. That would be much appreciated.

So, my end to the glorious brilliance began by one classy lady and ended by another [with a twist to the prompt]. Thank you, dears, for letting and getting the rest of us into this.

And speaking of the rest of us, I encourage you to read the literary offerings of Phoenix, Silk, Nugget, Rina, and Dawn. Each one is well worth the read. [UPDATE: Jeff has written to delight us as well.]

Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you:

Daughters of Mnemosyne

Head in hands, Rue couldn’t believe Thalia had gone. Thal had been her friend when she was first struggling to survive out in the world alone. That woman had comforted her, shaped her, and had always been there for her when she was struggling to find the right thing to say. Poof! Just like that, she had vanished without a trace.

Rue glanced around the room. It was bleak, stark, pristine, so utterly unlived in. To what place had her imagination disappeared? She used to be able to fill such places with a warmth in which other people found delight, but now she just felt like an empty shell; the words were gone.

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A bus crossed the intersection, and in that disturbance of the bright neon lights, a woman appeared, silhouetted.

“Clio? Is that you?” The young man shifted uneasily on the street before her. “I’m sorry I didn’t make enough time for you, doll. I –“

But she cast a silence upon him with only a glance. Johnson knew. He knew that if he’d wanted, she could have given him the world. But he’d been too wrapped up in the job to let her nurture his talents, too wrapped up in the now to record the history of his mind and soul.

And now she was going off into the night. He wished her could say something, anything, to try to explain to her why he had not pursued his dreams, why he had neglected her. But the words wouldn’t come; they stayed choked up inside, jumbled in a mess, and fading along with her footsteps. His eloquence was gone.

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An unkempt man sat on the park bench. He looked at the stale bread crusts in his hands. His stomach rumbled, but he broke one of the crusts into pieces for the pigeons nearby. He placed the other in his lap, and was about to toss the napkin in which he had found them into the water, when an unusual feeling came upon him.

He saw the world in a whole new light. Descriptions tore across his soul, wrenching emotions from him. He badly needed an outlet, but how, with what?

“Here.” She handed him a ballpoint pen. He scrambled to write, pouring stream after stream of words onto the napkin, when they suddenly stopped. Exhausted, he dropped the pen. On it were the faded letters “C-A-L-L-I.” He glanced around for the woman, and noticed no one was there. The mysterious woman had gone.

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“Honey, you have to snap out of it! You can still write – look at the bestsellers you’ve produced! Why, they’re gems of society. Everyone’s been delighted, just delighted, with your work. You can’t stop now! Your contract says [blah blah ….],” the woman kept blathering on and on.

Head once again in her hands, Rue wished she could just go away. Unfortunately, she was stuck in a mandatory meeting. She’d missed deadline after deadline, and she couldn’t seem to do anything about it.

The door opened after a quick knock. “Ah, there you are! Rue, honey, I’d like you to meet your new secretary, Mel Pomene. We’ve hired her for you,…” the woman kept talking, but Rue wasn’t listening.

She stared at the girl, just briefly as she sat in the chair next to her. As words poured back into her soul, she snatched a pen from her purse. She immediately started writing – not the light humour of her previous work, but of a darkness, a sadness. This is going to be good, she thought as she scribbled away…

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“Johnson, what is this?” His boss handed him a sheet of paper. On it was written a poem to the goddess of starlight. He suppressed a grin, and said, “It appears to be a poem, sir.” He thought of the lovely girls who had moved into the flat next door. Rania and Poly were delightful to be with, and he felt as though his eloquence had returned to him in a new form. He was abruptly awakened by the words, “Johnson, you’re fired. I want you out of this office complex in an hour.”

“Yes, sir,” he muttered absentmindedly. He left the office, and wandered around the city, taking in the scenes. He was detached from the job, at long last, and on his way to better beginnings.

As he walked down a lonely street, two figures emerged in the bright lights. Rania and Poly linked their arms in his as he sang their praises. They were more delightful, more sacred than the stars twinkling high up above. His golden words warmed them as they snuggled closer, winking at each other.

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The unkempt man trudged down the path. He no longer found inspiration by the waters of the park, and needed a new place. He found himself at a beach, lone but for two figures. One young lady was dancing an interpretation according to the rhythms of the other, who was playing upon a ukulele. He stood transfixed, taking in how perfectly they had captured the scene, the elements of the day, with their art.

The one beckoned him to approach, and as he moved closer, he felt himself swaying. He reached their spot by the water’s edge, and dropped to his knees in awe of their talent. Slowly, he pulled out his old ballpoint to write words to match the music’s mood.

He gazed at it fondly, remembering the frenzy of words he had written when he first received it, and suddenly dropped it as though it were on fire. It no longer said, “C-A-L-L-I.” The letters, bright and new, were stranger. They read, “E-U-T-E-R-P-S-I-C-H-O-R.”

He picked it up gingerly, and began to write. He wrote as the music faded away, along with the footsteps in the sand as the women left him. Slowly he fell into a tranquil sleep.

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A voluptuous lady sashayed down the aisle. She’d make sure the groom spoke the best love poetry possible to his bride. The lady's name? Erato.