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Post by Jerry Flynn on Aug 21, 2009 15:20:25 GMT -5
((I have no idea who you are, but I love you!! XDDD))
Jerry had been so absorbed in his newest blank sheet that he hadn't noticed the kid approaching, and jumped when he started talking.
"Is it kinda like a mouse? It's spelled almost the same, right? It was one of my brother's spellin' words a while back an' he wouldn't tell me what it meant but it was spelled almost like mouse 'cept without the U after the O... Wait... If it's like a mouse, how come you're mad it went away? Was it your pet or somethin'? If it was I bet it'll come back. Martin Kinsey, this kid in my class, he lost his dog for almost three days an' then it jus' showed up on 'is doorstep in the morning' wantin' food."
He smiled at the talkative boy. His inquisitive nature was refreshing; a poetic soul trapped in the hells of Brooklyn, Jerry was more accustomed to the brawn-over-brains type running rampant here. His brother Jensen fit in here so much better than Jerry did. Ironic that Jensen was the one always fighting their abrupt lifestyle change.
"No, a muse isn't a pet," he said, setting his pen back in the inkwell and closing his writing journal. "The muses were Greek goddesses that inspired writers and artists to find their creativity and create beautiful artwork. Some people like to think they have their own personal muse who inspires them. But if that's true, mine seems to have taken an unscheduled vacation." He indicated the small pile of crumpled papers he'd created beside the bench in the last three hours.
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Post by murdoch on Aug 21, 2009 22:45:23 GMT -5
Murdoch's eyes lit up with excitement at the man's reply and for the first time in his life, he hoped that the fact that he had been talking to himself hadn't meant that he was just a benevolent crazy. "Wow, really?!" he asked, brimming with enthusiasm. "You mean I could have some kinda weird lady in my head who magically gives me good ideas for stuff if I jus' start writin'?" suddenly, he stopped talking and his ecstatic expression melted into one of disappointed puzzlement. "Aww, but that can't be true for ev'rybody can it? I mean, my brother, he tried t' write a poem for this one girl once so she'd like him" He paused only for a moment to shudder in disgust and mimic vomiting before he continued "an' it was lousy. I'm tellin' ya if he had some lady tellin' him what to write the whole time, either she was stinkin' drunk or just really, really mean. I mean, it was really bad. The girl even laughed at him." he practically whispered the last part, looking sympathetic in spite of himself. Bascom may have been mean and bossy and stupid for wanting to spend time with lousy, cootie-infested and the poem was really really bad but he hadn't deserved the whole school laughing at him. That was his and Hyrum's job.
The memory of Bascom's humiliation reminded him of the problem that the weird guy had just told him about and his enthusiasm returned as swiftly as it had gone. "But I bet your muse is a whole lot better than his or...she was. Y'know, if she ain't unionized, you could prolly jus' get a new one if she don't come back real soon, but that'd be real mean 'cause then her kids would starve." He paused again looking momentarily grave "But, wait! she could prolly jus' make it show up with magic!" he burst out joyfully, walking over to the bench that the guy was sitting at and climbing up onto it. "So ya really could get a new one. Ya really oughta do that." he finished, looking very pleased with himself as he settled into his seat. This was way better than stickball .
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Post by Jerry Flynn on Aug 24, 2009 0:58:59 GMT -5
Jerry laughed appreciatively at the kid's suggestions. This boy was a small riot, he was. Adorable as anything, too, and smart as a whip. Poor kid wouldn't last long in Brooklyn if left to his own; Jerry hoped his parents had sense enough to teach him to keep to his own.
"Weeeell," he started, considering his words carefully. "It's not so much that there's a weird lady in my head, as it is a weird lady owning my head. You can't really fire your muse, but she can fire you. She's sort of like a queen, and you serve her. She gives you inspiration when it suits her, and it's your responsibility to act on it. If you don't, she can get angry and leave for a while, or she can just keep bugging you and bugging you and bugging you until you don't have any choice but to answer her or go out of your mind. That's how people know that the muses are girls, see? Because girls, girls just drive you nuts, and that's just how it is. Girls drive boys nuts, and boys just take it."
Jerry looked to the crumpled papers, nudged one over and begin kicking it around with the toe of his shoe. "Muses are finicky, but you need them. No one's every written anything good without help from their muse. So you put up with their tantrums and their dismissals and their pesterings, because without them you'd never write anything of merit. And then what would my life be worth? I need my muse, because writing is what I do. I couldn't cope without her, so I'm left to sit here and wait for her to return to me."
A duck, possibly the same one as before, Jerry couldn't be sure, came waddling over looking very cross. It followed the crumpled ball Jerry kicked back and forth a moment, then darted forward and snatched the paper up in its bill and ran away with it again. It rushed a few yards, wings spread as though it was ready to take flight any moment, then stopped when it realized Jerry and the kid weren't giving chase. It turned, keeping them in its sights while it dropped the ball and poked at it with his beak, nipping it and shaking it. Discovering it was neither food nor suitable nesting material, it picked up the ball again and waddled back to the bench, depositing the ball neatly in the pile.
Jerry watched the duck with interest, and smiled as it returned the crumpled ball to the pile. "My muse always returns," he said happily, flipping his writing journal open again and quickly jotting down the duck's actions. Maybe a story about ducks after all...
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Post by murdoch on Aug 24, 2009 10:31:05 GMT -5
Murdoch made a face at the thought of a girl actually owning his head . He definitely didn't want that . He liked controlling his own ideas and stuff and even if he ever has to give that power to someone else, he would want it to be another boy not some stupid, mean girl who didn't even stick around all the time anyhow. He might be a little bit okay with it if these muses were nice like his mama but they sounded a lot more like the girls at school or the old jerk of a schoolteacher who was always paddling him and giving him detention just for being a little late for class
((Not done! Sorry, I thought my ipod erased this post but, apparently it actually posted it.))
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Post by Peaches Carington on Sept 22, 2009 21:41:48 GMT -5
(New Day)
Peaches sat down on the bench by the lake in prospect park. She had heard people talk about how beautiful it was here, but she had never been. It was everything everybody said. The lake glistened from the sun and birds were chirping in the trees. A butterfly fluttered in front of her face.
Peaches smiled and tilted her head back slightly basking in the warmth of the sun. She looked around the area to see if anyone was in the vicinity. No one was around, so she unbuttoned the top button of her dress and unpinned her hair and let the red curls fall down onto her shoulders. Then she pulled her shoes off and curled her legs up under her. Staring out at the lake, she smiled and began to hum.
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Post by Smarty Jones on Feb 4, 2010 22:52:15 GMT -5
{{New Day}}
Smarty Jones slumped in her seat in a way that made several more well-to-do people take notice and give her dissaproving glances. She hardly saw them--her eyes were focused on the lake in front of her. She was not the poetic type in the least, but in her current state of thoughtfulness she couldn't help but notice the sun reflecting off the rippled water looked like flashbulbs going off--millions of little cameras photographing her and her lousy posture and her boy clothes and her knotted, ugly hair. She had to look away from it. Damn nature.
She closed her eyes and sighed heavily. This was the first time she'd been back to Brooklyn since the war, and she wasn't planning on going to the lodging house just yet. She didn't know if it was okay to face them again. She knew the ran the risk of running into one of them here, but it was better this way. She couldn't stay in Queens, even if--hell, she couln't stay in Queens for any reason at all. Brooklyn was calling her, and she longed for some kind of familiarity.
When she opened her eyes again, the sun was behind a cloud, and the flashbulbs had gone.
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Post by Danny Hughes on Feb 7, 2010 17:56:49 GMT -5
Danny had been spending more time in the park than he ever used to, finding it a welcome escape from the noise and chaos of the busy streets. He was a quiet man by nature, and increasingly found those places which manifested this aspect of his personality comforting. The emptiness, curiously enough, left him feeling restored.
Stretched out in the grass and leaning lazily against an old oak Danny allowed his mind to wander, watching the smoke he blew out as it swirled before him. Through this haze the part of Danny's mind that remained conscious caught sight of a lump of blonde hair hanging over the back of the bench in front of him. Recognition of its owner came slowly, but managed to drag him back to reality. Smarty Jones.
He shifted slightly, pulling his hat back out of his eyes and watching her intently. He noticed the looks she was earning from various passers by but instead of feeling pity, found himself mildly amused. It wasn't a reaction fueled by lingering feelings of vengeance, but something more akin to familial fondness. He knew her well enough to know how little she cared about the opinions of strangers.
Danny held on to few emotions, and rarely wasted his time with anger. As far as he was concerned, Smarty had hurt his friend, and he had taken care of the situation. This left him feeling no different toward Smarty than he had before the situation, but he understood from experience there were few who shared his ability to move on. He had no idea what had sent her packing to Queens, and didn't have the ego to suspect he had anything to do with it. Whatever her problem was, he held no animosity toward the moody blonde.
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