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The rain had stopped, and it was quiet. Brooding.

       (She was walking down the cold sidewalk, all alone. She usually liked it that way. It's easier to listen to all the thoughts, when you're alone. ) Melpomene was walking, and generally cursing humans with all their stupid problems, and wondering why she hadn't stayed on Olympus, even if she couldn't stand all the constant drama going on between Zeus and who knows who at this point--he's such a bastard and the cloud-dancing harp-playing ninnies that really didn't contribute anything to the good of the world. Mel preferred being up close and personal, being able to see the reactions of the mortals as she brought inspiration to their pen and ink or made them beg for more--being sadistic is fun. She preferred dealing with everyday problems such as the weather, hygiene, and steady work, because everything was made worth it by the poetry that rolled out from their ambrosia-laden tongues after she touched them on the shoulder and let them go. That was Mel's job, and she liked it. Still, it's days like this-- 

       She tripped over a break in the uneven sidewalk and fell, sprawling ungracefully to the cement, which hardly embraced her. She watched as her purse spilled open in front of her, and random items began to fall out. It promptly began to rain again, first at a drizzle then picking up enthusiasm until it was practically standing-room only with all the cats and dogs. This is absolutely ridiculous. I need a drink. She watched as her mascara tube rolled slowly, almost comedically, into the middle of the road. Spiked pineapple juice heals all wounds. Mel picked herself up, pulled her hat low over her eyes, and picked up her purse, attempting to resume being dignified.  

       She went marching into the bar-- the nearest from where she had fallen but also her particular favorite-- two of her favorite poets practically lived there, a cold cup of coffee sitting in front of them, forgotten, as they wrote on shredded pieces of napkin; these were the real ones, the ones that never stopped dreaming. They had beautiful dreams. She touched their shoulders and that's all it took. They had the gift, they simply needed a muse to draw the brilliant words from their minds. Mel liked looking at them. Somehow the intense look on their faces made her feel sorry for them, if only for a moment. Mortals tried so hard to see... but they were blind. 

       Melpomene always waited for the right one, watching intently as the night faded into morning. It was always rewarding. Virgil, Lucretius... her work. Of course. They never credited her but on the inside. Thalia was the one most people loved because she made them laugh. But Mel made things that were beautiful, and she made them last. 

       But the bar definitely wasn't the same today... the poets were there, and the bartender was serving up something bubbly, but she couldn't hear their thoughts as she usually could. Something shimmered in the air as she looked around the bar, and before she could turn away she was standing in a particularly different place, still holding onto her rain-filled purse,  as a fire crackled. There were people, and a few of them were talking. Some were brooding-- but she couldn't hear what they were thinking. There was a pool table, and a staircase, which spiraled up and out of sight. Mel turned quickly, looking for a way out. There was, distinctly, no door whatsoever. 

       It was rather confusing.
       Melpomene really wanted a drink.

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tragic_mask

November 2009

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