“Thar she blows,” said the Lexicon Dragon in a husky voice. She had donned a captain’s cap in the interim and was smoking a foul smelling pipe. She resembled Captain Ahab, which by process of elimination, made me Moby Dick, or rather a large whale. I resented the comparison, but yes, I did indeed blow. Chunks of grey matter flew across the room and landed in jellied chunks on the carpet. The muse had to pick some extraordinarily gross pieces from her hair.
‘Juck,” she exclaimed, “I do believe your grey matter is rather gooey for an intelligent writer such as yourself. It should have more substance, like my upper thigh from which, I am sure, a small adult could swing.”
I paid her no mind, I was having a meltdown. Like an angry two year old, I allowed all the pent up emotions to simply boil over. If I am not mistaken I think I might have stamped my feet and rolled around on the floor for a while. Self pity is a terrible thing to witness especially if you wallow in it like a pig in mud. Eventually I flopped onto the floor, cradling what was left of my exploded head. I was overjoyed to find that my ears were still attached; my irritating, gigantic nose hung around like a lump of clay. I couldn’t get rid of the thing!
I was slapped out of my stupor by an evil odour. I could see it hanging green and sluggish in the middle of the room.
“Did the cat catch one of the Koi again? Who forgot to take it out?” I asked as I glanced around at the characters present. They all shrugged, but were wrinkling their assorted noses in disgust.
“What died?” asked the muse, she was never one to mince words.
“Not me. Not yet anyway.”
“Damn, it’s disgusting!” All the voices were raised in unison and I could feel a headache coming on. Heaven knows why I always had to solve everyone’s problems.
“Don’t put yourself out on our account,” she of the jiggling bottom said.
“Did I tell you to make it part of your very public blog?” she asked and I had to admit that it was due to my own stupidity that the world now knew that I had the dreaded M. I could hear my eggs shrivelling up and calling for help. I did not want any more children, so why on earth was I feeling sad about the approach of the dreaded M?
“It’s the loss of the possibility of having a child,” said the muse, once more in her intelligent Einstein phase. I was starting to feel warm and fuzzy towards her; she understood after all.
“Imagine two more of you running around and driving us all to drink?” she said, rolling her eyes.
“What is wrong with being a little eccentric?” I could feel the heat rising in my neck and settling in my cheeks. Due to the chaotic pole dancing of my hormones, anger came easily, bouts of crying was a close second. She of the bounteous bust took one look at me and bounded (the walls shook and bits of plaster cascaded form the ceiling) to the light switch. With a smirk she turned on the ceiling fan and whistled loudly. A white elephant appeared which duly flapped his large ears at her command. A cool breeze floated across my burning cheeks.
“Have you no sympathy woman?” I asked, “Just wait until you find yourself in this same aging boat.” By this time I was livid, the roots of my hair had turned red and smoke escaped the top of my head. If I was a cartoon character, you would have heard a loud, echoing whistle as I let off steam.
“Everyone, dive for cover!” she shouted. “Her head is about to explode- go to code red immediately! She is about to give new meaning to the phrase waking up with a bang!”
“Once again…NOT FUNNY!”
“Run for your lives!” This was the last thing I heard before a loud explosion filled the room.
The fragility of life lies in the gossamer wings of a white butterfly.
“Prepare yourself I am going to wax philosophical,” I warned the muse.
“Wax on, wax off,” she answered rolling her eyes which were sporting false eyelashes and yellow and blue eye shadow. She looked as if someone had punched her in the face repeatedly. It was best to ignore her when she was in such a mood as this, because pretty soon, I would be the one who wanted to punch her.
“I was standing in a grass field at nine this morning. In the blink of an eye I was surrounded by thousands of tiny white butterflies. One landed fleetingly on my arm before taking off for parts unknown. I had the overwhelming feeling of being truly blessed.”
“Shall I play the theme song to Titanic now or are you through?” she asked, glaring at me.
“Their life span is so short that their beauty should be appreciated. It reminded me of how short my time on earth truly is and how I needed to transform myself and allow my soul to metamorphose, to grow, become translucent and fragile as their wings,” I continued, wilfully ignoring the hundred yard stare.
“Channelling Plato are we?”
“You did not experience it,” I reminded her, “simply because you refused to embrace Nature. I went outside and got more than I bargained for.”
“Mmmm hmmmm, it’s dangerous out there. Have you seen the size of those cows? That would be more than I bargained for. Actually trees are more,” she said shivering dramatically.
Nevertheless, Rodney braved all the obstacles and laid his case before the Circle cum triangle. He would be the bunnies’ spokesperson. The magicians listened intently; a few heads were even nodding as Rodney explained that what was happening was an affront to all living things as well as the art of magic. He stated that he believed the magician in question should be punished severely and an example set. A young, female magician, who was transcribing the whole affair, abruptly left the building. Later, Rodney would learn that she was the Juliet to Bunny Bane’s Romeo. Normally what happened within the Circle, stayed in the Circle, but the lady in question had loose lips, quite literally as Rodney had seen her blowing raspberries when she thought no one was looking. The sight of her flapping, vibrating lips made him feel quite ill. Spittle flew everywhere and he had to open his umbrella indoors and chance the bad luck that would soon come his way.
As fate would have it, Magician Bunny Bane received a slap on the wrist and was ordered to do children’s parties for a year. He was banned from using high magic and would have to make do with sleight of hand. Children saw through his act and the ridicule stung. He hated Rodney and proclaimed that the trouble starter would soon suffer the bane of Bunny Bane, very vain this Bane. Without thinking twice, Bane had turned him into the disgusting creature he now was, cleverly disguising the fact that he had used high magic by merely bouncing Barmy Butterfinger’s uncontrollable spell off a magical shield and onto long suffering Rodney. Barmy’s spells were unpredictable at best and unhinged at worst.
Novel writing was taking its toll and I had a headache that would stop an elephant in its tracks. I knew that somewhere, in a hidden, convoluted part of my brain an angry troll had taken up residence. He had an enormous hammer which he was now using to take out his frustration on the world. Yes, he was ugly as sin. He cracked mirrors and exploded smooth pond surfaces, shiny objects scuttled away from him and hid in dark corners. His body was covered in an assortment of hair which, even he, was hard pressed to provide an origin for. He looked mangy and unkempt. He never smiled and had serious anger and control issues, which was understandable, I suppose. I had as yet not called in a psychiatrist.
Fugly (this was not his given name, but a nickname that had attached itself to him once his trollness became apparent) had not started his life in this manner. He was once, before he decided to run and take up residence in my head, a magician’s apprentice; a handsome boy with blue eyes and a mane of dark, curly hair. The magician, Sir Bunny Bane, was a perverted soul. He preferred to entice hats out of bunnies instead of the other way around. Fugly, who was then known as Rodney could not stand the singing piles that would pop out as soon as the top hats had made their appearance. They were false and only knew one song: “Ouch, ouch, ouch par de dum, ouch, ouch, ouch, par de dum, we all stand together dum, dum…”
“Let’s just throw a pity party and be done with it,” the muse said angrily.
“I will invite the grief counsellor, Crocodile Tears. We will have to send out smoke signals as he is alone in the wilderness crying his heart out. It’s a crying shame that you have to disturb the empathetic man, but we really have no choice as you have already killed and buried your writing career within the space of your egg-head. Grieve about it and then get on with it or own up to your idiotic fear and write! I can only do so much, you know and heaven knows you have been going on and on about it. I shall immediately find a Krazy Straw so that you can suck it up. Grow a pair or wear some big girl panties, better yet I can loan you my new leopard spot g-string.”
She cracked her whip, flounced away and left me sitting in a miserable heap. A dung beetle crawled over my knee and a vulture hopped closer, his beady eyes intent upon having a beak full of some cowardly chicken. I gathered myself and trudged home, feeling sorry for myself. Tomorrow, I would have to face the dreaded blank screen of Microsoft Word and try to dredge up the words that were as deeply buried in their watery grave as Atlantis. I think I should wear my brainy thinking cap, don’t you?
“Might I remind you that I live inside that chaotic thing you call a mind? Lard, indeed.”
“Oops, I did it again,” I sang as I swayed my broad hips and knocked over a few innocent trees. They picked up their branch and leaf skirts and hurried away, muddy ground falling from their roots. I heard via the tree grapevine that they had set up shop in the Bermuda triangle as they figured that was one place where even I would not go.
“You cannot escape the mind of a writer you know,” I shouted after them.
“Don’t I bloody well know it,” the muse said. I actually understood what she meant Even for me, living inside my own skull was sometimes too chaotic as I ran the gamut from depression to euphoria in seconds it seemed.
‘Lard ass,” I said unkindly.
“Granted, but can you at least admit that this year’s NaNoWriMo has you scared stiff?”
“No-oo-oo, I was only looking for a worm today, honestly. I figure he took my mojo deep underground. If I can find him, I might be okay.”
“What kind of a cockamamie excuse is that?”
“Well, technically speaking a cock is a chicken, squawk,” I said, flapping my wings frenetically. Ladies never mention the other meaning except when you are an excellent erotica writer and have to call a spade a spade and not a fork.
Ready for something hot and steamy? Their +1
“Don’t blame me for your chaotic thoughts. I am not the one allowing them free rein in that oddly misshapen egg you call a head. For the sake of my sanity put on a different thinking cap,” she spat.
“You are what you think, you know,” was the sage advice that was pounded into me, word for word, by a pudgy finger.
“Yeah, yeah,” I answered, flapping my arm-wing futilely. The very moment I completed the gesture, the realisation that it had been the wrong thing to do in the mood she was in, hit me like a runaway quidditch ball. Where the hell was Harry Potter when you needed him anyway?
“Well, I never…,” she said and I could see the mercury in her anger thermometer rise to dangerous levels. She was about to blow and pieces of lard would be whizzing around at the speed of light. Perhaps it was time for a sturdy helmet and not one of the several dozen thinking caps I had collected over the years. Unfortunately, everyone in the known universe would be picking up the pieces for weeks. Lard refineries would be springing up all over the place and the earth would be covered in a thick layer of hazy smoke. Visiting aliens would choke and post a notice in the Milky Way which would read: Beware; this is a lard-assed planet! Intruders will be melted down and used as lip balm for the many-mouthed, slimy Octolupians. (I just made this up, there is no such race…or is there? Nope, just Googled it.)
Monsieur Petit, an eccentric French newscaster, who had taken up residence in my head after my miniscule stroke, pored over the news bulletin I had just handed him. His thin moustache quivered as he said:
“I am not sure I can read zis.”
“Why not?” I asked innocently.
“A genteel man such as myself…we do not speak of zese things,” he said, sighing dramatically.
“Read it or…,” I threatened, making the age old slice across the neck with the forefinger. Petit carried a family history of dark dreams like heavy luggage. I know it was a mean thing to do to the mousy man, but I wouldn’t really expunge him; I had grown to love the old fellow and his quirkiness.
He cleared his throat and off he went, blushing furiously: “We apologize for interrupting ze normal Muse broadcast. We urge everyone on planet earth to be on ze lookout for ze new mountain range. Scientists presume that it must have appeared within ze last twenty four hours. Ze muse has lost her grey, satin bra and is in ze state; no one can placate her. Ze bra could have landed anywhere as she tends to fling ze items around. Keep zose eyes peeled for two metal grey twin peaks. Do not attempt to climb zem; there is not enough oxygen at ze peaks and we cannot send out anymore search teams. Ze search teams are currently busy looking for ze same lady’s sea blue bikini panties. Somewhere there will be ze new lake, this I can promise. Ze naked, crazy woman needs help if any of us are to survive. If ze bra is found, we urge you to call ze hotline 0800- BRA-LESS; if you happen upon ze panties, ze number is 0800-PANTS-LESS. Merci.”
Please watch this space for ze one-lovely-blog award, coming up next.
“Are you more afraid now?” she asked, cracking the whip within a hair’s breadth of my folded, wing-like arm.
“Ye-es?” I asked, unsure of precisely what she wanted me to answer. She looked like something which had sprung from the pages of a guide on how to become a wannabe dominatrix. Knowing her, I knew that she would use the whip in an instant if I became unruly in her opinion.
“Chicken,” she snorted. I glanced at her surreptitiously, continuing to scrabble in the dirt. I was after the mystical worm which would make all my self-doubt disappear and literally force me to sit down and finish a year old manuscript. The dreaded NaNoWriMo was also at hand and November the first lurked on my doorstep like a hungry beggar. At this stage I could only feed it scraps; perhaps a mangled sentence or two and it was turning ugly. Soon, I knew, it would eat me alive and spit out my heavy boned skeleton. I fervently hoped I would give it indigestion, failing that twist its innards to resemble a Picassoesque pretzel. Yes, I was out for revenge.
The dreaded whip cracked and I felt a feathery touch on the bald spot I had developed after massive amounts of cortisone was pumped through my system.
“Come on!” I squawked.