“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.
“Please keep in mind that I want this to be a serious discussion about a serious disease,” I asked for the umpteenth time. Even while I said it, I knew that the battle had already been lost. The characters in my skull were a comedic bunch and I waited for the penny to drop.
“Well, its’ a twisted story,” the muse was the first to succumb.
“That’s awful,” I sputtered, feeling rather embarrassed.
“Dear, I am sure that these sufferers have a hell of a time dealing with the illness, but I think one should rather focus on the positive. They say that five minutes of laughter a day can extend your life by at least ten years.”
“Be that as it may, I am sure that it is no laughing matter. Have you seen how contorted their bodies become? Uncomfortable in the extreme,” I argued.
“Their bodies can’t be as distorted as your mind, dear?”
“How did we get from Dystonia to the state of my mind?” I asked, knowing that she had something up her very large sleeve as usual.
“Sometimes you twist and contort and stuff us into tiny holes. You have Dystonia of the mind, dear.”
“Only when you disobey or become erratic.” I felt the sudden need to defend myself against the rallying hordes.
“Sometimes I need some space and time to think, and you know that you carry on,” I said glaring at her.
“Me?” she asked innocently.
“Of course, you know that you do.” I could feel myself becoming hot under the collar.
“Oooh, the temperature around here is definitely rising,” she said, fanning her face melodramatically.
“Are you sure you aren’t experiencing early menopause, dear?”
I hated the fact that she could read me like a comic book. Yes, I was a woman of a certain age and the hot flushes were rightfully, dreadfully mine, but was it really necessary for the entire bloody world to know about them?
I slipped into the role quite comfortably. Some people are of the opinion (read the muse) that I am a drama queen, but I am merely capable of playing different roles superbly. Perhaps my imagination is just a tad overly dramatic and visually inclined, but what on earth is wrong with that?
“Hnnnhhhh….help me,” I groaned. I had my arms outstretched in front of me and my feet were dragging on the floor. I allowed my head to slump onto my shoulders and groaned convincingly. The Lexicon Dragon peered around the wall of her cave.
“What kind of language is hnnnhhh? It does not compute and I cannot find it in any of the dictionaries I have consulted.”
“Zzzzooommmbie ssssppeeeaaakkk,” I said, slurring the words.
“Are you quite allright?” she asked solicitously.
“Nooooo,” I answered, “I am decomposing and have the distinct urge to eat your brain, scooping it from your skull with a soup ladle.”
The Lexicon Dragon’s eyes went wide as she scurried back to her library, speed dialling the muse. The lady in question appeared within seconds, her hair covered in a zebra striped shower cap, her body wrapped in a voluminous bright orange towel. The ensemble almost turned me into a real zombie.
“Hhhnnnhhhh, a fatty brain,” I groaned as I lurched towards her. I fashioned my fingers into claws and grinned at her manically.
“Smell my decomposing flesh and quake in your boots, woman,” I added.
“As if,” she snorted. I felt quite disheartened at her blasé attitude towards my superb drama skills.
“Cotard’s Syndrome?” she asked and my bubble burst. She knew way too much, damn the woman. I kept forgetting that she could not be fooled- she was part of me after all.
The queen had, for all intents and purposes shut her womb against the entrance of the king’s wayward seed. If this was what he produced there would be no more groaning or coming and going in the bed chamber. To tell the truth, the king was rather inept in the art of lovemaking and the queen would never suffer through another of these episodes willingly. She knew he would be content with the plastic doll she ordered, which lo and behold actually looked a lot like her.
The king approached the balcony, holding the infant before him. The crowd stepped back in horror. Young children screamed and hid their faces in their mom’s aprons. Prince Charming would become the thing that misbehaved children would be scared of for centuries to come. A groan spread through the crowd. Fingers were pointed and eventually the king scooped errant brain cells together and stared at his son’s bowed legs. He was born with six toes on each of his malformed feet.
Hmm, he has extra bits, mused the king.
“What are you staring at?” he shouted belligerently.
“Nothing, Sire,” a gravelly voice answered.
“And who might you be?” demanded the king.
“I am Mr. Smith, Black Smith,” said the farrier as he ushered the crowd back to the streets. Everyone knew that the king could be volatile. It happened like clockwork every time his brain cells took a stroll down Lost Avenue. But, he was their king for better or worse; he who must be obeyed if you did not want to walk the plank into the mugger infested moat.
As the muse will shortly be outing herself in the form of a book, I was stumped for new characters for the blog post which would be welcomed with open arms and would work as a replacement for the enigmatic figure. With her blessing she is stepping back to allow others their moment in the spotlight. I hope they make you giggle as much if not more than the muse.
Therefore meet Queen Gnol Gnireffus, which is basically long suffering spelled backwards. She has had a hard life; was forced to marry the inferior King Dimwit who was intellectually challenged and battled to understand most things in life and had a son who was so ugly that he shattered all the mirrors in the kingdom. She called him Prince Charming, he deserved something in life, and it might as well be a name. Charming he was not, neither was he handsome, hence the non existence of any reflective surfaces in the entire kingdom. He even cracked the Lake Woebegone in winter.
Queen Gnol Gnireffus forced him into the world with various grunts and groans and the prerequisite tub of warm water on a cold midwinter evening, took one look at him and subsequently fainted. Even then he was swarthy, had a hooked nose, unfocused eyes which tended to wander in their orbs, tufts of hair which grew haphazardly across his knobbly skull and skin which seemed oddly scaly. The midwife held him out to King Dimwit who merely grunted and took him out onto the balcony. He held him up for the populace to see. The king had watched Lion King a number of times and had always wanted to re-enact that particular scene. Now he could do so with his one and only offspring.
“What on earth are you doing, dear?” asked the Muse. I was caught doing a jiggly one-footed dance while at the same time trying to get the darn pantyhose to fit over my bootyliscious butt.
“Putting on pantyhose should be an Olympic sport,” I groaned.
“One size fits all, my arse,” I said as I groped for the waistband and tried to hop into them.
“Since you brought it up, your derriere is on the large side, dear.”
“Thank you, Captain bloody Obvious,” I said, remembering to breathe in between spurts of frantic action. I looked insane; like a stalker without a purpose, a fly without a sticky mess. I bent my knees and hauled the hose up. No one wanted wrinkly knees!
No matter how hard one tried, at the end of a two hour lapse, the pantyhose would start sagging and pooling around your ankles like an attentive cat. Moreover the crutch would sink innocently to your thighs, looking up at you like an underfed orphan. There is never a middle ground for these things as they sag, twist or are so tight around your crutch area that you feel like an overstuffed sofa or a volcano ready to blow. Who invented these torture devices and who says we have to wear them? Oh, the vanity of the female race- we need bronzed, silky legs sticking out under our skirts. Pantyhose were my go to item when it’s chilly, I have forgotten to shave (read lazy as all heck) or I need to look grand.
I turned 40 and the first thing out the door was; you guessed it, my pantyhose! Bring on the knee highs, ankle socks or knee socks and I couldn’t care less about my super white, veiny calves- wear your sunglasses if the glare offends you. And if I haven’t shaved, avert your eyes; there is nothing to see here! Besides which I am waiting for the wool price to rise by which time I am sure I could get a few coins for my unwanted hair, failing that I could always knit a scarf out of them!
“You have done it, dear. I must say that I certainly had my doubts about you,” said my zaftige Muse, rescuer extraordinaire.
“It has been a wonderful journey, hasn’t it?” I said and knew that I would miss the hectic schedule. We were still in Rabab’s house, waiting for Rageddy Andy to lead us homewards through the dark tunnels of Almost Neverland. As there are no crows here, she was spreading bread crumbs as she went; a yeasty trail for us to follow. The Muse was still naked and I knew I would have to wash my eyes out with soap. I longed to see my shabby study and hug Sir Laughalot and lose myself in a few words of another novel.
And here we are full circle, the journey has come to an end- an A-Z adventure filled with the weird, the wonderful and the decidedly crazy. I do hope you enjoyed the blogs as much as I have. I loved putting laughter in everyone’s lives and a smile to pack in your suitcase.
I am overjoyed to say that a book about the zaftige Muse is in the offing. She has approved the cover and has dictated quite a few stories for your enjoyment, none of which have been seen on the blog. I do hope you help her out in her endeavours as they are always hillarious and slightly insane.
A heartfelt thanks to everyone who has followed me during April, I hope the journey was worth it.
Love and hugs- a scatterbrained author!
The Muse, seeing that all the lion was good at was roaring, decided to take matters into her own hands and barked at Rabab.
The latter looked at her as if she should be committed, but I think we all know at this stage that the lady is insane. She was a figment of my imagination after all. Next she tried snarling at him.
“My dear lady, I knew you were a dog,” said Rabab and I had the distinct impression that they were to be his last words. With a jump that would put a ballerina to shame, the Muse soared through the air and landed rather heavily on Rabab. The poor fellow immediately deflated with a rather sad pffffftttt sound. The Muse unceremoniously rolled him up- he was but a paper weight after all (being written and conceived on paper) and stuffed him where the whip had come from. No, we do NOT want to know where that is.
“Right, that’s that,” she said and grinned at me. “Oh, I see the Kitty got your tongue. Is that what you have been up to you mangy lion? Stolen words never made anyone’s tummy full, you know. Just ask me,” she said and stroked her well rounded abdomen.
“Look at me, I am positively anorexic.”
“Pfffttt,” I said and she rounded on me with her teeth bared.
“What was that, dear?” she inquired.
“Uhmmm, nothing, nothing at all.” I was suddenly very afraid of her- she had a lion and heaven only knew when she would whip him out again.
“So, you were thinking of murdering the lot of us weren’t you, dear?”
“I can honestly say I wasn’t.” She looked at me and I had the distinct feeling that she did not believe me.
The history of let sleeping dogs lie.
“Why are you naked?” I spluttered.
“Xanthippe was an ancient Arthenian, dear and I presumed they would not have clothes. It is rather intimidating, don’t you think,” she said and twirled so that we all could see the intimidation from all sides.
The poor Avatar was desperately trying to avert his gaze and looked pleadingly at me. I knew he was as horrified as I was, yet I could not think of a way to get him home. I felt sorry for the blue chap.
Rabab, the cowardly fellow, seeing that the Muse was slightly distracted tried sneaking out of the back door.
“Oh no, you don’t,” said the Muse cracking a whip in his direction. I have no idea where she had secreted the whip on her naked body, but I dare say that I would not like to know anyway.
Rabab’s steps faltered as the Muse hissed at him.
“ Do I really need to do the lion’s share of the work?” she said angrily, prodding the lion with her elbow. “Why do you think I brought you along?” The lion merely looked at her disbelievingly. How dare she speak to the king of the animal realm in this disrespectful manner? He wondered whether she realised that he had teeth.
“Rabab, get you ass back here!” she yelled at the raconteur. “I am seeing red, do not make it go black. Have you no shame?” she lambasted him.
“Kill me, would you?” she sniffed. “I have had it with all the killing off of the darlings malarkey!”
“But, she can be a better writer under my tutelage,” Rabab ventured.
“Shut up. Get him Kitty!” The lion roared again and bits of plaster fell from the ceiling, Rabab was decidedly pale.
Physical effects of anger.