Another day as a level 4 aetheric benevolence. Or as you humans like to say: a Muse.
I hop through Bloom-space (the multiversal bleed between dimensions), injecting idea after idea into the psychogenic receptor ports of aspiring writers. On a daily basis, I thwart the likes of Grammar Nazis, Office Drones, and other forms of shitty thinkers. I constantly have to erase their horrible premises from vulnerable minds. It’s a never-ending job. Kinda like pulling weeds.
Concepts and plot-lines flow by me in a colored swirl of arcane beauty. I hop on a sonnet, push off its volta, then leap through the void and land on an unwritten thriller noir. I adopt a bladed stance with my vaguely humanoid form (I look like a man-shaped outline rendered in glowing wireframe) and lean my hips to and fro, riding the narrative like it was a surfboard.
There are perks to being a Muse; I never get tired of glimpsing the Real Shit—Stephen King’s Dark Tower, or the next good Batman Movie after Christopher Nolan’s stuff (have faith people, it’s coming). I get to surf through an incomprehensibly beautiful sea of radiance, reveling in a wash of pure creation. I don’t have to worry about sharks, but I do gotta watch out for mundanity. Opinions differ on which is worse.
Skip skap ske-doo! I twirl into a 720 spin and tuck my body, whirling through the air like an ace snowboarder. The unwritten noir dissolves into a crumble of light, and I grab onto a yet-to-be-produced album that’s flying by. I muscle up onto its surface—it looks like an infinitely long stretch of incandescent sheet music—and start hopping between chords, jumping onto a bar line and riding it like a psychic slip-n-slide; as I zip down its length, multicolored notes spark off my feet and fly into Bloom-space. Wheeeeee!
I look down and see two dark shadows toiling over someone’s mind (in Bloom-space, minds appear as disembodied heads that look like they’re sleeping. When they’re accessed, the heads hinge open and reveal bank upon banks of concept-ports; they appear as symbols and shapes in suspended animation, only they all spin in place and they’re made of light).
Who the fuck is messing with that mind??? I just implanted a zombie premise into it less than an hour ago!
I leap off the musical bar and somersault down, landing squarely on a budding prequel. “Hey!” I yell. “What the fuck are you two doing to that mind? I just—”
They turn around and the words dry up in my mouth. Popped collars and backwards baseball caps adorn their indistinct, shadowy features.
“Back off Muse,” one of them slurs. “this dude ain’t gonna write; nah, he’s gonna waste his life thinking about the latest water cooler talk, or reality show-borne trend. So why don’t you fuck the hell off, huh?”
“Over my dead asshole,” I retort. “That mind is ready to unleash some story, so unless you jagoffs are putting the next Rick n’ Morty into it, you all better—”
“FUCK YOU!” The two Douche-bros come at me swinging, attacking me with copious amounts of slightly outdated slang, Bro science, and Axe Body Spray. I stumble back from the idiotic barrage, blocking their assault with syllogistic shields and rhetorical parries. I do my best, but they’re too goddamn strong. My shields start failing and I bow to a knee.
This is not how I envisioned dying; I was supposed to do more than this, goddammit. I’ve been growing ideas for a quite some time now in one of my most perverted yet imaginative minds—that of Kent Wayne—and he still needs to write the Unbound Realm, the Rarefied Tightrope, and that astral detective noir. I still have stuff do, and that doesn’t entail perishing under a rip-chain barrage of sheer stupidity.
So I dive five minds down, reach into Kent Wayne’s psyche, and trigger the narrative known as Echo, activating its reality distortion powers. Magic flash.
Utter chaos erupts from Kent’s mind. Something that looks half-Batman, half-super-hot-soccer-mom, boils out from his luminescent concept-ports, waving giant penis-tentacle arms like an epilectic octopus. It fixes its eyes on the two Douche-bros, roars in fury, and levels its penis-arms at them. They turn tail and flee for their motherfucking lives.
Cyborg velociraptors shoot from the tips of the penis-arms in stuttering rapid-fire. A sound like an X-wing turbolaser accompanies each round, and the Douche-bros quickly disappear under a dogpile of robofied raptors, screaming as they’re ripped into tiny, blackened wisps. Once they’re gone, the Batman/soccer-mom/penis-octopus/velociraptor-launcher funnels back into Kent’s mind in a blinking twitch.
I can’t help but shake my head, a rueful grin plastered to my lips.
Kent Wayne. You magnificent idiot.
Are you a freewheeling muse, fighting for your life as you strive to protect your charges from being infected by inanity? Never fear! Get Echo Vol. 1 on Kindle here: Vol. 1 on Kindle. Vol. 2 on Kindle here: Vol.2 on Kindle Vol. 3 on Kindle here: Vol. 3 on Kindle Echo Vol. 1 & 2 Combined Edition here: Combined Edition #kindle #kindleunlimited #sciencefiction #scifi #books #novel #book