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The Furious Muse in the Room Upstairs (part 3)

This is a story in progress. I will post it in chunks, for the next few weeks, as I complete it. A warning: this tale is definitely not for children, so parental advisory is advised. Or don’t let your kids read this. At all. Story begins after the jump.

The Furious Muse in the Room Upstairs

By SDiRam, with an afterword by Kilawinguwak

Part 3 

“Help us?” The Viking princess smirked, and said that he had it the other way around. The three of them were here to help him. “You need to write. We are here to help you write,” the lavender nightdress said.

“I need to write like plants need to breathe carbon dioxide,” he muttered. “I’m stuck with the lead article on this paper about the Higgs Boson some physics post-graduate in Maryland needs, so if you want to help me out, feel free to sit down in front of the computer and type away.”

But the sexy one just stared at him, half-expectant, half-angry, and it was then he realized that perhaps that wasn’t what they were talking about. One of the other two ladies, a petite girl with hair that glinted brown in direct sunlight wearing a baby blue nightie, giggled and stepped into his general area, and knelt down beside him. Her perfume was intoxicating, and he could feel himself slipping away into the kind of satisfied torpor you’d reserve for an afternoon siesta after an especially heavy lunch.

“Seymore Duncan,” said the one in the blue nightie, “that is not the kind of writing you need to be working on. That is why you need us. That is why we are here.”

For some reason, SdiRam found that he could trust this woman. Her voice dripped like molasses into his mind, and he agreed with her; writing for Recto Online was pure shit, and he wasn’t really very happy doing the work that other, luckier individuals from the western hemisphere should be doing all on their own, no matter how much the lazy bastards paid him per page. He’d taken up journalism himself, and was top of his class when he graduated, but how had he come to this? When did he become so depraved an individual that he would resort to writing dissertations for rich kids who’d rather party than do their schoolwork in order to survive? That was the question in his mind as Pfil softly caressed his hair, like a lover.

But wait. He was a rational creature, and what these girls were saying didn’t make any sense. “What do you mean you’re here to help me?” he asked.

“That’s simple, sweetie,” said Pfil, and her eyes lit up when she said this. “We’re your muses! We’re here to make sure that you get to write what you really need to write! Part of our job is to give you inspiration, which really explains why we’re all wearing these skimpy negligees.” Case in point, she seemed to say, and she seemed a bit proud of it too, thought SdiRam.


A woman searches for inspiration, by William-Adolphe Bouguereau.


He thought this through. His main problem right now was that he was living in this dump of a tenement house, and that he needed to make enough money to make the month’s rent. That’s what the Recto Online gig was for. So first things first: “I still need to work on this,” he said, gesturing at his laptop (which still showed Jordan Capri), “since I need to make money. I don’t know how you guys work, but would it be possible to get some inspiration to actually get some work done, and to get it done fast?”

The sexy one fumed, and stamped her leg. “This is not what we are here for! Do not insult us with the meager necessities of your life. We are the muses, the furies of art, and we do not cater to such pedestrianism.”

“Shush, Femto,” chided baby blue, with the slightest of giggles. “We are not here to antagonize.” Then to SDiRam: “Seymore Duncan, it saddens me to tell you that we are not here to help you earn money with your craft. It is our sole duty to provide you with the inspiration you require to write, as is your destiny.”

“This,” and with that she gestured to Jordan Capri on the screen, “will be required for the survival of the flesh. But we are here to ensure the survival of your soul.”

Just like one of those fucked up charismatic churches, thought SDiRam. He shrugged, and moved to his laptop. If he wasn’t going to get any work done, he might as well reclaim his dignity and get rid of the pornography on his screen. The browser closed, the only thing on his screen was the unfinished body of the Recto Online article, and he skimmed through the first few lines speedily before shrugging again, and turning to his visitors. “My soul is, I think, none of your business, really. I need to get some work done, and if you’re not here to help me at least get that out of the way, I’d appreciate it if you leave.”

Baby blue nodded, stepped gingerly over the cables and paper towels that littered SDiRam’s studio apartment, and planted a powder-scented kiss on his left cheek. “We under stand, Seymore Duncan Idaho Ramones. We will leave you now. But if you need us, we will be in the apartment upstairs. You may look for Pfil.”


To be continued

Go to Part 2


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