“Once upon a time, in a land far away…
“A long time ago, far, far away.
“Down the street from…”
“Cursed be every Muse that ever messed with my head!” The exasperated writer threw slips of paper with a vehemence that shot them across the room, which any writer knows is difficult with how frustratingly light paper is.
It had been quite an evening for Arenda Plythe. Actually, it had been a trying year, but the day itself had set upon a mission to cruelly destroy every shred of hope and joy that had ever made her smile.
She had opened her eyes that morning with a start. She carefully stretched herself awake, so as not to disturb the epiphany she had received in the night. Tenderly slipping out of her sheets, she moved toward her computer, grasped it, pulled it onto her lap, and triumphantly held it to her.
“YES!” she shrieked. Thankfully, her apartment was surrounded by real estate’s curse- empty apartments- and no one heard her.
Emily Alfet had been haunting her for years, but it was this year that her publishing contract depended on a great story, and it was this year that she had lost her abilities. She could not, for the sake of her life, think of what had happened to Emily Alfet, or what should, or could happen to her. She could not even force herself to begin the tale.
She had been having dreams of the lovely Emily Alfet. A spoiled daughter of Alfred Alfet, she did nothing but attend balls, premieres of movies, and the numerous other functions that debutante’s had the opportunity to grace with their presence.
Arenda despised Emily with the passion of a woman wronged in some grotesque fashion. All that she had ever done is exist, but to exist in Arenda’s mind and never allow her to grasp why, was a crime of gigantic proportions, at least for a fictional character whose sole purpose was to express Arenda’s creativity. Worse than this heroine’s defiance, however, was her actual being. This spoiled girl had invented herself for no other purpose but to torture her creator. Emily had become a reality for the purpose of driving Arenda completely and entirely insane.
Arenda knew this now. It had been six days short of a year since Emily had come into Arenda’s life, and every other character had disappeared from her musings. Emily possessed her, demanded to be placed in a story, yet eluded Arenda on every front. What other explanation could there be for these actions? Every poet had some amount of madness within, right? So maybe this is where that came from. Perhaps every poet was plagued by some weapon of his daemon. Perhaps every poet was destroyed by his own Muse.
Against all odds, Arenda was about to defy these poetic bounds. Today she was inspired. She knew what to do with the infuriating character she knew exactly…wait. Arenda had gotten so lost in her excitement that she had forgotten every word of what had come to her regarding Miss. Emily Alfet, heiress extradoinaire. And so she had come to the frustrating state she was in on this lovely fall day.
The morning had blossomed into daytime, and daytime into afternoon, blurring every hope Arenda had of writing a first draft for her publisher. She had made every attempt she could think of to bring back her Muse, but it had left, with a decided flounce and slam of the door.
She wandered around the park, turned upside down in a mockery of yoga positions, twisted into a pretzel, prayed for an hour, sat with her journal in her lap, for hours. She had procrastinated before, waited so many days, thinking she had time before the deadline. Now there were six days left, and she knew it was necessary to begin the story, but she couldn’t. Her Muse had caught her into the most ridiculous web of deceit and superficiality and all she could think of was…shopping.
Perfect! She could experiment with the character by living her life for a day. It would be incredible, spending what little bit of money was left in her account, which was exactly…none. In fact she was in debt up to her eyeballs. Oh well, isn’t that what credit cards were invented for?
Arenda prepared quickly for a day of shopping, dressing in her only pair of enormous fur boots, a pair of skinny jeans, and one of a limited edition coat from a batch made by Prada. She had gotten these for a commercial she had done months earlier when she was desperate, but the use she had prepared for them today was much more honorable.
She walked out the door with her overly practiced model walk and strolled out to
Three hours later Arenda tried to shrug off the disgust she felt at herself. She had shopped for hours, no regard for money, no regard for anyone. She had been rude to employees. She had been more selective about her clothes than she ever would have been in her life. She had seen it done in movies, as all have, and she had always wondered what it would be like to have no care in the world for anyone or anything but yourself. She was not prepared for what it would do to her. She was consumed by this feeling of utter despair. She could not put her finger on the reason why until she faced herself and what she had allowed her self to be for the day.
Flashbacks assailed her of all the events that had passed, and she began to feel sicker and sicker. Finally, she traced it all back to the reason why. She had changed who she was for a day, for a character, for nothing more than a character who persecuted her every night and every day. Slowly, a just and overpowering hatred for Emily Alfet welled up in the remorseful heart developing deep in Arenda’s chest.
She sat to write.
“Emily Alfet was a selfish, spoiled debutante. She had never worked a day in her life, and everything she ever wanted was given to her on a silver platter.” So the war began between the selfish character and the author who hated her.
It would become Arenda’s greatest novel, but as she sat typing today, she did not know that. Her consuming hatred of all she had discovered in herself came out in her interactions with the Muse and Emily Alfet. She related the characteristics of Emily Alfet, the despicably worldly circumstances that had led her into the being she was today, anecdotes of Emily’s destructive behavior on the worlds of romance, business, friendship and family.
But one day, Emily Alfet faced trouble. This was Arenda’s triumph. It was the moment she had been waiting for from the beginning of Emily Alfet’s tale. A man clad in black approached behind Emily, knocked out her bodyguard, and kidnapped the spoiled debutante, while she was on her way to the concert after-party of the year.
Arenda stared at the screen with a feeling of smug satisfaction at the woe she would wreak in the life of Emily Alfet from here on out. Looking at the clock she realized that she had been working from seven o’clock Sunday until seven o’clock Tuesday with barely a break in typing. They say that hatred is like love, because they are both a consuming, passionate emotion towards another. If love make you do crazy things, hatred had worked this magic for Arenda Plythe. She had eaten little and slept none as Emily Alfet’s youth had unfolded on the page. Each word had come from some worthy anger in her that lent itself to a passionate writing surpassing that of anything she had ever written before. But now it was time to sleep.
She slept for the twelve hours of the night, waking up in a sleepy stupor of one who has waited far too long for sleep, but her spirit had become mild in the night. A peace lay over her as she held her newly fixed mug of English tea and prepared to write.
A golden sun filtered through the brown leaves outside her window, bathing her studio apartment in a glow of majestic purity. Her fingers caressed the keys as she typed out the rest of Emily Alfet’s fate and she slowly breathed in a redemptive air.
Emily Alfet was one of the most despicable characters the Muse had ever bestowed on man. She was a shallow, superficial, selfish human being, but under the terrifying circumstance of her kidnapping, the seed of honor deep within revealed itself and began to appear.
Arenda related the story of the terror that Emily Alfet felt. First, there was the indignance of a rich young woman who wants nothing more than to go home, but as she realized that these men would kill her if her father did not hand over money to them a keen reality set into her spirit. Something about the realization that death is approaching changes what a person is willing to do.
The men killed children, women, the weak, the innocent, while the heiress Alfet looked on, at first with trepidation, then with great anger and sorrow. Her story became one of human triumph as Arenda moved her towards the rescue of a helpless victim of the men’s cruelty. It was their business to make money, and Emily shared something in common with every victim they chose. They all had grown up with an excessive amount of money, little education, and all they ever wanted.
When it came time that the criminals would meet Alfred Alfet, he insisted that he speak to his daughter before he would turn over the ransom. Instead of begging for her life, she begged her father not to give them a cent. She begged him, and told him as quick as she could of the horrors they were guilty of. One of the men grabbed the phone away from her, hitting her in the face with it in a rush, and on the other side of her man punched her in the stomach and tangled her arm within his. His finger pointed into her face, breaking every “personal bubble” that she had ever possessed. He leered at her with a face of hatred and putrid perversion that superseded any evil she had ever seen.
Emily Alfet came into her true role as heroine when she rescued the children hidden in her kidnappers house. Through flying bullets and the terrors the brutal men wreaked on her, she brought women and children into a safety for which they could never have been more grateful. The story ended. Emily was bent and broken but transformed. She was a new human being. The superficial character that had come to life by Arenda’s pen had woven herself into a new existence. She had become the virtue that she lacked, and had taken on a new identity.
As had Arenda Plythe. She rested back in her chair and gazed at the screen. She lifted the mug to her lips, knowing full well that it was empty. Meditatively she touched the cup with her fingers, feeling within the transformation that had occurred between her spirit and Emily Alfet’s. She had found redemption in the work that had pursued her for the year. She had found redemption the object of her hatred. The Muse had worked a war on the two of them that would never cease its work on the two women engaged in its battles, and from that war and its loving outcome proceeded Arenda’s fame, and the humility that would maintain her spirit. It was the mystery behind Arenda Plythe’s great career as poet and author.
The End
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