The Muse by Kate-Lynn McGowan
A brief silence followed.
“I saw your work in Claudel’s store. The canal piece with all the boats. Broken Dreams, it was called.” She came closer. “And Françoise. The portrait of the lady with birds perched as her crown.” Another step forward. “Idyllic Meadow. With the girls in the field. The flowers.” She was barely an arm’s length away now.
I reached for her hand, bringing it to my lips. Kissed it, gently. “I would be honoured to have a muse of such beauty and esteem like yourself. You work in the factory, do you not?”
She nodded. A faint warm colour crept over her cheeks.
It was then that I noticed her familiarity. “Your husband is the secretary of the City Council.” It was not a question. I had just remembered where I recognized her image from: the promotional outings the Council had carried out from when the new mayor had been elected.
She inclined her head the barest amount. No matter. I released her hand and strode to the worktable with the least amount of ongoing projects strewn across its dusty surface. I chose a palette and a selection of paints. I picked up a canvas. I had attained what I had longed for. This was my chance to offer her beauty and comfort. This was my chance for true success. “We will start outdoors.”
She brightened up, a cheerful smile gracing her face once again. She followed me out to the backyard. I positioned her in between the apple trees and the rest of the garden. Flowers grew as tall as her shoulder. I placed petals in her hair, in her hands, in her lap. I scattered petals around where she sat, in the shade of the trees.
I painted the scene and her gorgeous frame, amongst the flowers. Goddess in the Garden.
Next, she let me guide her inside, to an adjacent room where I laid out white sheets for her to stand upon. I gave her a rose, in the stage of dying where the petals are paper thin and brittle, like the pages of an old book.
She was there in the painting, holding it tightly. Her face was dazzling and serene. She was calm as she clutched the flower, as if she were about to deposit it on the grave of a former lover. The art was bright with feeling. I called that one Beautiful Death.
A week passed of me painting her. My art was filled with her face, her golden hair, her thick bracelets, her gemstone necklaces, her frilly shirts, her dimpled smile.
A week and a day later, her husband entered my shop. His face was stern as he walked swiftly over to the counter where I greeted customers. “Bonjour.” He called me over, as if I had not noticed his presence yet. I made my way over slowly. “I have discovered your sins. You have many reasons to fear me. I could demand the police to close down your shop.”
“For what crime, sir?” I asked.
“Consorting with a married woman in such an…intimate manner is a thing deserving of punishment. Do you not agree?”
“You have no need to believe I have disrespected you or your wife. However, if you must arrest me, for whatever petty crime you see fit, you will allow my work to be distributed to any customer who desires it. My art is pure and untainted.”
Her husband curled his lip upward in disgust. “Fine,” he spat. With that, he hurried out the door.
I could breathe freely at last. All that mattered was the success I had already achieved. And to have had a muse was proof enough of other people’s dedication to my work.
“I saw your work in Claudel’s store. The canal piece with all the boats. Broken Dreams, it was called.” She came closer. “And Françoise. The portrait of the lady with birds perched as her crown.” Another step forward. “Idyllic Meadow. With the girls in the field. The flowers.” She was barely an arm’s length away now.
I reached for her hand, bringing it to my lips. Kissed it, gently. “I would be honoured to have a muse of such beauty and esteem like yourself. You work in the factory, do you not?”
She nodded. A faint warm colour crept over her cheeks.
It was then that I noticed her familiarity. “Your husband is the secretary of the City Council.” It was not a question. I had just remembered where I recognized her image from: the promotional outings the Council had carried out from when the new mayor had been elected.
She inclined her head the barest amount. No matter. I released her hand and strode to the worktable with the least amount of ongoing projects strewn across its dusty surface. I chose a palette and a selection of paints. I picked up a canvas. I had attained what I had longed for. This was my chance to offer her beauty and comfort. This was my chance for true success. “We will start outdoors.”
She brightened up, a cheerful smile gracing her face once again. She followed me out to the backyard. I positioned her in between the apple trees and the rest of the garden. Flowers grew as tall as her shoulder. I placed petals in her hair, in her hands, in her lap. I scattered petals around where she sat, in the shade of the trees.
I painted the scene and her gorgeous frame, amongst the flowers. Goddess in the Garden.
Next, she let me guide her inside, to an adjacent room where I laid out white sheets for her to stand upon. I gave her a rose, in the stage of dying where the petals are paper thin and brittle, like the pages of an old book.
She was there in the painting, holding it tightly. Her face was dazzling and serene. She was calm as she clutched the flower, as if she were about to deposit it on the grave of a former lover. The art was bright with feeling. I called that one Beautiful Death.
A week passed of me painting her. My art was filled with her face, her golden hair, her thick bracelets, her gemstone necklaces, her frilly shirts, her dimpled smile.
A week and a day later, her husband entered my shop. His face was stern as he walked swiftly over to the counter where I greeted customers. “Bonjour.” He called me over, as if I had not noticed his presence yet. I made my way over slowly. “I have discovered your sins. You have many reasons to fear me. I could demand the police to close down your shop.”
“For what crime, sir?” I asked.
“Consorting with a married woman in such an…intimate manner is a thing deserving of punishment. Do you not agree?”
“You have no need to believe I have disrespected you or your wife. However, if you must arrest me, for whatever petty crime you see fit, you will allow my work to be distributed to any customer who desires it. My art is pure and untainted.”
Her husband curled his lip upward in disgust. “Fine,” he spat. With that, he hurried out the door.
I could breathe freely at last. All that mattered was the success I had already achieved. And to have had a muse was proof enough of other people’s dedication to my work.
Mirror by Kathryn Burns
I was taken aback by this. If she was the ghost, she was the creature. I should be afraid of her. “You’re a ghost,” I said. “Why would you be afraid of…me?”
She shook her head quickly. “I’m not a ghost,” she said. “I’m a girl.”
“You look a lot like me.”
“So do you.”
I squinted at the thing. “You look a lot like how I did when I was young.” She had the same lost expression, curly hair. She was wearing the same jean skirt with the little duck on the pocket.
“I’ve been told you’re me. When I’m older.”
“I'm sixteen.”
“You scare me.”
It confused me how this little girl was so afraid of me. I hadn’t done anything but cry in her presence. I hadn’t done anything else, had I? “What have I done to frighten you? You probably scare me more than I’ve ever scared you.”
“I’m scared of you because,” she took a deep breath. “I never want to become what you are.”
What you are. Not Who you are. Like I was some sort of foreign creature to her.
“How can I stop this?” she whispered.
I tilted my chin up, looking at myself in the mirror. My red lips that have hissed such unforgivable things. The fist that threw one too many punches, it’s only been a year since the suspension. The eyes that have seen so many people hurt in my presence, yet I never did anything about it. My body- me.
“I don’t know.”
She shook her head quickly. “I’m not a ghost,” she said. “I’m a girl.”
“You look a lot like me.”
“So do you.”
I squinted at the thing. “You look a lot like how I did when I was young.” She had the same lost expression, curly hair. She was wearing the same jean skirt with the little duck on the pocket.
“I’ve been told you’re me. When I’m older.”
“I'm sixteen.”
“You scare me.”
It confused me how this little girl was so afraid of me. I hadn’t done anything but cry in her presence. I hadn’t done anything else, had I? “What have I done to frighten you? You probably scare me more than I’ve ever scared you.”
“I’m scared of you because,” she took a deep breath. “I never want to become what you are.”
What you are. Not Who you are. Like I was some sort of foreign creature to her.
“How can I stop this?” she whispered.
I tilted my chin up, looking at myself in the mirror. My red lips that have hissed such unforgivable things. The fist that threw one too many punches, it’s only been a year since the suspension. The eyes that have seen so many people hurt in my presence, yet I never did anything about it. My body- me.
“I don’t know.”
The Unnatural History Museum by Niko Stevens
No matter how much I searched, I couldn’t find my forgotten, mythical creatures.
True, I loved the whale models and lion skulls that you could find within the regular exhibits, but what I really craved was the Museum of Unnatural History. A secret, hidden museum, tucked between reality and fiction, filled with magic and the unknown.
I longed for a museum capturing a world bigger than the one I knew, though I was glad there wasn’t one. If someone really put up a sphinx on display, or wyvern scales in a case, all their allure would disappear. These beasts were only bewitching when they were ever changing, existing only when I willed them to.
There may have been no collections or zoos, but I knew how to visit my monsters. They didn’t live in what we called the real world, for they were only to be found in the dark corners, where no one dared to venture. They lived behind riddled passageways, libraries and most of all, in us.
Today’s Museum of Unnatural History is not a place to be plotted on a map or found with a compass. There are no exact coordinates, for it is constantly growing in new stories. It exists only within the twenty-six letters of the alphabet, blooming like wildflowers in one imagination to the next
Not many think to look for it, but it’s quite easy to find.
All you have to do is reach out.
True, I loved the whale models and lion skulls that you could find within the regular exhibits, but what I really craved was the Museum of Unnatural History. A secret, hidden museum, tucked between reality and fiction, filled with magic and the unknown.
I longed for a museum capturing a world bigger than the one I knew, though I was glad there wasn’t one. If someone really put up a sphinx on display, or wyvern scales in a case, all their allure would disappear. These beasts were only bewitching when they were ever changing, existing only when I willed them to.
There may have been no collections or zoos, but I knew how to visit my monsters. They didn’t live in what we called the real world, for they were only to be found in the dark corners, where no one dared to venture. They lived behind riddled passageways, libraries and most of all, in us.
Today’s Museum of Unnatural History is not a place to be plotted on a map or found with a compass. There are no exact coordinates, for it is constantly growing in new stories. It exists only within the twenty-six letters of the alphabet, blooming like wildflowers in one imagination to the next
Not many think to look for it, but it’s quite easy to find.
All you have to do is reach out.
"Reaching Out", Photo by Galadriel Bond