The Latest In A Long Line Of Eclectic Community Service Sentences

20260513

Written for Bradley Ramsey’s “Halls Of Pandemonium”, Day 13.

Part one is here.

I’m laying in bed, in that semi-futile “surely if I just stay still long enough my body will get the hint” fashion which happens most evenings.
Most evenings don’t feature a sudden papery rustling, nor a familiar fictional voice offhandedly declaring “Hi, my name is Pois and I’ll be your muse this evening-”
“What?” I start to sit up, all possibilities of sleep banished, but my forehead is lightly slapped before my core muscles have gotten organised.
“Nuh-uh-uh, says here an idea is going to hit you while you’re in bed with your eyes closed. Head on the pillow, mixter.” [^1]
There is no point trying to argue with nem. I mean, trying to argue with most people who don’t exist is silly, but I know for a fact it’s futile with Pois. And also, while confusion does prevent falling asleep, it does not dispel being tired.
So I go limp again, my head rolling to face where nir voice is coming from. “Since when are you a muse?”
“Since today. Long story.”
“You know that I know that ‘long story’ is just what you say when you don’t want to explain, because what happened is awkward and/or incriminating.”
“Uh-huh.”
There’s a distinct sly smirk under the ongoing nonchalance. Entirely unconcerned that I know that ne knows that I know.
Also knowing I won’t get an explanation, I instead ask “Is this more or less weird than the Hell Consultant gig?”
“Hmmm…” A genuine pensive pause. “I’d say so far the hours are better, but the break room is far worse.”
“Tracks?”
“Now!” More papery rustling. I’m not sure even ne can read paper in the pitch dark. Infrared won’t help here, right? Maybe there’s enough UV. Or maybe ne just memorised the sheets and is indulging in theatrics. “An idea is going to hit, and your mind will be captivated and keep gnawing at the concept until you finally fall asleep.”
“That happens a lot.”
“That’s why I thought visiting now would be a natural kind of encounter for you.”
“There is literally nothing natural about this but go on.”
“What kind of story are we going for?”
I frown. Confident ne can see my expression. “Isn’t the muse meant to decide that?”
“Eh. Possibly.”
Nir flippant dismissal prompts a snort, and I grin into the dark. “Didn’t bother reading the handbook?”
“The onboarding process was… sporadic.”
I am positive there were head-tendril air-quotes deployed.
“Most of it was about ‘understanding expectations’ and meeting your client where they are, yada yada.”
“But… I’ve never thought of myself having a muse. That whole imagery doesn’t click for me.”
“Which is why you have to make explicit decisions. Don’t blame me! See, one of the benefits of being a figment of someone else’s imagination is getting to blame literally everything on them! Life hack.”
I open my eyes just to roll them. “Fine. What about a breakthrough on one of the gazillion short stories that’ve piled up, because I keep not having enough brain to write more than my daily microfiction?”
“You’ll need to be more specific.”
“I dunno, I can’t think of any right now!”
A forbearing tsk.
“I could get up and check my drafts…”
“Hm. Nooo, that ruins the whole ‘spontaneity’ thing we’re meant to be going for.”
“Ugggh. Fine, I guess I’ll just have an idea for another new short story that I then won’t have the brain to actually write.”
“Sounds good!”
I know that cheery tone is being deployed to mock me. But I also know it’s a lighthearted, affectionate kind of mockery. So I just roll my eyes again, then stare up at the darkness where I know the ceiling is. “So… any prompts in that muse package of yours?”
“Oh, this?” More paper rustles, and a breeze wafts my face, carrying faint scents I can’t recognise yet intimately know. “This is the notebook you wrote the start of your first novel in.”
“What??” I start to sit up again, reaching for my bedside lamp, and am slapped back down. “Where did you find that?”
“I could tell you… but think what else you might find, digging through all those old boxes!”
“Argh, you are so annoying!” It’s probably, like, some imaginary copy anyway. I still want to see it. “It’s the one about the middle fairytale prince, right? Whose dotty fairy godmother names him ‘moss’?”
“Yeah. Kinda a mashup of Tamara Pierce, old fairytales, and ‘Dealing With Dragons’.”
“I don’t think I got past the first chapter.”
“There’s a few scraps past that. Ideas for scenes jotted down. Your handwriting was dreadful, by the way.”
I give another wry snort. “Was?”
“It was dreadful. It’s now abysmal.” Said in a placid, matter-of-fact, “just an observation” tone.
“I blame those years of hand-written exams.”
“Suuure. Back to the matter at hand…”
The soft sound of a rubber being tapped against a page. Given the notebook, I’m sure it’s one of those WHSmith cheap mechanical pencils. I took to them early on, delighted by the freedom of not needing a sharpener. Just shove one into the ring binding of my cheap notebook and go. I particularly liked the ones you twisted to control the lead length, even though it was harder to get replacements for them.
And then I got a Palmpilot, and started jotting notes down on that, and then my workflow went full digital.
“I know the meme is writers loving fountain pens, but me, I get nostalgic when I see shitty plakky mechanical pencils being sold on puzzle books and stuff.”
“Apparently you’re whatever the writer equivalent of a cheap date is.”
“Probably still a cheap date?”
“Probably. Now-”
A buzzer sounds.
“Oh, we’re out of time. Good luck with the writing.”
“Wait, but, you haven’t actually-”
“Well, you weren’t being very cooperative. Besides, it’s my first day on the job. Cut me some slack. Byyyye.”
I’m left glaring at nothing, wide awake, a dozen half-formed nebulous ideas rattling around.
“Fuffus!” [^2]

Prompt was “I am sending your muse to you today. It will likely take the form of the entity you wrote about in week 1, but it may choose something else. Write the moment of that encounter.”

[^1]: So far as I know, there's no clear consensus on how you're meant to actually pronounce the title "Mx". I add the "t", copying from "mister", to avoid sounding like a kitchen utensil.

[^2]: This is me pronouncing "FFS" as a word. Yes, I genuinely do this when annoyed/frustrated. I blame being a 90s' kid. We pronounced "LOL" and stuff as if they were words, too. It was a strange era.