The Dark Muse: A Collection of Short Stories

The Golden Apple

Mason Quill prayed to his Muse not because he really believed there were nine goddesses that granted divine inspiration, but because he felt that it was an amusing, somewhat writerly thing to do, and had adopted the habit as a sort of personal superstition. Besides, it had been working for him so far.

Two of his short stories were recently published in prominent literary journals. He had become rather drunk on this success, until his wife had then surpassed him. On top of her numerous publications, Thalia had landed a book deal. Although they promised to be supportive of each other's careers, her increasing success ate at him. Sure, she was a good writer. But better than him? No. Hell no! The thought tied his stomach in knots. Of course he wanted the best for her. Of course their vows said for better, for worse. But he couldn't stand watching her discuss marketing with her editor, flashing him that perfect smile as she revised chapters, imagined book tours, stepped closer and closer to success and further and further from him. He pretended to be happy for her — he was supposed to be happy for her — but it was eating him alive. He was more determined than ever to make his own name in the literary world, so he could catch up to her. No — so he could surpass her.

And he hoped that gaining the favor of his Muse would get him there.

He opened the leatherbound notebook to a new page, ready to begin the story that would bring him recognition and validation, the one that would finally prove him better than Thalia. Mason leaned back in his chair, gazing up at the ceiling as if creative genius might sprinkle down upon him in a cloud of divine glitter. When it didn't, he raised his hands in supplication, deepening his voice for dramatic effect as he said, "Oh, great goddess of eloquence, my Muse, won't you honor me with your godly influence, gift me your creative powers, channel your beauty of prose and plot through me, your humble vessel. I beseech you, Muse who knows of what has been and what is and what will be, bless me with," he paused, adopting a tone of grim solemnity, "inspiration."

He frowned in frustration, wondering how Thalia found inspiration so effortlessly, before turning his attention back to the notebook, where he began making preparations for his next masterpiece. And the next would be a masterpiece, because he would settle for no less.

So he wrote, waiting for his words to offer him a will-o'-the-wisp — one that could illuminate the path that leads through the twisting dark forest until it reaches the garden in which a single tree grows, hanging heavy with golden apples. And although he could imagine the smooth golden skin under his fingers, taste its sweet flesh on his tongue, none of his words inspired a flame that could take him there, so he was left frowning over the pages with a desire for something greater. "Muse," he said, "all of these ideas are mundane. They just aren't good enough. I need more."

Across the hall, he could hear Thalia's keyboard clicking. The cheerful sound set his teeth on edge. He could imagine her: hunched over her desk, blonde hair in a messy bun, fingers poised over the keys, a pile of books next to her, green eyes shining as she continued to outdo him effortlessly.

He groaned in frustration, standing up to pace about the room. He walked from the desk to the window, where he looked out on the quiet street lined by iron lamp posts and maple trees, their leaves changing from green to orange. From the window to the bookcase, where he pulled a random book off of the shelf, flipping through its pages before returning it to its place. From the bookcase to the door, where the sound of Thalia's keyboard was even louder and more irritating. From the door back to the desk, where he sat down with a deep sigh.

He grabbed a pencil and held it above the stark white paper, willing the right words to come to him. "Come on, Muse. Give me a divine idea."

Before he could begin, there was a soft knock on the door and Thalia entered. Looking just as he had imagined, she leaned against the doorframe with a self-satisfied smile. "I just finished the first chapter and sent it off to my editor."