sing, o muse

dreaming.

Sun, 01 Nov 2009 04:05:27 GMT

In her dream, Melpomene is wearing the mask Weyland made for her. In her hand is the dagger with the cypress handle. It is much like the old one-- he knows her far too well-- though it is new, and shines more brightly.

She looks down at the man, staggering for breath. She knows who this is: the poet who stole her symbols long ago, because he believed he could be a god. He lets the knife and the mask clatter down, by her feet.

He’d kissed her sandals, begged for forgiveness. Begged to return the things he’d taken from her. Prayed that she would take this pain away.

(It was clear, on his face, that he had suffered—he murmured mad, broken sentences under his breath, hearing the hundred voices and not understanding—)

In the dream, she says nothing for the longest time. Then she tells him what she told him before:

You have taken them, and now you must keep them. Accept the consequences, poet. And hope that none of your kind makes the same mistake.

She can see herself, from the outside. Her eyes blaze like bright opals.

He gathers the symbols and turns away, leaving trails of tears down his broken face.

In reality, he died several months later, tormented by sleepless nights and images of other peoples’ dreams.

But here, in this moment, the dagger in her hand reaches up—

She wakes in a cold sweat.

Mon, 01 Jun 2009 08:36:29 GMT

Melpomene gazes out the window, watching her faint reflection.

"Sometimes I wonder about that. Whether, for example, things could have been better if the library of Alexandria hadn't been burned. But... that's why the idea of a time machine is terrifying. Because we can't know until things are already changed."

This is a story.

Wed, 20 May 2009 09:07:21 GMT

This story happened a long time ago, before the Nine were separated, before the dance was forgotten and the temple abandoned. This story is about the time Melpomene went down to the river to talk to Akheloios.

See her standing there in the mud at the edge of the river, young and beautiful and unadorned. Her mouth is grimly set, but there is hope in her eyes. She’s a long way from home, and she’s journeyed on foot from the mountain. She’s homesick, a little, for the little brook beside her mossy bed. Still, she’s come to the crux of the river to find him, because she loves him. This is how these things always are.

Melpomene stands on the riverbank in her pale white dress, as small, incurious fish swim between her legs, searching for smaller fish to eat. She may be prepared to stand there forever. Her dress brushes the surface of the river, catches gently on the swirling current.

“Akheloios,” she calls, in the ancient tongue, which none but the old gods remember now. “I have traveled far to see you. We must have words.”

There’s a ripple in the river as Akheloios emerges, making his way to Melpomene’s side of the river. As he walks, he shakes his golden hair, spreading droplets of water around him. With that movement, Melpomene remembers everything, every moment.

“What do you seek?” He towers over her now, silent. She longs for him to brush the negligent curl from her eye, but his hands are stiff and still.

So she brushes it away herself, and answers: “Come with me.”

He doesn’t make eye contact, instead running a hand through the tranquil water. After a moment, he speaks.

“Melpomene. We will never again be what we were. Stop with these dreams. You of all gods must know that every story ends in tragedy.” He unfolds his fingers, revealing a small, struggling fish gasping for air, which he puts in Melpomene’s unresisting hands.

Then he turns, without looking her in the eyes, and begins to walk away.

But this story happened a long time ago, before Melpomene became what she is now. Melpomene has changed, though she still fulfills her duties. She no longer sees tragedy as a game, or as something only played out on stage. For her, there is the truth of it in every moment. And the truth of the story is this:

Melpomene looks down at the fish, and understands.

Fri, 24 Apr 2009 06:30:13 GMT

Arriving at the Visitor's Center, Melpomene takes a look around.

"Well, this is it. In all its touristic glory. "

Sat, 03 Jan 2009 06:14:43 GMT

Melpomene slept deeply without dreaming, and only woke up when the light between the curtains fell across her eyes.

It was a nice way to wake up. So now, as she opens her eyes, she stirs only slightly, and then settles back into a comfortable position.

Sat, 22 Nov 2008 21:18:54 GMT

They are outside the Blue Owl Bar. It's mid-morning, so there are cars rushing [so to speak] by, and people walking, biking, or rollerblading down the sidewalk nearby.

"Well, here we are," she says brightly, ponytail ruffled by a light breeze.

[ with weyland in nyc ]

Sun, 18 May 2008 05:23:57 GMT

They step through the door, and find themselves on the cracked sidewalk outside of a lively bar. A sign glows: "Blue Owl."

It's nighttime, but the city still glows with all kinds of light, and shakes with the noise of honking, shouting, music, the clinking of glasses, all blending together into the cacophony and symphony of the city.

Melpomene looks around. "Well, we're back... Right where I started."

Return to Milliways

Tue, 22 Apr 2008 08:52:12 GMT

Yes, she'd been away for a long time-- or was it only a few days?-- and she didn't miss it. She didn't. New York City, with its flickering lights and smoky dark rooms, had everything. Things were gritty and gloomy, and she liked them that way. Yet--

-- there was something charming about a sentient bar, and the cheery chatter that was different. But she wouldn't admit she wanted to go back, not ever. She didn't keep a calendar, and she didn't go over to that bar she'd stepped through that one time into another world every Friday just to see if it would do that again.

But the one time she wasn't trying, it happened, and without even a breeze. She stepped through.

Wed, 04 Jul 2007 21:03:20 GMT

It has been a long time since she's acknowledged the fact that she is dead.

She's immortal, but her heart has never raced, or throbbed, or ached. She's never had one.

She pretends she's whole without it.

That fools no one, least of all herself. Often, lately, she stops pretending, and remembers (too well, Mother, you drag me in)-- it is a dull pain, a long-lasting twinge in an organ she's never had, that never screams but murmurs softly in her ear, the Chinese torture of myths. Can't rip it out; it's already gone.

Lately, sitting at the window is torture, too. Knowing that she cannot throw herself down through the glass fall with the wind in her brittle hair let it all go jarringly into darkness peacepeacepeace the world goes ticking on--

The problem is, no god can be an atheist. She has no choice but to believe.

Mon, 25 Dec 2006 04:55:39 GMT

It's the most wonderful time of the year, sings Melpomene absently to herself, avoiding eye contact with the sky, which threatens to sleet on her at any moment. Afterwards she immediately wants to hit herself over the head with something heavy. She's feeling a distinct lack of cheer, and every Santa-hatted elf flashing her a quick smile grates on her nerves.

The windows she passes are filled with colorful lights and laughing families, putting ornaments on the Christmas tree together or cleaning up after their pot roast dinner, as if posing for a portrait. Outside, Melpomene shivers under her trenchcoat, hurrying home with a pack of cotton candy bubble gum from the drug store around the corner.

They don't remember, she thinks. It should be a smug thought, but it's mostly desperation. It's just gift certificates and satin ribbons to them, isn't it?

She's about to turn down the dark street which, after a few more twists and turns, will lead her home, when she decides instead to go to the bar. It's not a pastime she's particularly ashamed of, and a tequila might sooth the sharp sound of laughter echoing out onto the street...

So, tucking the pack of gum into her pocket, Melpomene reaches the door, which jangles with overflowing holiday cheer, and pulls it open. Inside is something she's not expecting - Ho, ho, ho.

Fleeing from Poetry

Sat, 02 Sep 2006 20:26:20 GMT

July in New York is packaged hamburgers, and dog shit, and blondes in short skirts. It’s jazz music in Central Park while gay joggers stand nearby, tapping their feet to the rhythm while their sunburned faces beam. It’s pretention, and tan lines—it’s the redefinition of yourself, and the drowning of yourself in patches of sunlight between bright rustling trees.

It’s the oppressive, driving heat that weighs on you but moves in waves, flowing around you and seeping in underneath your white cotton shirts and sensible shoes. Suddenly everyone is a theatre enthusiast and a sophisticated diner—indoors, the heat can almost be pushed aside, made less of a symbol of anything in life.

Summer is fun. They call it the time to cast off all your troubles and be reborn—adults shake off the stereotype in the face of recurring evidence but it clings on, determined. Businessmen move through the city in their black slacks and ties, sweating under the collar, briefcases swinging.

Through this, she moves like a suicide bomber to a revving engine: her steps are deliberate and heavy, each stabbing in stiletto past the smell of melting cement. Her hair is curled into a bun on her neck, messy and dark.

She hasn’t seen him in months, hasn’t thought about him. Even her denials—that she doesn’t miss his breaths like dissipating sunshine, his rippling arms holding her tightly in exactly the right place—have been lost, and she is waiting, walking down the sidewalk outside her apartment and wishing for rain.

As she walks, she watches a shimmering line of skyscrapers haze on the horizon—she moves, almost like ballet in her silver shoes, to allow an inattentive, sweaty-knuckled biker by. The silence closes in again, and the dance is over. She gasps, and clutches, memories like a crack in the sidewalk making her stumble.

(They say never leave me again but then they’re gone in the morning, and they’ve wiped their footprints from the doorway so you think you might have just dreamed it.
You did.)

Thu, 17 Aug 2006 07:54:00 GMT

Before her other foot is through, Melpomene feels the drip of cold rain running uncomfortably down her back. Her hair is plastered to her head. There's a wet sensation on her lashes-- she blinks-- runs a hasty hand across her face.

Outside, neon lights flicker, blurred to watercolor by the dirty rain-- small flyers and twigs fly against the window, battered by a belated gust of March. Taxis (actors trying to make it big on Broadway, they'll live fast and die unknown) greet her in a harsh, chaotic symphony.

Melpomene turns, and strolls to the bar, leaving splotchy mud-prints on the ground. "Tequila. Tall. On the rocks."

Suddenly, as if a great dam has been released, she can see them all-- the colorful thoughts streaming by as they pass, the rough edges of anger and the dark, dripping colors of depression. The bartender is worried that his wife is having an affair. She sees it behind her eyes, sees the sickly green panic rise--
and then it's gone again, tamped quietly down.

Melpomene turns her head, sharply, against the bright color that's been gone for so long. Takes the tequila, heading quietly to a table to dry. On the way, she leans over the shoulder of a young man garbed in faded black and sporting a lip ring. A glance at the page, and a whisper-- "Give up the bloody swan feathers, or it give up altogether."

Several minutes later, Gary's scribbled out every mention of swan feathers in his poem--the best part-- and he's damned if he knows why.

Midnight Strikes

Mon, 14 Aug 2006 11:39:58 GMT

The most recent dance-- a stately promenade--has just ended, and the musicians fall silent. There's a lull in every conversation-- the room thrums with anticipation.

The sudden overpowering ring of the bell cuts off the sound of any lagging voices, and tolls solemnly.

The note vibrates sweet and low throughout the ballroom, twelve deliberate times, making the glasses at the bar shake gently on their shelf.

After the last note has died away, one voice rings out in the silence, dark and rich. "The time has come to reveal your true self-- remove the masks, and cast off the lies. It is a new day, and it is time to discover the truth."

The voice is echoing from the top of the grand staircase. Melpomene moves to remove her mask, and shake her dark hair free. "Come, now is the time to revel in the beauty of who we really are, not what secrets we may be hiding behind the feathers and silk."

The silence is not momentous-- it is ponderous, if anything. After a moment, the harpsichord begins to play a sweet and simple song, and the dance goes on.

Le Masquerade

Sat, 12 Aug 2006 02:23:36 GMT

[ooc: please go first to the Through the Door thread. Thanks.]

ETA: As of this thread, all new threads in the masquerade are now after midnight [the links below are now re-linked to after-midnight sub-threads]. React at your leisure.

The ballroom itself is a burst of dazzling light. Hanging from the vaulted ceiling are two gold-wrought chandeliers, both of which glow brightly over the occasion, and tall lanterns shine throughout the room.

The grand staircase descends with a flourish and opens onto the main ballroom. A balcony, which providing a clear view of the goings-on below, runs all the way around the edge of the room. It can be reached via any of the four spiral staircases in each corner of the ballroom.

Below, the wooden dance floor flickers gently in the light from above, and musicians in the side room play soft, classical music. Meg Giry, the dance mistress for tonight, is on the floor with a microphone in hand.

A low, wooden bar in the corner provides hors d’oeuvres and drinks to revelers; small tables for two sprinkle the area.

Through the Door

Sat, 12 Aug 2006 02:15:32 GMT

… Through the door and into a place quite different from the casual warmth of the bar.

Deep cherry velvet carpets the antique wooden floors of the balcony that surrounds the ballroom; the grand staircase is about five paces from the door, directly before the doorway.

To the left of the staircase is a small, freestanding and solemn sign, pointing to an open doorway further down on the left, reading ‘Mask Room.’ Billy Batson, dressed to the nines in polished black, stands by the banister to give directions and general assistance.

From here you can see the revelry below.

[ooc: fyi - There is an actual Grand Staircase thread to be found here. The banister thread is for those not yet ready to make their entrances. Sorry for my terrible vagueness.]

God plot [scavenger hunt]

Sun, 23 Jul 2006 01:37:20 GMT

Teams

Each team is decided by a roll of the dice by each individual player. If the player rolls an odd number, then he is on the “bad” team; if a player rolls an even number, then he is on the “good” team. Teams are allotted OOC randomly, so that the manipulative gods and the non-manipulative gods are mixed together; the morality “average” of both teams will be equal.

Play

Once teams are decided, each team is given a list of similar tasks to complete; like a “god scavenger hunt.” Rather than each sin being in an individual “round,” a ready set go type atmosphere is set, and the first team to complete all the items on the list is the winner. The stakes are these, as suggested in the original IC thread: services by the losing team to be served for the winning team.

At any given time, there are only two gods and two mortals in the game: one god from each team, trying to complete a different task for their team, working on one mortal each. Each god can go back to his team at any time for counseling and strategizing, but he is alone in the attempt to complete the task.

Tasks

A master list of tasks, each similar in that they will both contain items that need to be completed from both the seven deadly sins and the seven holy virtues, will be given to both teams once the teams have been decided. There will be seven tasks for each team—all different— the counterpart of a sin will be given to the other team (viz., Team A will get Greed, and Team B will get Generosity).

While one team is working on a mortal to do something greedy, the other team will be working on another mortal to do something generous. If one team's mortal reacts according to their sin or virtue, that team will win. If the mortal acts against it, the team loses that point. So, for each given round, there may be a win or a tie.

These tasks will be in the form of “incite a mortal to” and then the task, including things such as “seduce someone other than their significant other” or “steal something of value” or “start a verbal fight in-bar.” All of these will be creative, and the teams will have to cooperate, and use intelligent strategy, in order to complete the entire list. There will be seven tasks, so that each mortal has one "cameo" in the plot.

All tasks must be completed in one of the following areas for the points to count: in the bar itself, in one of the rooms, on the lake or in the area surrounded the bar. If a god manages to draw a mortal out into another world, and then causes them to complete the task, no points are given.

A tentative list of various tasks for both teams is given here, almost all directly quoted from Roger. (Thanks!) As he mentioned, this can always stand suggested changes.

Note: “sexual contact” includes kissing, lover-type hugs, and the like.

X = Mortal 1, and Y = Mortal 2.

Good Thing	Bad Thing

Chastity - X refrains from all forms of sexual contact for an entire day (bonus: X breaks Y's heart by doing so)	Lust - Y successfully seduces X (bonus: Y is not of X's normal sexual preference)
Generosity - X buys/makes and gives Y a big present (bonus: X and Y just met)	Greed - Y steals something of value from X (bonus: X is someone Y cares about)
Zeal – X enthusiastically participates in helping Y with solve a pressing problem	Sloth - Y ignores a pressing problem for an entire day and does absolutely nothing (bonus: and X is hurt as a result)
Meekness - X backs down from conflict with Y (bonus: X refuses to defend him/herself when struck)	Wrath - Y starts a loud fight with X in the bar (bonus: Y escalates and throws a punch)
Humility - X apologizes to Y or reveals a personal flaw (bonus: for something the mortal is proud of doing)	Pride - Y gloats about accomplishments to X though X is obviously better (bonus: the other party admits inferiority)
Charity - X makes a large monetary donation to Y (bonus: X is not riled up by the argument)	Envy - Y starts an argument with X out of jealousy over some quality of X that s/he wants

Mortals

To decide which mortal is used, a game such as “Rock Paper Scissors” or a flip of the coin will be used to decide which team gets to choose their mortal first—rather like drafting for teams in professional sports. The team that wins the flip will be able to decide what mortal they want to use first to complete a certain task. The other team will then be able to choose a mortal from the selections that are left. This will occur before each task in the game.

Both teams can use any mortal in the game pool; the pool is determined by a mystical act at the start, completed by Melpomene in front of both teams. However, only one task may be completed by utilizing a given mortal by either team—once a mortal is used to complete a task, that mortal is no longer in the running to be used in the game by anyone. S/he will be marked as “already used” on the list, and gods will have to find another mortal to complete a task.

Every mortal will be paired, in a way, with someone else in the bar, in order to make the tasks completable. For example, someone must agree beforehand that within the plot they will go to jail for punching someone else, due to manipulation by the gods.

Basic Rules

Gods cannot:

- force or compel the mortal into doing anything using their godly powers.

- reveal any goal to the mortals in any way, or

- exert influence on any other mortals outside the playing field.

This leaves both sides with nothing but charm, influence, and coersion to complete their objectives.

Sun, 09 Jul 2006 08:39:07 GMT

Fire and ice, burning on your lonely mind—

Melpomene throws herself in front of the shining porcelain, panting, face pale, shining with an unhealthy green sheen. She kneels, moaning into the echo of the toilet, and waits for the memories to come spouting up through her mouth. Burning—on—your—

She remembers their faces, now, recurring fragmented dreams of everyone and everything she’s lost. Marching in a grim parade across her broken arm, bleeding face. All the days and nights when she waited up for him and he never came back, not that one or the next one, or the one that came after, not even when the mirror broke and she looked through and—she remembers—Lonely mind—

—and he, not suspecting he would be dead in a moment, head through the windshield, eyes thrown back, crying, lecturing instead of saying goodbye, begging please. Please. Green light, red light, blue in the rain—let’s go— why does it always turn out this way? Like contagious ruthless blood. Pitching in, never letting go, hands gripped tightly on the edge of white porcelain sanity. Cold patterned tile beneath bare knees. Leave the holy imprint on you—

The bile comes up, bringing with it the acidic taste of fear, and sadness, and anger. It’s all there. A hundred years of solitude, hands gripped tightly on the steering wheel edge, waiting for whatever comes next. It’s not enough to love, it must be pure and true and—

You have to be willing to die, take the extra step and put that dagger in your hand, plunge it in and carve out your still-beating heart. Lay it on the windshield, baby. She loved him so much, gone in a heartbeat an instant. Melpomene grips tightly to the firm toilet seat, tears streaming down pale face.

I’d trade immortality for any price, she thinks, reflection rippling in the foul water. Wait—then—go—Distorted by questionable (colorful) content. Melpomene moans, and leans forward again, mind falling into a million shards of stained glass that cut like fire and ice into her skin.

Fri, 16 Jun 2006 04:49:06 GMT

Milliways, End of the Universe; several minutes past three in the morning. A fingernail moon reflects off the gently rippling lake. One can almost hear the grasshopper holding his breath in the grass. Beyond, the universe explodes--but quietly.

On the window sill, the moonlight spills through satin curtains into a dark room. Melpomene lies on a small cabin bed, body cramped into a crescent. Perfectly still fists lie curled by her hips. Eyelids flutter, and lips are parted slightly.

In her dream, she is standing in front of a tall silver-backed mirror, in a long hall to which there appears to be no end. On her left stands her mother and on her right the river nymph Lethe.

She knows that they are not there to help her.

Alone in her reflection, she stares at the dark-rimmed eyes she knows to be her own. But they are hollow—as the eyes of one without believers. She feels herself drifting back to the beginning place, the gentle tug at her heart to go back to the shapeless shadows.

They swirl around her, caressing her face and whispering. Voices deceptively beautiful. She pulls away from them, and stumbles, in the dim light of one dusty bulb. She reaches out a hand, and one long-fingered hand comes down on her shoulder.

“Remember,” says Mnemosyne.

And then she is falling in the mirror—tumbling like Alice into the darkness.

Lying in bed—or rather, thrashing in it—arms wrapped tightly around him as if to keep the pleasure from escaping.

She moans, and his name escapes her lips. Akheloios. A bead of sweat falls from the edge of her temple as he moves, rocking with the arch of her hips. He whispers sweet words of adoration to her and she is convinced, in the reaching of her climax, that they mean something.

He looks down at her, and smiles, in one golden moment. His grin is triumphant, gorgeous. What she first fell in love with, standing one dark night by the river. He reaches down and pushes a damp lock of hair from her eyes.

The next morning, he is gone again. He leaves behind the key to the front door and the Ralph Lauren cologne she bought for him last Christmas. She searches the apartment for hours, but there is no note. (The answering machine blinks 0 accusingly at her.)

Down—

Standing in the grocery for the first time in a long time, staring blankly at the ranks of unfamiliar vegetables before her. Too many choices, and she has not eaten for pleasure in years. But now, for some reason she does not understand, she has decided to come and buy sweet foods—to stop relying on the eternal hunger that keeps her alive and eat.

“Is there something I can help you with, ma’am?”

She whirls, and snaps instinctively at a gangly boy wearing a tag that reads Gary. “I can figure it out on my own. I don’t need help. Do I look like the kind of person that needs help?” Her shoulders hunch and she turns away, back to the reds and greens and purples. She’s made a habit of being alone.

After a moment of narrowed eyes and quiet bitterness, she feels rather than sees him walk away—and tries to ignore a sudden stab of unreasonable hurt.

Down—

Waking up in the middle of the night, shaking—such a familiar scene it blurs together with a thousand others. She stands, quickly, with the white cotton sheets wrapped around her waist, and goes to the window.

She looks out on the city in silence as the neon lights fade in and out on her glowing cheeks.

New York never changes, not even for gods.

Down—

Turning to tell him something that strikes her as funny—he looks back at her, beaming. He kisses her laughing mouth, and she reaches around his neck to kiss him back for a moment. Then, abruptly—she shoves his chest back.

“The light’s green, Steve. Watch the road.”

But this comes too late—the cement truck is rolling, rolling. His head shattering through the windshield, shuddering still. Later, she stands quietly on the shoulder of the road as the inspector murmurs about her miraculous survival, and stares at the broken glass lying stark and brilliant against the asphalt.

She closes her eyes, but behind them she still sees his laughing face, and his eyes never open again. Then she opens them. Turns, and swears to forget mortal men—it is not worth the trouble.

Back from the mirror, she stumbles again into the dim room. Mnemosyne is gone, and Lethe stands alone. Waiting for her.

“Please,” she says, only partly knowing why.

Lethe shakes her head, putting a silent finger to her lips. Then the nymph is gone, and black winged horses gallop across a sanguine sky, setting the world on fire.

deal with it [pre-Milliways]

Sat, 08 Apr 2006 21:35:54 GMT

The rain had stopped, and it was quiet. Brooding.

       (She was walking down the cold sidewalk, all alone. She usually liked it that way. It's easier to listen to all the thoughts, when you're alone. ) Melpomene was walking, and generally cursing humans with all their stupid problems, and wondering why she hadn't stayed on Olympus, even if she couldn't stand all the constant drama going on between Zeus and who knows who at this point--he's such a bastard and the cloud-dancing harp-playing ninnies that really didn't contribute anything to the good of the world. Mel preferred being up close and personal, being able to see the reactions of the mortals as she brought inspiration to their pen and ink or made them beg for more--being sadistic is fun. She preferred dealing with everyday problems such as the weather, hygiene, and steady work, because everything was made worth it by the poetry that rolled out from their ambrosia-laden tongues after she touched them on the shoulder and let them go. That was Mel's job, and she liked it. Still, it's days like this--

       She tripped over a break in the uneven sidewalk and fell, sprawling ungracefully to the cement, which hardly embraced her. She watched as her purse spilled open in front of her, and random items began to fall out. It promptly began to rain again, first at a drizzle then picking up enthusiasm until it was practically standing-room only with all the cats and dogs. This is absolutely ridiculous. I need a drink. She watched as her mascara tube rolled slowly, almost comedically, into the middle of the road. Spiked pineapple juice heals all wounds. Mel picked herself up, pulled her hat low over her eyes, and picked up her purse, attempting to resume being dignified.

       She went marching into the bar-- the nearest from where she had fallen but also her particular favorite-- two of her favorite poets practically lived there, a cold cup of coffee sitting in front of them, forgotten, as they wrote on shredded pieces of napkin; these were the real ones, the ones that never stopped dreaming. They had beautiful dreams. She touched their shoulders and that's all it took. They had the gift, they simply needed a muse to draw the brilliant words from their minds. Mel liked looking at them. Somehow the intense look on their faces made her feel sorry for them, if only for a moment. Mortals tried so hard to see... but they were blind.

       Melpomene always waited for the right one, watching intently as the night faded into morning. It was always rewarding. Virgil, Lucretius... her work. Of course. They never credited her but on the inside. Thalia was the one most people loved because she made them laugh. But Mel made things that were beautiful, and she made them last.

       But the bar definitely wasn't the same today... the poets were there, and the bartender was serving up something bubbly, but she couldn't hear their thoughts as she usually could. Something shimmered in the air as she looked around the bar, and before she could turn away she was standing in a particularly different place, still holding onto her rain-filled purse, as a fire crackled. There were people, and a few of them were talking. Some were brooding-- but she couldn't hear what they were thinking. There was a pool table, and a staircase, which spiraled up and out of sight. Mel turned quickly, looking for a way out. There was, distinctly, no door whatsoever.

       It was rather confusing.
       Melpomene really wanted a drink.