Green Light

The writer sat on that grand porch in Great Neck looking over the Manhasset Bay to the opposing shore. Directly across from him in that vast darkness, the shadows and light of the half-moon played with the writer's eyesight. His grasp around the glass of gin in his right hand tightened in an attempt to stave off the trembling that had begun. When this failed, he downed the drink in its entirety and regretted the act immediately. He was foolish, sitting out here in the dark in his cups again. The tainted gin was the true source of the spooks and specters his eyes tried to pick out in the darkness. He had all but convinced himself that this was true. Offering a silent toast to the phantoms of his mind with a chuckle as he finished the contents of his drink.

And yet, he could not pry his eyes off of that spot that seemed to be the doorway to some unseen world—a wavering of energy just above the ripples of the water that hit the shore. Where beautiful phantoms with strange and familiar faces called to him by name, if he listened hard enough, he could almost make out their sing-song voices on the wind as they beckoned him to join him in their ethereal gateway. Even the scent of the air had changed, no longer dashed with the salty musk of the sea; a foreign scent had emerged subtly. As if somehow transported to some far-off lands, he smelled exotic flowers and fruits.

He put his glass down, stood up from his seat, and teetered off of the porch. The whispers in the wind were unbearable, maddening to the haunted man. The sweet melodic voices hooked into his very heart and dragged his shambling feet forward. A certain kind of dread began to seep into his being as he began to let one unsettling thought emerge.

"I think this may really be happening."

He uttered these words to himself to hear the realness of his own voice in his ears. The sound of it was startling enough that for a brisk second, everything stopped.

His feet became planted to the ground beneath him like the tall grass around him. The ethereal serenade that had become the undertone of the wind was replaced with silence as the wind died abruptly. He chuckled to himself again, ready to turn around and walk back to the home which was now at a distance behind him.

Maybe it was time he made an attempt at sobriety; everyone was always going on and on about his intake. There was also the kid to worry about and his wife Zelda, for who he was responsible. Who would take care of them if he allowed himself to get lost in his own whimsy? At this point, he could no longer deny that being sauced a majority of the day had its ill effects. Combine that with his writer's imagination and look where he'd found himself. Maybe this brief dip into insanity was just the kick he needed in the right direction.

The man chuckled to himself again, amused with the thought of such dramatics. He went to turn and found himself rooted to the spot he stood like some grand pepperidge tree. With some horror, he realized that his eyes had not once left the spot they'd been transfixed. Ginevra's beauty graced the surface of that impossible doorway above the bay.

The distressed writer's knees buckled under the weight of the shock, and his heart danced to a rhythm he'd never experienced before. The song of the siren-like women within that portal resumed with a nearly deafening swell. His feet recommenced their makeshift trot forward despite their master's desire to stop.

"This is happening!" He spoke in a voice nearly stolen with fear.

Across the water, hovering a foot above the water's murky surface, three women stood close to each other. They watched the human with keen interest.

They weren't really women or sirens but mousai, the vessels that inspired the arts and goddesses in their own right. Or, at the very least, their descendants, tasked to carry the helm of their foremothers before them.

Atalia broke from the group of three first, her heart beating to an unsung song that tightened her throat. She sauntered forward, 6 feet tall and full of curves, dipping her foot into the water every sixth step or so, playing with the water spirits in between worlds. Her cothurnus laced delicately between her toes and up her shin to her knees in ethereal colors and lights; most were blind to. Her tunic, a pale teal color woven with gold and stardust, hung on the immensities of her curves as no cloth could. Her olive-colored skin seemed to glow just under the surface of her skin as she stared the drunk writer square in the eyes despite being some distance away. She gripped in her left hand the mask of her lineage, in her right a club. She hummed a tragic melody, a deep bravado of a tone as was her way, to a tune yet to be created.

"You'll never make it through the veil, sister. This one has not overcome his fear." Ma'Ava called after her to no avail.

Ide disappeared from her spot beside her sister and queen Ma'Ava, waves lapping at her cream-colored silk tunic in the wake of her departure. She appeared seconds later in a blaze of flame and smoke undetectable to the human eye just outside the wavering barrier that separated their world from his. She sat on a cloud of smoke with an open scroll between her hands as she watched the inebriated writer with a curious amount of awe and boredom. "I don't know, sister," She said the last word with contempt thick enough to cut. "This one looks like he's got spunk!" Her ebony foot, bare, tapped rhythmically against her chest of books, adding to her sister's song. The golden anklet enclasped around her slender limb with its tiny charms tinkled in the windblown night.

Atalia laughed as she approached the barrier's edge and rubbed her club across the tangible wall. She knocked the weapon across its surface, looking for the spot where it was weakest. The veil wavered in response pushing back against her.

"This won't work!" Ma'Ava called as she stayed back watching the drunken human who'd stumbled into the bay.

"Ye of little faith," Atalia called back with amusement upon hearing the sound she was waiting on, his heartbeat slowing. "Mr. Fitzgerald, do I have a big one for you, a special delivery from yours truly." She raised the club back in an arcing motion, slid her mask on, and brought the weapon down with extraordinary force.

F. Scott Fitzgerald fell to his knees in the bay. He was dazed momentarily by the blinding green light that shone across the water, more brilliant than any star he'd ever seen. The door between our world and theirs opened, if only for a moment, and the muses stepped through.