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I Am Not Amused

by Patrick M. Ohana 12 days ago in fiction

Life Is Hard Enough

Free image from Pickpik

By Jove, life can be more unpredictable than death, and death is a sure thing, whereas life can often, especially for a writer, or a poet, a special subspecies of a writer, be bettered by a muse. And I’m not typing about the muse you read about or watched in films. I mean a woman who influences everything you write about, even a freaking haiku, though there, you can evade her a little, especially if you write about AI. I love the idea of AI. Artificial insemination of intelligence into inorganic stuff, with humans, the alpha on Earth, beginning to understand that an alpha always fails and falls to a new stronger life. Life is in competition with itself. Not all life is created equal, especially between species. And even in the midst of an alpha species, the human animal always ranks the individuals within based on their power and means. But that’s not the story here. I’m going to recount a strange tale about once, only once, not being quite amused by my muse.

It was a special morning like every special morning waking up next to my muse. In case you weren’t following my continuing story with my muse, she lives on the Moon. Yes! My muse lives on the beautiful Moon. At least she’s not living on freaking red Mars, since red is her favourite colour. Of course, she lives on Earth, but she might as well be living on the Moon given some unfortunate circumstances. We’re in love which shouldn’t surprise any writer or poet. Falling in love with your muse is a frequent occurrence. That my muse is in love with me is a rarer occasion. Moreover, she fell in love with me, my words, really, before I fell in love with her words and then her. That’s already one small reversal. I still don’t know if the principal reversal was even called for or even enjoyable. I guess that you’ll also be the judge of that.

As I was typing, it was a bloody good morning from the start. By Jove, we were still alive and full of love, both inside and all over the sheets. The scent of a muse is unique. There’s nothing to compare it to. Even my two favourite plants, cannabis and peppermint, pale, even together, in comparison with this out-of-this-world odour. A perfume with this scent could bring the end of the world even faster than the path of perdition that it’s already on. I think that Shakespeare knew it. Perhaps it’s the reason for so much death in the Bard's timeless plays. Shakespeare’s sonnets were more subdued but as beautiful as all the stars in the universe and beyond.

When I opened my eyes, I felt different, like new, especially when I looked at my muse and saw myself. I almost screamed, then thought that it was a wet dream, that is before realizing that I didn’t have a prick. My sword was gone, replaced, by Jove, with the meaning of life. I finally had a pussy of my own. I touched it, moving a finger around its circumference, pushing it lightly inside, feeling the warmth, launching something I quickly stopped. Reality was beckoning in my head. Wake up, prick! You’re just dreaming the best dream of your life. It must be also because of your muse. She’s even special among muses, and she’s trilingual, including English and French. English for the mind and French for the heart. What a creature of delight is my muse. In the hardest time of my life, I am suddenly blessed with a muse who’s in love with my pains through my words that have now become hers.

I touched myself. I meant, her. S/he awoke, quickly understanding what had happened to us, smiling at first and then laughing like never before.

“I love you so much that I’ve become you,” s/he finally said with my voice.

I think that I love you even more, but I never even thought of becoming you, I replied with her muse’s sound.

“You have no clue, my love, but our love has been curated from above,” s/he whispered as though someone could hear.

Curated? I hope not by Medium. Too bad Scrittura can’t curate. They have this great poet who knows what I’m typing about. We seem to be sharing similar pains. I hope that he has a muse to take care of his wounds. Words are never enough. He may need to write a sonnet. It’s less free, but the Bard is always watching, living forever between the words, looking for old rhymes brought back to life and enjoying new ones. To Be or Not to Be is the anthem of the human condition.

“Curated by the gods, my dear love,” s/he replied.

So, they do exist. I hope that you’re referring to Zeus and all his family and friends.

“I am, my love. You see, it didn’t take you long to understand.”

I surely did because now I’m your muse.

“Only in appearance, my dear. Remember that what really counts is inside, within and around the heart.”

How long will I feel and look this way? I asked, hesitant, not sure that I wanted to hear the truth.

“Only until noon, my love, when the clock strikes twelve.”

Very appropriate, I thought before saying: We have enough time. I want to make love to you as a woman.

“That was the idea, my muse,” s/he said with an almost imperceptible wink.

I held her prick in my hand and pulled it lightly until it stood ready for all that next came.


Dedicated to Anthi Psomiadou, one of the goddesses of modern Greece.

Patrick M. Ohana
Patrick M. Ohana
Read next: The Shower
Patrick M. Ohana

Medical writer who prefers to read and write fiction and some nonfiction, though the latter may appear at times as the former.

See all posts by Patrick M. Ohana

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