Man from U.N.C.L.E. Section VII

Okay, for those of you who are stuck in some sort of writing drought, I'm here to offer you hope.  We are told to write what we know, and these days, everyone is a bit of an expert on this topic. So, I offer to you an opportunity to explore within the framework of The Man from UNCLE, the very current, very lived ...

Minimum... no minimum. Give us a short story, an epic novel or a drabble.  The goal is to write, and quite talking about muses.  Just sit down and put something on paper, that's how you start.  

Let me tell you a story about muses.  

When I was sidelined from salon work after developing asthma, unable to stay in an environment full of chemicals and, at the time, smoking, I started watching Bob Ross on the television.  I had been an art major in college, and one of many who ended up with a cosmetology license because it afforded some sort of creative outlet that might actually provide a living.  As I watched dear, sweet Bob, I kept saying to myself...

"I'd like to paint.  I really want to paint."

And so I watched the shows and talked to myself about painting, until one day, I heard a different voice say to me...

"Just pick up a brush and start painting."

Revelation.  And so I did, and I painted and then I started painting murals and, well, you get the idea.  Just sit down and write something.  Anything, until you get your rhythm back and you have something in front of you that pleases you.

( Read more... )

The woman had an ethereal look about her, something that seemed to attract the blond man who watched her as she wandered aimlessly from one place to another.

The young man was watching her - she could feel her skin cool where his blue eyes fell on her and, turning her own eyes to him, saw him fade in the sunlight.

"We need him," the voice in her head whispered, "bring him to us...".

The woman held out her hand and beckoned for the young man to come to her.

She was transparent in the blinding sunlight — it seemed to shine from her — and as he moved towards her, she began to come into focus and solidify into flesh.

His blue eyes fixed on the beckoning wave of her fingers, from which countless manicures had erased any stain. He raised his eyes to hers, and she knew that he knew.

A diffident smile softened his features, but the steel beneath was unforgiving.

"I am not the one you seek, Calliope is not my mother", his words betraying the muse's mission.

"You are, and will be, more than you know," she replied, the words reaching his mind despite no sound leaving her mouth.

The blond shook his head; how could this be...was he losing his mind; NO, he would fight her mental telepathy, drugs or whatever, it did not matter as he would resist it down to his very soul.


"Illya! Wake up or we're going to be late for our meeting with Mr. Waverly."

But in the fading of the dream Illya seemed to hear a voice. "Not Calliope, but Melpomene"

Illya awoke from the dream, discarding the words of the muse as, in his mind's eye his own reflection became intwined with a name buried deep in his bones: Morpheus.

The woman had an ethereal look about her, something that seemed to attract the blond man who watched her as she wandered aimlessly from one place to another.

The young man was watching her - she could feel her skin cool where his blue eyes fell on her and, turning her own eyes to him, saw him fade in the sunlight.

"We need him," the voice in her head whispered, "bring him to us...".

The woman held out her hand and beckoned for the young man to come to her.

She was transparent in the blinding sunlight — it seemed to shine from her — and as he moved towards her, she began to come into focus and solidify into flesh.

His blue eyes fixed on the beckoning wave of her fingers, from which countless manicures had erased any stain. He raised his eyes to hers, and she knew that he knew.

A diffident smile softened his features, but the steel beneath was unforgiving.

"I am not the one you seek, Calliope is not my mother", his words betraying the muse's mission.

We have something going called The Muse Affair.  Add one sentence to the story and show the muse who's boss. Seriously, it doesn't take a muse to write a sentence.
So far, this is where we're at, with the sentences contributed by glennagirl, hypatia_66 and gevr


The Muse Affair

The woman had an ethereal look about her, something that seemed to attract the blond man who watched her as she wandered aimlessly from one place to another.

The young man was watching her - she could feel her skin cool where his blue eyes fell on her and, turning her own eyes to him, saw him fade in the sunlight.

"We need him," the voice in her head whispered, "bring him to us...".


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Add your sentence with the tag the muse

Yesterday I threw out the idea of exploring the missing muses that several of us are grousing about.  You can read it HERE
So, I thought about it and am wondering if we might take small steps and do one sentence at a time.  A group effort.  I'll start it off and perhaps we'll end up with something.  Just copy and past, adding to it as you build on the story.
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The woman had an ethereal look about her, something that seemed to attract the blond man who watched her as she wandered aimlessly from one place to another.