Your eyes can be so cruel, just as I can be so cruel.
The unmistakeable voice of David Bowie echoed through an assortment of high-quality speakers distributed evenly throughout Terpsichore's room. It was one of nine -- the nine most elaborate rooms in the house, one for each muse.
Terpsichore's was colourful and mainly clear of furniture, like a nightclub. There was some seating on the edges of the room -- cushy and shapeless, with psychedelic colours and patterns; speakers either hung from the ceiling or peeked up from pockets in the floor; the walls were covered with racks bearing CDs, cassettes, and records; and at the far end was a large, round, queen-sized bed with a black frame, lush purple blankets, and creamy white pillows, above which a control panel for all the room's electronics sprouted from the wall. A hidden door on the wall to the right of the bed led straight to the mansion's enormous library for easy access.
The muse of dancing was curled like a cat on top of the bed's velvety surface with a copy of Aldous Huxley's Brave New World. She had been that way all day. There wasn't much else to do, in her opinion. Socialization was out of the question. There was no way she was going to help her priggish, mortal-hogging father to the conclusion that this was a good set-up. It wasn't. This world was hardly better than Mount Olympus when she couldn't take part in it. Just going outside was depressing. She didn't even feel like dancing.
The Savage was just getting harrassed by reporters for choosing to live away from society when a clump of burnt tobacco plopped down into the middle of the page. Dully she realized that the dwindling cigarette hanging loosely between her index and middle fingers was done for, and snubbed it out in the ashtray next to her before dumping what had fallen in the book onto the floor. Then, after a moment's consideration, she pulled a new cigarette out of the box on her other side and lit it with the Jim Morrison lighter that had been sitting on her stomach. She loved the smell, and it wasn't as if she had to worry about her lungs giving out.
In a matter of minutes, she had finished the book and tossed it on top of the pile accumulating next to her bed of books she had read recently and been too lazy to return to the library.
A kind of pale jewel, open and closed within your eyes. I'll place the skies within your eyes.
It had been almost a week already -- although three days didn't exactly constitute almost a week to most people -- and Terpsichore had enjoyed little contact with the other members of the household. True, there was nothing she could think of that would keep her from talking to Clio on a regular basis, and her other sisters talked to her when they saw her, but she wasn't going to humour Zeus by making friends with the mortals, attractive though they were. Especially...
No, wait. She wasn't going to think about them. All she needed to do was wait until her father got bored with this stupid idea -- or, better yet, realized what a stupid idea it was -- and changed everything back to normal. Just in case, she tried to remember how to destroy an immortal. Maybe she would think better with some food. The clock on the wall read 5:07 a.m. in a demonic red glow that stood out against the room's dimmed lights. Maybe someone else would be in the kitchen. Clio would probably know. Or maybe one of those mortals had studied Greek mythology. Doubtful -- really, how many did these days? -- but possible. So she crossed the room and skipped daintily down the stairs to the kitchen, leaving her door open and the Bowie CDs playing relentlessly.
The unmistakeable voice of David Bowie echoed through an assortment of high-quality speakers distributed evenly throughout Terpsichore's room. It was one of nine -- the nine most elaborate rooms in the house, one for each muse.
Terpsichore's was colourful and mainly clear of furniture, like a nightclub. There was some seating on the edges of the room -- cushy and shapeless, with psychedelic colours and patterns; speakers either hung from the ceiling or peeked up from pockets in the floor; the walls were covered with racks bearing CDs, cassettes, and records; and at the far end was a large, round, queen-sized bed with a black frame, lush purple blankets, and creamy white pillows, above which a control panel for all the room's electronics sprouted from the wall. A hidden door on the wall to the right of the bed led straight to the mansion's enormous library for easy access.
The muse of dancing was curled like a cat on top of the bed's velvety surface with a copy of Aldous Huxley's Brave New World. She had been that way all day. There wasn't much else to do, in her opinion. Socialization was out of the question. There was no way she was going to help her priggish, mortal-hogging father to the conclusion that this was a good set-up. It wasn't. This world was hardly better than Mount Olympus when she couldn't take part in it. Just going outside was depressing. She didn't even feel like dancing.
The Savage was just getting harrassed by reporters for choosing to live away from society when a clump of burnt tobacco plopped down into the middle of the page. Dully she realized that the dwindling cigarette hanging loosely between her index and middle fingers was done for, and snubbed it out in the ashtray next to her before dumping what had fallen in the book onto the floor. Then, after a moment's consideration, she pulled a new cigarette out of the box on her other side and lit it with the Jim Morrison lighter that had been sitting on her stomach. She loved the smell, and it wasn't as if she had to worry about her lungs giving out.
In a matter of minutes, she had finished the book and tossed it on top of the pile accumulating next to her bed of books she had read recently and been too lazy to return to the library.
A kind of pale jewel, open and closed within your eyes. I'll place the skies within your eyes.
It had been almost a week already -- although three days didn't exactly constitute almost a week to most people -- and Terpsichore had enjoyed little contact with the other members of the household. True, there was nothing she could think of that would keep her from talking to Clio on a regular basis, and her other sisters talked to her when they saw her, but she wasn't going to humour Zeus by making friends with the mortals, attractive though they were. Especially...
No, wait. She wasn't going to think about them. All she needed to do was wait until her father got bored with this stupid idea -- or, better yet, realized what a stupid idea it was -- and changed everything back to normal. Just in case, she tried to remember how to destroy an immortal. Maybe she would think better with some food. The clock on the wall read 5:07 a.m. in a demonic red glow that stood out against the room's dimmed lights. Maybe someone else would be in the kitchen. Clio would probably know. Or maybe one of those mortals had studied Greek mythology. Doubtful -- really, how many did these days? -- but possible. So she crossed the room and skipped daintily down the stairs to the kitchen, leaving her door open and the Bowie CDs playing relentlessly.
