Monday 23 June 2008

Memoirs from Poole: Emma's Story


After writing the story about stolen kisses, in fact straight after, I was tasked with writing another story. When I asked what I should write about, all three girls chipped in ideas. I think the things say something about the girls' psyche. The list finished like this:
  • Kittens
  • Babies
  • Emma's Mum
  • Elephants
  • Geese
  • Church
  • Lemon
  • Bananas
  • Megan

The following is the story that came from the list. The majority of it was written then and there, but I have just written the ending. At one point Emma was going to die, but she was granted a reprieve. Mainly because I’m sure that I would have never heard the end of it if I had killed her.

Enjoy.

Emma saw the fireworks first. They made no noise; silent explosions of colour. There were devil reds and electric blues (her personal favorite), envy greens and violent purples. As she watched, more and more began to explode blue until another colour didn’t exist in the sky.

At the gate she was greeted by a goose. He wore a top hat and a red waistcoat. She expected to be surprised by it, but found herself barely blinking, even when it spoke to her.
“Welcome to a land of mystery and truth!”
“Shouldn’t it be ‘the land’? Is there more than one?” Emma asked.
“Welcome to a land of mystery and truth!” the goose said again. This was all he ever said.

Emma paid the fare (Two silver coins and a crimson one; she was never sure where she got them from) and entered the fair. It was red and white and red and white as far as the eye could see. People laughed, or danced, or yelled excitably.

An elephant stomped on past, right in front of Emma. She smiled, because she wanted one. Reality changed, and suddenly she was stood by a baby elephant. It belonged to her, she knew it in the back of her mind. It padded along next to her as she explored.

She saw the bearded lady (and was glad she didn’t have a beard), the acrobatic dwarf (and wished she had kept up those gymnastic lessons when she was five) and a kitten, standing on its hind legs and dancing. It was here that Emma stopped, entertained by the show.

Except she couldn’t stop herself thinking that the whole thing would be much more entertaining if the kitten was juggling. So then she was watching the kitten juggle: bananas and lemons and a melon. Her baby elephant made a happy noise, which just gave voice to what Emma was feeling.

“Come and see your life!” a strange man shouted, almost directed at Emma. She wandered over, her little elephant following, and found herself at a small tent. It was black, so stood out from the red and white candy stripes of everywhere else.

“Good morning, afternoon and night ma’am. Would you care to see your life?” the man asked. He wore a large gray mustache, which Emma didn’t like at all. Then he was clean shaven.
“Maybe.’ Emma said ‘But surely I’m seeing it right now?”
“Oh dear me, no! Right now you’re living this moment. It’s not the same as seeing it ALL!’ The newly shaven man explained. ‘Go and see for yourself.”
“How much?” Emma asked, concerned she didn’t have anything he could want.
“For a pretty girl, a kiss’ he said. But as she puckered up and moved towards him, he waved a hand in her face ‘Oh dear, not for me. For him, when you meet him. Or her, if you’re that way inclined.”

Emma thanked the man, lightly bowing her head in a gracious manner, and stepped into the tent. It was empty. At least it felt empty, it was too dark to tell. But she felt alone, and in that moment she realized that her elephant had gone. She was about to go and fetch him when it all changed.

She saw everything, all at once. Her mother’s face, in the agony of childbirth. Her first steps and the smile of accomplishment. Her first kiss, experimental and new, behind the bike sheds.

She saw herself getting married, in a simple church in the countryside. Her husband was tall, with dark hair and dark eyes. When she turned around, she saw her friend Megan, dressed to the nines, smiling proudly; her chief bridesmaid.

She saw her first child, and her second, all at once. She saw them as babies and toddlers and teenagers, as if they were all of those things all at once.

At she saw herself die. She watched from the outside, as the blue car turned the corner too fast and found itself on the pavement. She flinched at the sound of metal on flesh, and a tear fell as she saw her daughter scream.

And then it was over and Emma was just left in an empty, dark room. She shook the memory away and laughed it off. It was silly. She’d already been hit by the car, and recovered in hospital. The doctor had said she was lucky to be alive. She kissed her husband and hugged her children and just got better. Hadn’t she?

She heard a light cough behind her and spun round to greet it. A man stood, visible in the darkness. It was like he glowed. And he was beautiful.

“I guess I need to kiss you then?” She asked, even though she knew the answer.
The man just nodded.
“And then what?”
The man shrugged.

At that moment, Emma wished more than she’d ever wished for anything in her life. She wished she didn’t have to kiss the man. And he faded away. And so did the tent. And the whole fair. She was standing in a field, alone and cold.

A pain ran through her heart, like an electric shock. It made tears form in her eyes and dropped her to her knees. Another pain quickly followed and she cried out in pain.

“Stop!” she shouted. She closed her eyes to block out the pain as a third shock fried her body.

When she opened them again, she found herself in a hospital, unable to move. Her body was alive with pain. She was surrounded by doctors and nurses, rushing around and speaking words she couldn’t quite make out. One held a pair of paddles.
In the window to the operating theatre she could see her husband. His face was wrinkled with concerned, his arms crossed. But he smiled when she opened her eyes.

And even though it hurt, and it sapped her of her energy, she smiled back. Then she fell asleep.

:D

http://morbidthegrim.deviantart.com/art/No-Free-Ride-86134278

Sunday 22 June 2008

Memoirs from Poole: Stolen Kisses


I didn’t write a lot on holiday. I didn’t check Facebook, text anyone or try and contact the outside world in any way. Writing sort of fell under that category. I was on holiday, so I would not write.

What follows is what happened on the one day that I did write, laid on a sofa and with Emma constantly looking over and saying “Have you finished yet?”.

It is kind of based on a dream, but also on me exploring the phrase ‘stolen kisses’ one afternoon when I was, literally, stealing kisses. Not in the way the story makes out though.

She kissed him outside ‘The Red Lion’, round the back in the darkest of alleys. Illuminated only by a full moon, she moved her hands to his hair, pulling him roughly towards her. He tasted new, of ash and stale beer, and his lips didn’t fit hers, finding her chin too often.

But he was enthusiastic at least, and she was drunk, and his amateur fumbles sent a few shivers down her spine and up her legs. And she loved him. She loved them all. She had to really, for what she wanted in life. It made the kisses mean more, warm her heart more.

She ran her hands down his back, lifting his shirt when she reached his belt and digging her nails in. He drew in breath: short, sharp, pleasurable.

* * *

The next guy was at the office, an old favourite. He was young, and his short attention span meant she was always on the verge and never really enjoying herself. She thought of her workmates in the other room, trying to find enjoyment in the forbidden thrill of it all.

He used his tongue too much, thinking it the way to a woman’s heart. She knew the way to his, and she reached for it through his boxers.

* * *

George kept telling her his name was George. He was so prim and proper, wining and dining her before he even held her hand. He blushed when she suggested coffee, in the way that meant that coffee was the last thing on her mind.

She loved George and his coyness. When he eventually kissed her, he wanted her to be happy. It was refreshing. He tasted of mint, sharp and clean like his mind.

He never did accept her “coffee”.

She left him at her door and listened to him drive away as she climbed to her room. She sat down on the edge of her bed as she placed her heart into the small wooden chest. George’s kisses were white; naïve and kind.

* * *

The fair was loud and busy in the early afternoon. Most people walked past her stall without stopping, or read the sign and chuckled. Occasionally someone would stop, curious enough to offer her the five pounds she was asking.

She thanked them, graciously, asked them to close their eyes. Many refused, but she insisted, adamant to keep her secret. From the wooden box, which was carve with nymphs and stars and hearts, she would remove a kiss.

On this day, George’s kiss floated up first, eager and playful, but she would save that for someone special. She reached into the box instead, feeling the kisses brush against her wrist. From the bottom she removed a black one, dark and smoky.

She planted it gently on the customer’s lips, and watched as he squirmed with pleasure. For that brief, fleeting moment (and for five of his British pounds) he felt loved, even if it was by a tattooed bouncer, who couldn’t tell the difference between lips and a chin.

:D

Saturday 21 June 2008

Memoirs from Poole: Things I THINK I Understand About Girls

It's been two years since I last lived with girls; somehow I've resided in all-male houses. And even during that year, the girl's very much had their own floor that was very rarely entered. After all, the boy floor had a pool table and the girl's just had smelly soap and make-up.

So the holiday was certainly interesting: living with three girls in close quarters for seven days. I learnt stuff. Not a lot, mind, because if girls could be figured out in a week then the world would be a simpler place, but a little.

What follows is a culmination of all my knowledge from the week about girls.
  • Girl's hair gets everywhere. Shower, sink, toilet, my pillow; everywhere! Unfortunately, all three girls have brown hair, so it was impossible to pin down the culprit.
  • Girls are under the mistaken belief that boys are purposely leaving the toilet seat up to screw with them. We're not. We're just forgetful. How hard is it to put the seat down yourself?
  • Girls (Or some anyway) snore and make nasty noises in bed just the same as a boy. However, boys are discreet about mentioning said noises whilst girls are quite happy to moan about how little sleep they got.
  • Some girls like plucking their eyebrows.
  • The average number of bras owned by a girl is eight. However, they all still owned some that didn't fit anymore.
  • Girls will say things in advance of doing them. For example, "I need the toilet" or "I need a drink". Boys just go and do these things. Girls think the world needs to know their plans.

That's it. The end. All I know.

The one thing I still haven't grasped is how they manage to take a bra off without removing their tops. Defies the law of gravity.

Ah well. There's always next holiday.

:D

Thursday 19 June 2008

Memoirs from Poole: Never Sunburnt

I don’t get sunburnt. The sun comes out, shining its hardest to try and fry my skin, and my body just turns a dirty brown colour. It’s a useful skill to have in life.

So on the second day, with its beautiful sunny weather, I didn’t have to worry about burning whilst I swam. Not me. The water kept me cool and the sun was just British sun. My body had survived Italian sun. How could British sun even hope to compare?

And when my face turned red (and broke out with freckles) and my shoulders glowed, I wasn’t concerned. It would fade soon, to a nice brown, because I don’t burn.

And when my shoulders became sore just lying down on a sofa, or whenever anyone touched them, or when a light breeze blew, I didn’t think twice. I don’t burn.

And the fact that I was applying moisturizer to my face every couple of hours was down to something else. It certainly wasn’t me being burnt.

And when I could peel skin off my shoulders, I wasn’t burnt. And the insane stinging sensation from the application of after-sun was down to an allergy or something. It couldn’t be that my shoulders were red and raw from having half the usual layers of skin.

It couldn’t be that.

Because I don’t burn.

:P

Wednesday 18 June 2008

Memoirs from Poole: Moonlit Beaches


Our first night on holiday was all exciting and new. We drank newly purchased cider and ate newly bought (and newly cooked) pizza in the caravan, which wasn’t exactly new per se, but new to us.

When the alcohol lightened our synapses enough, the five of us took to exploring the caravan park. This of course means that we found the members-only lounge and settled there; reading newspapers, drinking coffee and playing free pool (In Poole! – a joke that never grew old). Whilst we have the bodies of 21 year olds, we’re old people at heart, and enjoyed bemoaning the state of The Daily Mail and the quality of machine hot chocolate.

Closing time soon beckoned though, and we were forced back out into the embracing cold of an English summer night. Except that it wasn’t summer yet and it wasn’t all that cold, but who lets truth get in the way of a good story.

With a quick alcohol stop, our continued exploration gave fruit to a beach. The route there was simple enough, and bares remembering. We passed some caravans, crossed a field, went down a single file path, round some boating equipment and found ourselves on a small beach. Remember that.

The moon was out, bold and bright, and it cast a shimmering light on the surface of the sea. The image isn’t unique, and I’m sure it won’t be the last moon I see reflected on the water, but it was that moment that I truly felt on holiday. I have cider at home, and I have pool at home and I unfortunately have The Daily Mail at home. What I don’t have is a beach and a sea for the moon to reflect on. This was new. This was holiday.

We sat and we chatted and we drank and we laughed, and at some point the group split. Over on the far end of the beach were Faye, Megan and Nixon; and remaining in the original patch there was Emma and myself. There was the moon too, and the reflection, and the soft sound of the waves crashing against the sand. And Emma. So I kissed her, because that’s what you do when there’s a moon and a beach and a girl. It’s almost a law.

This wasn’t the first time that I’d kissed her; that was ten years ago, on the field at school. It was awkward and new and surrounded by other children who thought it oh so entertaining that a boy and a girl would be kissing. This kiss was a bit more skilled (I emphasize the ‘bit’) and more relaxed. It was also secret and in the dark. Sort of.

You see, our logic was that if we couldn’t see the other three, they couldn’t see us. We listened as we kissed though, in the knowledge that if our covers were blown we’d hear about it. It’d be scandal, surely. There would be a fuss. We were wrong on all counts.

We were very visible, because we were sat in the light of a caravan. So they did see our ‘secret’ kiss. They weren’t making a fuss because they weren’t there.

I’d like to tell you that it didn’t take us long to realize that we’d been left, but the truth is I do not know how long we sat kissing, or at what point the three of them chose to abandon us to ourselves. We did twig eventually, and hand-in-hand (and leaving our cans behind us) we journeyed back to the caravan.

Now, do you remember the route we took to get to the beach? Because the problem that we were suddenly faced with was that we didn’t have a narrator to let us know we needed to remember how we got to where we were.

We walked past the boating equipment and through the single file path and across the field; that bit we remembered. But caravans look exactly the same in the dark. Just block after block of white with windows with numbers that rose or dropped in what seemed like a random pattern.

The morning went on and we wandered. Occasionally we kissed more because it made the fact that we were lost a bit more entertaining. We made phone calls and were guided down roads that I forgot then, let alone now. Eventually, through the use of signs and maps, we found ourselves back at our base caravan. There wasn’t a home-warming party, because we’d taken so long to get home that everyone had retired to bed.

The next morning I discovered sand in my shoes, sand in my hoodie (which Emma had been wearing) and sand in my mouth; a rather odd reminder that the holiday in Poole had now officially begun.

:D

Tuesday 17 June 2008

Memoirs from Poole: Building the Bubble

We arrived in Poole mid-afternoon, after a fairly unadventurous road trip. Not the best way to start a story or a holiday, but that’s life I guess. We had had a discussion about inventing a GPS device that would answer questions, and another about buying ourselves a soldier, but they were the type of conversations that should be left with the time, place and people that they existed with, for fear of losing their poignancy.

But this isn’t about interesting stories or poignancy. This is about setting the scene, forming the image in your mind that will bode you well for later stories about the adventures and misadventures that took place during the holiday. So let me try and do that.

We were staying in a caravan park (in caravan number 44, for those ‘detail’ people) in the seaside town of Poole. It was one of these family parks, consisting of a café, some bars, a play-park, miniature golf, swimming pools, a snooker table, arcade machines and holiday makers. I’m sure that by just naming things I’m not evoking the most vivid of imagery, but once you’ve seen one of these places, you’ve seen them. If you haven’t seen one, you don’t want your memory space taken up with such images.

What makes these type of holiday places special is the people you spent your time with, and it is here that I come to my first brick wall of describing the events of the holiday. I am usually loath to describe my life unless it is somehow story-shaped or I can add enough opinion to it so as to make the whole thing interesting. I’m even more loath to start describing people I know.

I’ve learnt from experience that if I write my opinion or a description of a person, that person will inevitably read what I right. They’re not often offended, since I never have nasty stuff to say (or avoid saying it through fear of being read) but I find the whole idea a bit unnerving. Also, the description tends to get outdated pretty quick, as relationships change like the tide. And it is usually boring for anyone outside my inner social circle.

Anyway, the point I’m circling around but not really getting to, is that I don’t like writing descriptions of people in my life. However, on this rare occasion I feel it necessary to allow quick images when I mention a name later. I will stick to the facts and keep the whole thing short.

This is Emma. She has known me the longest, got a first in her History degree (give her a pat on the back when you see her) and likes the colour blue. She is nice.

This is Faye. She owns a costume shop and likes fairies. The image you have in your head of that person is probably Faye. She is nice.

This is Megan. She was my prom date, is going to be a teacher and is under the mistaken belief that Buffy should have ended up with Spike. She is nice.


This is (Chris) Nixon. His chief hobbies are drinking, swearing and combining the two. His parents also own the caravan that we stayed in. He is…well, I wouldn’t use the word ‘nice’ but he’s certainly entertaining.

So, the scene is set and the players are ready. The following stories take place in the same little bubble world with the same cast.

Enjoy.

:D

Monday 16 June 2008

We're All Going On A Summer Holiday


Now that the summer has come, I must go away. That is how life works.

My bags are packed, with clothes and toothpaste and books, and tomorrow afternoon I'll be away for a week. Under a caravan roof, I'll be living, drinking, eating and partying with five friends for a week.

There is no higher message or point here. I just like typing the words because it makes the whole thing more real. I'm going on holiday soon.

Fun times!

:D

http://spanishalex.deviantart.com/art/Dune-Legs-57862677

Sunday 15 June 2008

Pizza Hut Desperation

In this modern world filled with magazines which are themselves filled with skinny models which are themselves filled with lettuce and absolutely nothing else, fast food is dying out.

No-one eats burgers or pizza anymore, preferring the five-a-day delights of apples and oranges and salad leaves. Everything is fat-free, sugar-free, probiotic, low-calorie; and greasy, fatty foods just don't get a look in.

So praise Pizza Hut, for their new advertising campaign: "A free happy ending with every stuff-crusted pizza!"

Is this how desperate the fast food industry has come; to be offering sexual favours to it's customers if they just come in and buy a pizza? Come on Pizza Hut! Have some dignity!

On a totally separate note, I'll be having pizza tomorrow. To support the fast food industry, not for any other reason.

:P

http://ssviolentj.deviantart.com/art/pizza-32097050


Thursday 12 June 2008

Summer Mornings

It's all about summer mornings.

The gentle waking, the drawn-out sight as you leave the world of dreams with pleasant memories as souvenirs.

The puzzle that is your body which, in a bid to stay cool, finds itself sprawled amongst covers in something that people could call modern art. But hey, they can call anything 'modern art' nowadays.

The prospect of sunny days, of picnics, or lying in the warm grass imagining that a simple cloud is something more extraordinary: a bear, or a dragon, or a heart slowly drifting in two.

The possibilities that sunshine brings; a bright new start every single day.

The sigh-yawn, the re-arrange of the quilts for more comfort, the dreams filtering back. The lie-in.

Because it's all about summer afternoons.

:D

http://eternalyunjae.deviantart.com/art/YunJae-waking-you-up-67466214

Wednesday 11 June 2008

Nice Guys Finishing First

If The Apprentice teaches us anything about business, it is that business is ruthless and full of cruel people who would rather sell their mother's house than fail in closing a deal. It is also full of idiots; people who can't look outside their own little bubble world.

In the last twelve weeks, regular viewers (i.e. me) have witnessed enough back-stabbings to keep some reputable knife company (that I can't think of right now) in business, acts of idiocy that defy science, and the biggest over use of the phrase "giving 110%" ever recorded.

Fourteen small-minded, shallow, selfish, arrogant, self-assured people were narrowed down to just four: A loud girl called Claire, a boring girl called Helene, a slimy guy called Alex and Lee 'That's what I'm talkin' about' McQueen.

And if The Apprentice teaches us anything else about business, it is that nice guys will finish first (or be back stabbed by people they thought were friends. Poor Raef.)

The show ended tonight with the best man getting the job; the guy who never got involved in boardroom politics (he was hardly ever there), never betrayed or bitched, and did the job to the best of his ability.

Good call Sir Alan.

:D

Tuesday 10 June 2008

Dollhouse


There are a few constants in life, things you know will never change. The sky is blue, water is wet and anything by Joss Whedon is going to be awesome!

Only half a year to wait.

:D

Monday 9 June 2008

The Man From St. Ives


This was a story based on a dream, written at six in morning. Things have obviously been changed to make sense to non-dreamers, but the events remain the same.

Obviously I wasn't a girl in my own dream, but she was there and I felt she had the more interesting story to tell. I ended up being the man of shadow.

I heard tell of the trickster from St. Ives long ago, a brilliant man who had somersaulted across from one rooftop to another in a bid to escape his mistress' husband. He was said to have the most unique smile. But he was myth, this man from St. Ives, a folk legend. I never thought I'd meet someone who believed in him.

We were in a bar, the three of us. Do not ask me their names; I had met them in this place and expected to leave them here too, had events not turned out like they did.

One was flash and loud. He wanted the whole world to know just how great he was. The other, quieter, a dark shadow at the corner of the table.

The bar itself was a terrible place: a cabaret club, lit up in places where bars should not be lit. A number of acts sand, danced or tumbled across a tiny, undecorated stage, and the small smattering of polite applause told me that people thought the same of them that I did.

One act was particularly bad: a man who came on to the stage with birds. I would love to tell that he did something more, but that was all it was. A man and his birds, on stage.

I complained loudly at the inadequacy of the entertainment to the barmaid, as she fixed me another drink. She nodded, mournfully, as if she knew how I must feel. We were connected then, two sisters against the world of poor entertainers. It didn't last.

This was when the two men had joined me. At first I thought they would attempt to woo me; in fact, the way the flash man stroked his ego and boasted of past achievements, I am still not sure if that isn't what he was trying to do. But it never really came to fruition, and we just got drunk together.

Conversation drifted from subject to subject with the ease that alcohol brings. The flash man spoke a lot, knowledgeable in a range of things, whilst the shadow man spoke no words at all. Soon we found ourselves discussing myth, and the man from St. Ives. I had a passing knowledge of the story, but the flash filled the rest in.

He was said to be the Casanova that came before Casanova; a lover of many women and even a few men. He was bright and beautiful and the story goes that he was trapped on his mistress' rooftop, unable to turn around for fear of a spear in the back. In an act of agility, the man from St. Ives leaped backwards and landed on the rooftop of the neighbouring house, living to slept around another day.

Our conversation was cut short by a scoff coming from the bar. The bird man had taken a stool nearby, and when the three of us turned to look at him he let us know exactly what he felt about story. It was rubbish and we were foolish to even give it airing. He seem fixed on me, his bile and anger directed towards me. I caught sight of the barmaid and knew that she had told him about my critique of his act. She was a traitor to sisterhood.

The flash man didn't take the disbelief well, and argued back. He'd been drinking fire whiskey, a drink known to raise anger levels and the boasts of the drinker. As if this man needed it.

The conversation battled back and forth, forth and back, going nowhere. The bird wrangler didn't believe that such a leap could ever be made. Flash was adamant it could, if the correct person attempted it. Of course, he was the right person.

It was at this point that the shadow finally spoke. When he did, his voice was as smooth as caramel and made me dizzy.

"Prove it."

That was all he said, all he needed to say. The gauntlet was dropped and Mr. Flash was more than willing to pick it up. Fire Whiskey also has that effect on people.

The fabled rooftop was in the South of France, in a small hamlet by the coast. It would take all night by train to reach it, but to prove a point the man would do anything. He finished the last gulp of his last drink, stood up from his seat and walked out of the bar.

Half of the people in that place came too, curious to know how this story ended. I tagged along too. I had nowhere else in the world to be now, so why not walk away with a story to tell.

On the train, I found myself sat next to the shadow of a man. He spoke more, when it was just the two of us, but the abundance of words didn't make them less sweet or less dizzying. He spoke of beautiful places and fairy stories, and never once mentioned himself.

At sunrise, we found ourselves pulling into the most picturesque little place. The famous building was a five minute walk from the station, but I remember little of it. The shadow man's voice is all that inhabits my memory.

Many of the bar patrons had found more sources of alcoholic beverages, and now stood at the base of the house, drinking and jeering and looking up. The flash man, once on the rooftop and looking at the gap he had to cross, no longer seemed as flash as he did in the bar. The bravery from the Fire Whiskey was wearing off now.

For a moment, I believed that he wasn't going to do it. Sure, he would have the face the wrath of a drunken crowd, but I guess that's a whole lot better than death. But his faltering ended when he caught sight of the bird man, grinning. A fleeting piece of bravado must have flowed through him then, because he leapt.

He didn't make it.

Perhaps, maybe, he landed a single foot on the edge of the target building, but it slipped away and he found himself tumbling too far for someone to survive. He hit the ground with a sickening crack.

Nobody moved to help him. They just stood and stared, speechless statues. I cannot blame them; I made no move to offer assistance. There was a feeling that whatever we did, nothing would change. Fate had played its hand; humans couldn't change the cards.

I felt a presence next to me then and turned to find that the man of shadow was standing at my shoulder. He was smiling. It was a very unique smile.

"No-one ever could make that jump. Don't know how I did it."

I watched him walk out of my life, and found myself longing to kiss him, to hold him, to have him inside of me.

No man afterwards tasted as sweet as I imagined the man from St. Ives would taste.

:D

http://baby--jane.deviantart.com/art/rooftops-41428588

Sunday 1 June 2008

More About Muses


After the whole Muse story from the other day, I got into a research bug and Wikipedia'd the whole idea of a muse. Found below are the nine muses from Greek Myth. The actually correspond to the picture. From top left...

Melpomene is the muse of tragedy, represented wearing a tragic mask. She is often depicted holding a mask in one hand and a knife or a club in the other.

Euterpe is the goddess of memory and a muse of music and lyric poetry, joy, and pleasure. Her very name translates as "delight" or "rejoicing." She is depicted with the double flute.

Terpsichore is the muse of the dramatic chorus and dancing, hence the dance term "terpsichorean." She is usually depicted seated with a lyre.

Polyhymnia is the long-cloaked muse of sacred hymn, eloquence, and dance. She is mostly presented in a pensive or meditative pose against a pillar or holding a finger up to her lips.

Urania doesn't seem to have an entry in the book that I got the rest of the information from. She is apparently the heavenly muse, of astrology and astronomy. She is often depicted holding a globe in one hand and a peg in the other, whilst standing on a turtle, the symbol of peace.

Clio is the muse to call upon for historical and heroic poetry. Often depicted with a set of tablets or a scroll it was she who introduced the Phoeician alphabet into Greece.

The ancient muse of eloquence is Calliope or Calliopeia - armed with her emblems of a stylus and wax tablets, we turn to this distinguished, beautiful-voiced muse to inspire epic or heroic poetry.

Erato is the muse of lyric poetry and mimicry, depicted carrying a lyre. We turn to her for inspiration with love poetry and the erotic.

Thalia is the muse who presides over rural pursuits, comedy, and pastoral poetry. She bears a comic mask and a shepherd's crook.

See, you learn something new everyday.

:D

http://archeon.deviantart.com/art/The-Muses-56099327
Personal Blogs - BlogCatalog Blog Directory