Fiction: Interview With The Muse

"I want my cheque!"

"Cheque? And which cheque would this be?" Tired, withering sarcasm.

"The cheque I believe I am owed for all my hard work! Who was it who collaborated with you on that wretched story about the sheep from Mars with the gun made out of umbrellas that won the Orange Turner prize?"

"Collaboration? I was the one who sat there for twelve hours and wrote the fucking thing!"

"You didn't need to do it all in one night, you know. Anyway, that was me as well. I had to supervise you, didn't I? Goodness knows what you would have come up with if I'd left you on your own, it was bad enough as it was." There was a pause while he caught his breath. "What about the six hours I put in the week before that? You work it out, if you can remember what my hourly rate is, it's been that long since you've paid me anything."

"What about me? At the moment it seems like I'm paying you £12.45 an hour-"

"So, you do remember it then? I thought that was why you weren't paying me, because you'd forgotten the amount we'd agreed in my contract. Now it appears that is not the case you can get your cheque book out."

"I'm not paying you £12.45 an hour to sprawl on my bed, eating my ice cream and tapping me with a ladle when I don't write fast enough for you. And that's only when you decide to show up."

"Yes, but you're not paying me £12.45 an hour are you? I wouldn't mind if you were!"

"But you're awful! Stephen King only has a fourth rate muse and look at his stuff."

A sigh. "He puts the work in. I do my best with you. I do everything I can, but you're beyond my ability."

"You're the standard model, aren't you? All the other writers are doing alright. Even Lorren Mersey, and she only write on Sundays!"

"She's got talent."

"So have I! Or I would, if you did your job properly. I'm dissatisfied with the work you're turning out. I don't like the plots or the characters or the style. You can take a reduced fee or nothing I'm afraid."

"You're the writer, mate. You can shove your reduced fee up your arse. Do you have any idea how much the recruitment place says I'm worth? £19 an hour!"

"Well, sod off then."

"You can't sack me, I'm a muse!"

"Couldn't you just storm off in a huff and find a new writer to torment?"

"I might just do that."

"Go on then. I'll get myself a new muse."

"Good luck with that. They probably won't let you write historical cyberpunk erotica either. It'll be all screenplays about teenage pregnancy and novels about zombies."

*

WANTED: Advanced fourth/third rate muse for a 25 year old male (fiction) writer. Pay rate negotiable, up to £15 per hour. Muse must be able to spell, enjoy working at night and should be available between 6pm and 1am and at short notice. Muse should ideally have a science fiction/fantasy/erotica/soft porn/steampunk background and must be confident with cross genre. Preferably good with dialogue, sentence structure etc. Smoker preferred. Please send your CV and covering letter to: Mr Barnaby Hicks, C/O Smith Avenue, London, WV14 5HH. Telephone 0207 7757 8884.

*

"Mister 'Icks? I've come abaht the interview? Can ah call ya Barnaby, yeah?"

Barnaby stared at the creature on his doorstep, all blue hair and faintly bluish pink skin, braces on her teeth, chewing gun as though her life depended on it. She moved her lips slightly and smiled at him like a crocodile.

"I've filled the position now, I'm afraid. I do apologise. You should have phoned...erm...you're not into pornographic post-futurism, though, are you, by any chance?"

"Nah, mate. I only do soaps an' romance. Bit of fantasy on the side mind...ya said rate four, dint ya?"

"Yes, but as I said, the position has been filled. I'm terribly sorry."

The figure in the doorway grinned. It didn't suit her. "Don't worry about it. I got five interviews today, innit? See ya la'er!"

*

"So, who did you use to muse for?"

The smartly dressed gnome looked up. "Oh, Sylvia Plath, Kurt Kobain. I also did a little temping for...oh...what's her name...?" clicks his tiny fingers together while he thinks, and clicks them louder when he comes up with the answer. "Sally Starling!"

"The one who had the overdose in 2005?"

The gnome grinned. "Aye. Temped for her in...oh...must have 2004. Four years ago."

"Great. Anyone else?"

"I've been out of work for a while, on and off."

There was an awkward silence, the kind there is between a man in a slaughter house ad the cow he is about to kill, as Barnaby tried to think of a neutral question. The kind that simultaneously said 'I'm very interested in you, and I would offer you the job, but I'm afraid I've got to go and kill myself in the bathroom with a set of rusty spark plugs' and 'Get out of my flat. NOW!'.

Finally, he asked: "So, what was your last job?"

"Lindsay Lohan was going to write a play, but then she went into rehab. She's been advised against writing now, for her own health and the health of others."

Barnaby thought for a second or two. "You haven't had an actual job since Sally Starling, then?"

"No."

"Right. Ok. Excellent. Thank you very much, Yhidwh. I'll let you know - I've got a few people to see, but I will give you a quick call on Thursday."

*

The phone rang, bleating shrilly, it seemed to cut bloody neon holes in Barnaby's dark world.

Half a bottle of vodka down, he snatched up the receiver. "What?"

"Hello, Barnaby. How are you? Found my replacement yet?"

The ex-muse's voice was light, jokey. He was living the life now, shacked up with an up-and-coming who had already published a novel but wanted to try a completely new direction for her next project. Cow.

Barnaby stared at the wall, thinking 'I miss you'.

"I haven't found anyone just yet."

"That's a shame. I'd have covered the position for you, but I am quite busy..."

"Yes, you did mention you were a bit preoccupied."

The muse whistled to himself on the other end of the phone. "I probably should be off now, I need to start work in an hour. She's very punctual."

"I'm sure she is." Barnaby clutched the bottle of vodka by the neck, thought thoughts about pleading, about crying and screaming the words 'come back!' down the phone, pulling at his hair and clawing violet red marks down his face, the blood dripping and drooling with the vodka. all shades of red, all clouding together.

"See you, Barnaby."

"Yeah.." Barnaby hung up, drank more vodka. He stared at the wall of his living room - there were no monsters crawling out of the shadows now. He listened while his mind turned blank thoughts over and over in his brain. Silence.