Do as the Greeks did, find a muse!

Excerpted from an article by Jill Badonsky

The Nine Modern Day Muses (and a Bodyguard) Primer to catch you up: In the book by the same name I updated the nine Greek Muses because they had been laid off in a downsizing that happened on Mount Olympus. They became ineffective because they were unable to reach the modern mortal due to the amount of distractions, rationalizations, avoidant strategies and addictions to TV that we now experience. So nine new more savvy muses materialized better able to help move us through those things that make us cranky because we are not getting to our creative passions.

Here are the new muses and some of their mottos:

Aha-phrodite, the Muse of Paying Attention and Possibilities:
"Pay attention . . . ideas happen everyday but you must see and listen."

Albert, The Muse of Imagination and Innovation:
"Break the rules, think something different, see from another perspective."

Bea Silly, the Muse of Play, Laughter and Dance:
"Lighten up, have fun, dance with it, play with it, be free and do it despite your rigid inner critic."

Muse Song, The Muse of Nurturing, Encouragement and Good Company:
"Treat yourself like the special instrument of creativity that you are, hang around people who lift you higher, see the relationship of pampering to productivity."

Spills, The Muse of Practice, Process and Imperfection:
"Give yourself permission to make mistakes, to be imperfect. Practice will make you excellent and embrace the discovery with which the process is filled."

Audacity, The Muse of Courage and Uninhibited Uniqueness:
"Be true to yourself, don't worry what others think, mobilize courage and remember, if everyone likes what you're doing . . . you haven't gone far enough."

Lull, The Muse of Pause, Diversion and Gratitude:
"Take a break once in awhile, create a space to invite new inspiration, divert your attention with things that inspire you, be inspired by how much there is to be grateful."

Shadow Muse, The Muse of Gifts of the Dark Side:
"Embrace, rather than abandon, the dark side of your personality. Let anger, sadness, unlikable qualities, and your quirks be channeled into creative expression for compassion, healing, process and connecting with others."

Marge: The Muse of Okay-Now-Let's-Get-Started:
"Just get started, the inspiration will come . . . I have some easy ways to help you overcome overwhelm and defy procrastination."

The Bodyguard:
Is here to strengthen your conviction and protect you against detractors. "Access your strength, your creativity is vital and needs expression, let nothing stop you."

Lonely Night for Nighthawks
By Nick Brown

A quarter past midnight the door swings open. The cook, busying himself by stacking glasses, glances at his wristwatch. The late customers are early tonight. Smiling at the paradoxical quality of that statement, he approaches the customer who just sat down at the counter. Setting his fedora down, the man grumbles that he'd like a cup of coffee: black. From under the counter the cook produces a marble white mug and fills it at a cylindrical coffee dispenser, a scent of dark coffee briefly floods his nostrils as well as hot wisps of steam. He slides the mug to the man across the counter who nods and emits a tiny "Thanks," never looking up at the cook. 

The cook was used to this kind of attitude from the late crowd. If you're here at night it's either because you have nowhere better to be, or this is the best place you can go to. He returns to the back of the diner, rearranging cups, glasses, and making sure each pepper-shaker had a twin salt-shaker to go next to. Deciding he'd best leave the gloomy customer alone, he drifts back into the kitchen.

From outside, the diner casts an eerie glow out onto the pavement. An unnatural sickly green pours out from the fluorescent lights, illuminating the corner. Above the diner an advertisement for Phillies Cigars ("Only 5 cents!") is barely visible in the glow. The name of the establishment completely shrouded in shadows. The night: still, dead and lonely. This part of the city was like that, not full of bustling night life like the rest of The City That Never Sleeps. That factor made this desolate block a haven for the less sociable night owls. A night like this was no exception.

Across the street a woman sits with her hands in her lap. She sits on a bench with her eyes downcast, her shoulders sloped and sad. A crisp and steady breeze blows her dazzling red dress, the same red as the lipstick she had smeared on earlier that night. She had run away from dinner with her boyfriend three hours ago and she still has yet to return to her apartment. Now her eyes, puffy and red, are all but out of tears. A cabbie rolls by, catching the woman's attention as she looks up at the dull yellow of the streetcar and then the sick green of the diner lights. Her mouth is agape at who she sees inside.

A second man in a fedora sits down at the counter, at a stool on the smallest side of the triangular counter. He's younger than the first patron, with a big pointed nose like the beak of a bird. The cook peers out of the kitchen sees that he has a new customer, then hurriedly gets up from his game of solitaire and greets his latest guest. This second man with the beak asks for water. A tad surprised at this request, the cook replies "Certainly," grabs another opaque mug and fills it up at the kitchen sink. Sliding the mug to the man the cook said "On the house" and then rolls his tongue around, as if saying something so cliche actually left a bad taste. But he isn't about to charge a man for water. This young man with the beak actually looks at the cook and utters a more respectful thanks than the first customer. The cook notices just how young this new customer is, and how sad and tired his eyes look. As a rule the cook never pesters his customers about their lives, especially not the night crew, but with this man he just had to know. 

With a sober expression, the young man tells the cook his girlfriend ran away after he had proposed at dinner. Shocked, the cook asks why. The man swallows hard before saying he'd been drafted and would be heading for the Pacific in less than three months. She had just found out about it earlier that day. He is very sympathetic towards the man but at the same time is glad he was old enough to not face a draft. Deep down he is even a little glad the man had his potential fiance run away, seeing as the cook never had a wife or even a serious lover. He heads back into the kitchen but not without first reminding his patrons that if they need anything they just have to call for him. 

But before he can return to his game of solitaire the diner's door opens once again and a cool night breeze blows in. Along with it enters a beautiful woman with auburn hair and a short crimson dress. Gliding across the checkered floor she takes the stool next to the younger man drinking the mug of water. The cook walks back out and asks her what she would like, and she asks for coffee with plenty of sugar and cream. For the third time the cook produces a mug from under the counter and fills it with rich black coffee from the countertop contraption and plenty of milky cream and white sugar. Handing it to the woman she expresses her thanks and hands the cook a dime, 3 cents more than a cup of coffee costs at the diner. "The rest is your tip" she assures him. 

Tucking the silver coin in his back pocket the cook notices the woman hasd to be the young man's lover. Slyly, she grabbs the hand of the man next to her and the two give each other a sideways glance. Realizing they'd made eye contact, they avert their eyes and stare down at the table, but their faces start to form a slight smile. The silent, gloomy man down the counter finally speaks, "You two should consider yourselves lucky." He swirls his coffee around in its mug before setting it down. The cook agrees. Then, peering out the window the cook says, "He's right. It's a lonely night for us nighthawks."

You read the article, now see the video!

Check out the light installation from the Writing feature "Thinking in Pictures." It resides on the corner of 125th street and Park Avenue in Manhattan, in the second story windows of an unsuspecting building. Commuters on the elevated train tracks beside it can see it daily. But for those of you living outside of the infamous metropolis, check it out below.

In Issue 1, we asked you to send us your Arabian Nights Stories. Congratulations to Samantha Heppermann! Here is yours!

The Immortal Camel
By Samantha Heppermann

"My dear Scheherazade," said the king Schahriar, "will you please tell me the story of the prince you were talking about last night. It sounded interesting, and you promised me that you would tell another one of your enchanting stories. If you refuse I might have to kill you, and that would be a great shame.
            "I guess I shall tell you the story. Now listen closely," said Scheherazade, "this is the story of a camel and a greedy prince.
            "There was once a very wise and kind king. He was over a hundred years old and greatly loved by the people of his kingdom. Even though the king was at an advanced age, he was still the healthiest person in the kingdom. He had ruled the kingdom for half his life, and still had a strong heart and participated in the army with a fierce fist.
            "The king had a very successful life, and had the perfect family, or so he thought. His wife was the loveliest woman in the kingdom, and she loved him very faithfully. They had a boy who had the face of an angel, and was most generous. He seemed to deeply care about the kingdom and the king was at peace knowing that his son would succeed him. No one knew though, that the prince had a great amount of bitterness in him. He hated the way his father ruled, and thought the kingdom should be more of a dictatorship. He would also be very cruel to those who were not beautiful as he was; the prince believed that his angel-like face gave him authority over all the ugly. The prince should have been throw out of the kingdom, but only his personal guards knew of his bitterness.
            "One night the prince arranged a secret meeting. He and a few guards in the kingdom's army were there. He was trying to devise a plan to kill his father, but none of the guards would do it, so the prince thought of a plan himself. 
            "The next night the prince was going to sneak into his father's room, capture him, and send him to a far away country.
            "I will be king soon!" thought the prince.
            "As he was walking to his father's room, a genie jumped out at him."
            "BOO! Leave you naughty prince!" screamed the genie.
            "The prince was greatly startled by this. He forgot all about his plan and ran all the way back to his quarters.
            "Back in his room the prince was enraged."
            "That stupid genie. Now my plan is ruined. I will summon my own genie and demand him to punish the genie that scared me. Rise genie!" said the prince.
            "What is it your highness?" said the genie.
            "I demand you to punish the genie that ruined my plan," said the prince. 
            "Oh, I am afraid that I cannot do that my highness. A genie cannot harm one of its own kind. It just cannot be done. But, before you get too angry, I can grant you something else. I can grant you a camel. This is not an ordinary camel though. When this camel dies, you will be able to follow through with your plan to get rid of the king," said the genie. The prince thought about this for a while then finally decided that this was a good idea. "I must warn you though, this camel is ..." said the genie. 
   "I do not need your warnings," said the prince, "now be gone." Then the genie left and the prince was left alone with the camel. "That silly genie. This will be easy. I shall simply have the camel executed in the morning and then I will be king," said the prince and then he went to sleep. What he prince did not know though, was that the camel was an immortal camel, and if he ever tried to kill it, an extra 100 years would be added on to the happy king's life.
            "So, for 100 days and 100 nights the prince tried to have the camel killed. The prince never succeeded, and the camel and the king still live on today, happily ruling their kingdom. The prince left the kingdom and determined to have a kingdom of his own but that is the beginning of another tale."
            "Oh Scheherazade what a lovely story, will you please tell me another one, about the prince," asked Schahriar. 
            "Another time Schahriar, another time."

In the first issue of READ, we asked students to write a new beginning to an ending. This was the ending we provided: Alexa paused at the crest of the hill to look at the valley below her tired and blistered feet. She looked at the burned craters in the ground between the splintered and toppled trees. The wind stirred and brought back faint echoes of smoke. Dried leaves circled her feet before clattering away on the parched ground. Alexa sighed deeply and thought, Could all this be worth it?

Thanks to Jack Gagan who sent us the following story.Great job!

"Alexa! Breakfast!" Mom hollered.

"Be right there!" Alexa called back. Alexa enjoyed her breakfast of waffles while watching the morning news.

"Coming up, Meteor shower tonight, Jack Gagan out of jail again, nuclear war breaks out everywhere." Alexa turned off the television.

"That Jack Gagan is a real criminal, that boy. It seems like he's in and out of jail every day," Mom said.

"You're not even concerned about the war?" Alexa asked, in shock. Her mom was usually so concerned about wars.

"Nah, this thing is just a stunt the news pulls off to get viewers. Although, I do want to see the meteor shower," Mom replied.

***That night***

"Wow! This meteor shower is magnificent!" Alexa correctly stated. "Are meteors usually that big?"

"No, not usually. These are really big meteors. I hope that they don't do very much damage or we could be in big trouble," said Dad "It looks like they are around the communications center."

Each meteor hit the communications center. This particular center helped all the nations communicate with each other clearly. If someone said something in English to a Russian man, he would hear it in Russian and vice versa. This was important because all the world leaders were going to speak with each other the next day about how to end the nuclear war.

***The next day***

"The nuclear war has begun!" the news caster announced, horrified. "The meteor shower last night destroyed the communications center and everyone in it. The war is going to continue if no one fixes it." Alexa turned off the television.

"I am going to fix the communications center," Alexa stated, bravely.

"No you're not. There is no way you can do it. How are you going to get there? I'm certainly not going to take you," said Mom.

"I'll walk." So she did.

Alexa got to the top of the hill and looked down at the splintered trees, the many craters, and the dead leaves that rustled around her blistered feet. Alexa wondered Is this really worth it?

Ok, well that was just silly!

The wonderful thing about Tiggers is that Tiggers are wonderful things!

Hooray! He picked the door with the lady behind it! But what if he didn't? What if he picked the door with the <gulp> tiger behind it??

Check back here tomorrow...

In Issue 1 of READ magazine, we promised we would post Frank R. Stockton's original short story today. So... here you go! Oh, and keep sending us your endings to the adapted story that appears in Issue 1. We're loving them and will post the best ones here on Monday, September 14!

The Lady or the Tiger
By Frank R. Stockton

In the very olden time there lived a semi-barbaric king, whose ideas, though somewhat polished and sharpened by the progressiveness of distant Latin neighbors, were still large, florid, and untrammeled, as became the half of him which was barbaric. He was a man of exuberant fancy, and, withal, of an authority so irresistible that, at his will, he turned his varied fancies into facts. He was greatly given to self-communing, and, when he and himself agreed upon anything, the thing was done. When every member of his domestic and political systems moved smoothly in its appointed course, his nature was bland and genial; but, whenever there was a little hitch, and some of his orbs got out of their orbits, he was blander and more genial still, for nothing pleased him so much as to make the crooked straight and crush down uneven places. 
     Among the borrowed notions by which his barbarism had become semified was that of the public arena, in which, by exhibitions of manly and beastly valor, the minds of his subjects were refined and cultured.
     But even here the exuberant and barbaric fancy asserted itself. The arena of the king was built, not to give the people an opportunity of hearing the rhapsodies of dying gladiators, nor to enable them to view the inevitable conclusion of a conflict between religious opinions and hungry jaws, but for purposes far better adapted to widen and develop the mental energies of the people. This vast amphitheater, with its encircling galleries, its mysterious vaults, and its unseen passages, was an agent of poetic justice, in which crime was punished, or virtue rewarded, by the decrees of an impartial and incorruptible chance.
     When a subject was accused of a crime of sufficient importance to interest the king, public notice was given that on an appointed day the fate of the accused person would be decided in the king's arena, a structure which well deserved its name, for, although its form and plan were borrowed from afar, its purpose emanated solely from the brain of this man, who, every barleycorn a king, knew no tradition to which he owed more allegiance than pleased his fancy, and who ingrafted on every adopted form of human thought and action the rich growth of his barbaric idealism.
     When all the people had assembled in the galleries, and the king, surrounded by his court, sat high up on his throne of royal state on one side of the arena, he gave a signal, a door beneath him opened, and the accused subject stepped out into the amphitheater. Directly opposite him, on the other side of the enclosed space, were two doors, exactly alike and side by side. It was the duty and the privilege of the person on trial to walk directly to these doors and open one of them. He could open either door he pleased; he was subject to no guidance or influence but that of the aforementioned impartial and incorruptible chance. If he opened the one, there came out of it a hungry tiger, the fiercest and most cruel that could be procured, which immediately sprang upon him and tore him to pieces as a punishment for his guilt. The moment that the case of the criminal was thus decided, doleful iron bells were clanged, great wails went up from the hired mourners posted on the outer rim of the arena, and the vast audience, with bowed heads and downcast hearts, wended slowly their homeward way, mourning greatly that one so young and fair, or so old and respected, should have merited so dire a fate.

     But, if the accused person opened the other door, there came forth from it a lady, the most suitable to his years and station that his majesty could select among his fair subjects, and to this lady he was immediately married, as a reward of his innocence. It mattered not that he might already possess a wife and family, or that his affections might be engaged upon an object of his own selection; the king allowed no such subordinate arrangements to interfere with his great scheme of retribution and reward. The exercises, as in the other instance, took place immediately, and in the arena. Another door opened beneath the king, and a priest, followed by a band of choristers, and dancing maidens blowing joyous airs on golden horns and treading an epithalamic measure, advanced to where the pair stood, side by side, and the wedding was promptly and cheerily solemnized. Then the gay brass bells rang forth their merry peals, the people shouted glad hurrahs, and the innocent man, preceded by children strewing flowers on his path, led his bride to his home.
     This was the king's semi-barbaric method of administering justice. Its perfect fairness is obvious. The criminal could not know out of which door would come the lady; he opened either he pleased, without having the slightest idea whether, in the next instant, he was to be devoured or married. On some occasions the tiger came out of one door, and on some out of the other. The decisions of this tribunal were not only fair, they were positively determinate: the accused person was instantly punished if he found himself guilty, and, if innocent, he was rewarded on the spot, whether he liked it or not. There was no escape from the judgments of the king's arena.
     The institution was a very popular one. When the people gathered together on one of the great trial days, they never knew whether they were to witness a bloody slaughter or a hilarious wedding. This element of uncertainty lent an interest to the occasion which it could not otherwise have attained. Thus, the masses were entertained and pleased, and the thinking part of the community could bring no charge of unfairness against this plan, for did not the accused person have the whole matter in his own hands?

 

     This semi-barbaric king had a daughter as blooming as his most florid fancies, and with a soul as fervent and imperious as his own. As is usual in such cases, she was the apple of his eye, and was loved by him above all humanity. Among his courtiers was a young man of that fineness of blood and lowness of station common to the conventional heroes of romance who love royal maidens. This royal maiden was well satisfied with her lover, for he was handsome and brave to a degree unsurpassed in all this kingdom, and she loved him with an ardor that had enough of barbarism in it to make it exceedingly warm and strong. This love affair moved on happily for many months, until one day the king happened to discover its existence. He did not hesitate nor waver in regard to his duty in the premises. The youth was immediately cast into prison, and a day was appointed for his trial in the king's arena. This, of course, was an especially important occasion, and his majesty, as well as all the people, was greatly interested in the workings and development of this trial. Never before had such a case occurred; never before had a subject dared to love the daughter of the king. In after years such things became commonplace enough, but then they were in no slight degree novel and startling.
     The tiger-cages of the kingdom were searched for the most savage and relentless beasts, from which the fiercest monster might be selected for the arena; and the ranks of maiden youth and beauty throughout the land were carefully surveyed by competent judges in order that the young man might have a fitting bride in case fate did not determine for him a different destiny. Of course, everybody knew that the deed with which the accused was charged had been done. He had loved the princess, and neither he, she, nor any one else, thought of denying the fact; but the king would not think of allowing any fact of this kind to interfere with the workings of the tribunal, in which he took such great delight and satisfaction. No matter how the affair turned out, the youth would be disposed of, and the king would take an aesthetic pleasure in watching the course of events, which would determine whether or not the young man had done wrong in allowing himself to love the princess.

 

     The appointed day arrived. From far and near the people gathered, and thronged the great galleries of the arena, and crowds, unable to gain admittance, massed themselves against its outside walls. The king and his court were in their places, opposite the twin doors, those fateful portals, so terrible in their similarity. 
     All was ready. The signal was given. A door beneath the royal party opened, and the lover of the princess walked into the arena. Tall, beautiful, fair, his appearance was greeted with a low hum of admiration and anxiety. Half the audience had not known so grand a youth had lived among them. No wonder the princess loved him! What a terrible thing for him to be there!
     As the youth advanced into the arena he turned, as the custom was, to bow to the king, but he did not think at all of that royal personage. His eyes were fixed upon the princess, who sat to the right of her father. Had it not been for the moiety of barbarism in her nature it is probable that lady would not have been there, but her intense and fervid soul would not allow her to be absent on an occasion in which she was so terribly interested. From the moment that the decree had gone forth that her lover should decide his fate in the king's arena, she had thought of nothing, night or day, but this great event and the various subjects connected with it. Possessed of more power, influence, and force of character than any one who had ever before been interested in such a case, she had done what no other person had done - she had possessed herself of the secret of the doors. She knew in which of the two rooms, that lay behind those doors, stood the cage of the tiger, with its open front, and in which waited the lady. Through these thick doors, heavily curtained with skins on the inside, it was impossible that any noise or suggestion should come from within to the person who should approach to raise the latch of one of them. But gold, and the power of a woman's will, had brought the secret to the princess.
     And not only did she know in which room stood the lady ready to emerge, all blushing and radiant, should her door be opened, but she knew who the lady was. It was one of the fairest and loveliest of the damsels of the court who had been selected as the reward of the accused youth, should he be proved innocent of the crime of aspiring to one so far above him; and the princess hated her. Often had she seen, or imagined that she had seen, this fair creature throwing glances of admiration upon the person of her lover, and sometimes she thought these glances were perceived, and even returned. Now and then she had seen them talking together; it was but for a moment or two, but much can be said in a brief space; it may have been on most unimportant topics, but how could she know that? The girl was lovely, but she had dared to raise her eyes to the loved one of the princess; and, with all the intensity of the savage blood transmitted to her through long lines of wholly barbaric ancestors, she hated the woman who blushed and trembled behind that silent door.

 

     When her lover turned and looked at her, and his eye met hers as she sat there, paler and whiter than any one in the vast ocean of anxious faces about her, he saw, by that power of quick perception which is given to those whose souls are one, that she knew behind which door crouched the tiger, and behind which stood the lady. He had expected her to know it. He understood her nature, and his soul was assured that she would never rest until she had made plain to herself this thing, hidden to all other lookers-on, even to the king. The only hope for the youth in which there was any element of certainty was based upon the success of the princess in discovering this mystery; and the moment he looked upon her, he saw she had succeeded, as in his soul he knew she would succeed.
     Then it was that his quick and anxious glance asked the question: "Which?" It was as plain to her as if he shouted it from where he stood. There was not an instant to be lost. The question was asked in a flash; it must be answered in another.
     Her right arm lay on the cushioned parapet before her. She raised her hand, and made a slight, quick movement toward the right. No one but her lover saw her. Every eye but his was fixed on the man in the arena.
     He turned, and with a firm and rapid step he walked across the empty space. Every heart stopped beating, every breath was held, every eye was fixed immovably upon that man. Without the slightest hesitation, he went to the door on the right, and opened it.
     Now, the point of the story is this: Did the tiger come out of that door, or did the lady ?
     The more we reflect upon this question, the harder it is to answer. It involves a study of the human heart which leads us through devious mazes of passion, out of which it is difficult to find our way. Think of it, fair reader, not as if the decision of the question depended upon yourself, but upon that hot-blooded, semi-barbaric princess, her soul at a white heat beneath the combined fires of despair and jealousy. She had lost him, but who should have him?

 

     How often, in her waking hours and in her dreams, had she started in wild horror, and covered her face with her hands as she thought of her lover opening the door on the other side of which waited the cruel fangs of the tiger!
     But how much oftener had she seen him at the other door! How in her grievous reveries had she gnashed her teeth, and torn her hair, when she saw his start of rapturous delight as he opened the door of the lady! How her soul had burned in agony when she had seen him rush to meet that woman, with her flushing cheek and sparkling eye of triumph; when she had seen him lead her forth, his whole frame kindled with the joy of recovered life; when she had heard the glad shouts from the multitude, and the wild ringing of the happy bells; when she had seen the priest, with his joyous followers, advance to the couple, and make them man and wife before her very eyes; and when she had seen them walk away together upon their path of flowers, followed by the tremendous shouts of the hilarious multitude, in which her one despairing shriek was lost and drowned!
     Would it not be better for him to die at once, and go to wait for her in the blessed regions of semi-barbaric futurity?
     And yet, that awful tiger, those shrieks, that blood!
     Her decision had been indicated in an i

What an awfully good question!

In issue 1 of READ magazine, we published an adapted story based on Frank Richard Stockton's classic tale. At the end, we asked you to finish the story for us. We have already received several interpretations and are hoping for more!

Email your endings to word@weeklyreader.com. We will post our favorites here on Monday, September 14.

In the meantime, check back here this Friday to read Frank Richard Stockton's original story.

And then, come back all next week to see our Oscar-worthy video interpretation endings.

Word.