The Muse Almighty

By: Griffin Cobb

A singular sentence slowly sunk into the page in front of Jess, a manifestation of all creativity she could muster at the moment.

I am in love

This was stupid. Whatever machinations that festered in Jess’ mind struggled to find their way through her fingertips. Writer’s block was nothing if not common for her, but it had yet to get easier. It felt like a clogged valve, the pressure of ideas collecting and causing her head to pulse. She stared down the sentence, hoping her strained eye contact would force the thoughts through. Jess waved her pen against the page once more.

I am in love with

Barely a second passed from Jess writing the word to throwing her pen at the back of her desk. Her thoughts were constipated, and her patience was thinned. With a heavy exhale, Jess closed her journal, leaned back, and stared at the stucco ceiling, not wanting any visual stimuli to add to her mind’s already heavy backlog. Closing her eyes, she sent her consciousness to dance around the world of thoughts, angry at them for refusing to leave.

The crafting of a story had rarely been an issue for Jess. Plots, characters, tension; entire worlds of magic and mystery never ceased to flood Jess’ mind. Simply closing her eyes could envelop her senses so heavily into her imagination, reality would feel more like a dream. But when her eyes opened, and she sought to set her dreams into ink, nothing would come about. 

Jess’ headache eventually waned enough to let the self-doubt wander in. She questioned why she still struggled to find words despite her mind’s creative fanfare. Jess held just over twenty-six years of life under her belt, twenty spent as literate, and therefore twenty of which she’d been a writer. And in that entire time, she could count her entire portfolio on both hands

Three of her poems had made it into a few local journals, and a short story of hers had garnered a fair bit of attention online two years ago. The rest sat unread by outside eyes, locked away by guilt. Desperate attempts and disappointing results were about all Jess characterized her career by.

From the spiral staircase on the opposite side of the room, her girlfriend Zee briskly descended. To call her beautiful would be an understatement. She was tall with well-worn curves. Her features were soft, though her tan, silk-like skin sharpened her features under most lighting. A mane of dark brown hair curled past her shoulders, masquerading as black until close inspection. She was adorned with an oversized sweater and sweatpants, to her side carrying a freshly packed suitcase.

“How’s it coming along?” she asked, setting her luggage next to a small bookcase underneath the steps. 

Jess let out something between a groan and a sigh. 

“Sounds lovely,” said Zee. She put her hands around Jess’ face, pulling her forehead to her lips. Jess couldn’t bring herself to find much comfort in her concern, but it was better than nothing. “Just keep putting the pen to paper, something’s bound to write itself down eventually.”

Jess heavily disagreed, but found it useless to object. If centuries of life surrounded by acclaimed artists hadn’t taught Zee empathy for writer’s block, two years of a relationship and a snide remark certainly wouldn't.

In this creative reality Jess longed to thrive in, the relationship between an artist and their muse was powerful in ways beyond the art they created. If someone found themselves to be the inspiring force behind a piece of art—be it poem, play, painting, or otherwise—they would find their life extended.  A love letter proofread by a particularly sentimental friend may grant a person another day against death. But a portrait set amidst a well-toured museum could garner someone life beyond possibility.

Jess and the world knew Zee to be around three hundred and fifty years old, holding many different names throughout. The first recorded piece she’d inspired was an Austrian poem recounting her beauty. Ihre Augen die Sterne, it was called. The poem brought Zee more fame than itself, and over the centuries, masterpiece after masterpiece sought to capture her beauty. Jess had read, seen, or heard almost every single one.

Chance had introduced the two to each other after a conference Jess’ short story earned her entry to. The first time she saw Zee, she could have sworn she’d fallen into one of her dreams. The entire time Zee raved about her short story, invited her for coffee, and eventually kissed her, Jess had to question whether her eyes were truly open or not. That questioning had turned to fear at points. Despite her adoration, Jess attempted to wake up, but Zee’s advances were unrelenting, and real. They’d been together since. 

Jess loved Zee for many reasons. Past her beauty, she was consistent and confident in her affection, something Jess so often lacked; both in herself and previous relationships. Zee even held equal wonder in Jess’ imagination. But her seemingly divine gift of inspiration made Jess queasy at times. Zee was a muse of great renown, inspiring grand feats of literature and artistry from all sorts. Why she had yet to disway Jess’ writer's block was a concern she hated to hold, but couldn’t let go of.

Jess put her hands on Zee’s, pulling them off her face. “I’ll keep testing that theory.” She took a look around the room before asking, “Where’s Moose?”

With perfect timing and grace to match, a lithe black cat jumped onto the desk, celebrating the land with a deep stretch. 

Jess ran her hand over Moose’s back. “There’s my handsome little man,” she said.

Moose replied, “Am I little?”

Jess still marveled at him when he talked. While art could inspire life in muses, concepts could occasionally be born from a piece without living inspiration. The singular short story of Jess’ that had found success followed the cat who curiosity so often aligned with, and so Moose was birthed; a cat who could speak, but only with questions. 

Zee combed her hands through Jess’ hair. “I would have questioned the handsome part, Moose,” she said.

“Did I ask you?” said Moose, scowling as much as a cat could. Jess had written him to be curious, but sass apparently tagged along.

Jess picked him up. “Your flight’s tomorrow, right?”

“Just finished packing. I don’t know why they expect me to wear the same clothes I have on in the painting, like I would have the same outfit from seventy years ago,” Zee said.

“Well, do you?” Jess asked. Zee rarely brought up the past, but refused to let clothes go as easily. A moment of silence and awkward eye contact answered Jess’ question. “I still can’t believe you don’t remember who painted it.”

Zee shrugged. “It’s been seventy years! My life may be longer, but my memory isn’t made any better.” A portrait of Zee had been found in the collection of a recently arrested tycoon, the artist of which had been long forgotten, even by Zee. “I can’t remember every art piece I inspire.”

Her words sunk into Jess. Creatives of all kinds were a dime a dozen to Zee. Jess failed to see how she was any different. She continued to stroke down Moose’s back.

Eventually, Jess said, “What time are you leaving?”

“Probably around eight,” Zee said. “ I wanted to go ahead and say goodbye now so you could sleep in.” 

Jess smiled. She appreciated Zee’s brand of thoughtfulness, as different as it might be from her own. She set Moose down before standing up and wrapping Zee in a tight embrace. They held each other in silence, before Zee looked up and kissed Jess. Physical affection wasn’t Jess’ strong suit, but it was hard not to give into Zee’s passion. Moments passed that neither cared to count before they parted. Zee headed back upstairs.

Jess sat back down on her chair. “I’m gonna stay up a bit longer, see if my pen has any better ideas than me.”

“Don’t stay up too late,” Zee said. “Goodnight my love.” Up the spiral staircase, she disappeared to the second floor while Jess turned her chair back to the nearly empty page. 

She was no more inspired than before. For a few minutes she just stared down the singular, incomplete sentence amidst a sea of blank space. Screens hurt her eyes and she found the ease of deleting one’s work to be too tempting, so she preferred paper for her drafts for the few times she was able to force any words out. 

The blank page failed to keep Jess’ attention, and slowly her mind began to wander. Zee frequently took trips to exhibits, readings, or auctions featuring work she inspired. Jess thought herself lucky for meeting Zee the one time her work garnered attention, but luck wasn’t sustainable. The longer the page remained blank, the more she questioned how much time until another artist’s work captured Zee’s heart. 

Moose rolled over in her lap while she continued to absent-mindedly pet him. “What are you thinking?” he said. His communication was never complex; he was still a cat, but his curiosity always seemed to be so pointed. Jess could only blame herself for that.

“A whole lot of things, Moose.” Being vague helped herself not think too deeply about her concerns.

“What are you writing?” Moose asked.

“A whole lot of nothing,” Jess said. 

Moose hopped off her lap and paced between her feet. “Is sitting here helping?” 

This damn cat. Both annoyed and successfully provoked, Jess stood up once again and took to pacing around the small living room. While nothing ostentatious, the couple lived in a rather spacious townhouse in the heart of Chicago. Zee’s fame gave the couple assured financial comfort, which made Jess all the more guilty for her insecurities and panicked at her lack of progress. 

Floorboards creaked with each nervous step. Jess’ mind couldn’t find purchase anywhere, anxiety hurriedly pushing around her thoughts. After a moment, she took a deep breath which allowed her at the very least to understand she needed a direction; something to rally her thoughts behind. That same moment, she glanced over to see the small shelf beside the stairs. Inspiration never hurt anything but my pride, she thought. 

Jess walked over and dragged her fingers across the different book spines, each weathered to different extents. Though she felt twinges of inadequacy when reading, her expansive imagination could bring her almost within a book's pages, the scene growing to life around her. 

The collection she had built over the years held mostly fiction, novels varying from fantasy to science fiction with the occasional collection of short stories and poems. Three self-help books rested at the very bottom corner, untouched since they’d been gifted by relatives years ago. Variety was frustrating Jess’ indecisiveness, and her escape quickly turned into yet another mental barricade. Her fingers continued to absent-mindedly graze the books. To the side she saw Zee’s suitcase for the journey to come. Jess thought about whether she would see it again after tomorrow. 

At the same time, she saw that the bag was unzipped. Without thought she went to close it, hands hoping for more focus than her mind.

Something else caught her eye. Within the suitcase, resting atop pairs of closes and slightly poking out the edges of the zipper, a small stack of booklets rested. Wondering if they had somehow fallen from the bookcase, she took them out. Looking closer, Jess failed to recognize what she held; two small booklets, one a deep navy blue and the other a light gray, the former much more worn than the latter. Within them, several loose, folded sheets of paper were tucked away, equally as tattered. An opened letter rested on the bottom.

Curiosity flooded Jess, and before the shame of snooping could catch up, she set the gray book and letter down and opened to the front page of the navy one. Handwritten text lined what looked to be a journal of some sorts. 

“What is that?” Beside her, Moose jumped up to one of the book shelves and rubbed against her shoulder.

“I’m not really sure,” Jess replied. Though the handwriting made it difficult to read, Jess counted her own as worse, and steadily read through. The opening described a lush scene, and Jess’ imagination began to take her.

She felt brief tickles across her skin as grass began to bloom from the floorboards. As she read the next sentence about a looming tree, the spiral staircase bent and shifted. Iron cracked into a dark, oak bark. Branches sprouted overhead as the sunlight being described burned into the sky. No longer in her living room, she stood next to the base of a tall oak tree on the edge of an open field that spilled into a lake. Bright blue skies swathed with wisps of clouds made her shield her vision, eyes adjusting to the brightness of daylight. A gentle breeze grazed her skin.

Imagination having taken hold, Jess continued to read.  The prose themself felt strained to inspire beauty, details overly flaunted with convoluted comparisons. Jess’ mind bared most of the weight in filling out the scene. Following a small gap in content, the book described the author's shock and astonishment at a new sight;  a person.

Footsteps fell behind the large oak tree. 

Jess noted that, while the handwriting remained the same, the once forced prose now artfully painted a picture of the woman, and the author's utter enthrallment with her. 

As the prose described the woman more closely, Jess’ imagination followed. Standing on the crystalline waters’ edge, a woman, tall and tan skinned with short bobbed hair looked out across the water. She was bare of clothing, every inch of skin appearing in Jess’ mind as the author’s words flaunted her. Jess rarely felt shame for looking at a naked woman, but part of her felt guilt for imagining anyone other than Zee. 

Then the woman became Zee. Rather, she was Zee. Imagination still yielded to the prose, descriptions of emerald eyes and a strong nose shaped the woman in Jess’ mind to her own lover. She had read enough of the works Zee had previously inspired to be sure of the similarities, but even the faintest bits of doubt were dissuaded as the author referred to her as “Eliza.” 

Jess remained at a distance from her imaginary lover. The prose fantasized about her voice, her scent, but never ventured close enough to experience such things. Past her shock, Jess’ reasoned this book was a secret admirer’s journal from Zee’s past. She hadn’t read it before.

The far-off infatuation poured across the remaining pages, stringing along this wondrous yet hollow vision Jess’ imagination endured to create. Eliza seemed so subdued compared to the Zee Jess knew.  Her demeanor was calm like the lake, almost contemplative, her eyes staring just beyond what any other eyes could see. Zee, conversely, always watched her surroundings with fascination, and Jess found it unbelievably endearing.  Jess wondered if she had misconstrued that about Zee’s character.

With a final sentence of remorse and longing, the journal ended. The sun dimmed, the grass wilted, and Jess found herself back in her apartment, reality and contemplation hitting her at once. 

Moose, now curled on one of the steps, asked through the railing, “What did you find?”

Jess stood silent, not quite sure how to answer. What had she found? A journal inspired by Zee, at the time “Eliza,”but why was it in her luggage? Why hadn’t Jess seen it before? She took another cursory look through the pages to try and find a date, ending unsuccessfully. This was weird. 

“What are you thinking?” asked Moose again. 

“A whole lot of things, Moose,” Jess whispered. Flipping the book back and forth, Jess wrestled with the images she’d conjured moments before, trying to parse together any conclusion she could make. It was all so confusing, simultaneously too much and not enough for Jess to think about. Curiosity was the only concrete emotion she could call upon, and so she turned back to the bookshelf where she had set the gray booklet. She exchanged it for the blue and opened to the front page. There, instead, were several folded and tattered pages resting between the cover. Jess caught them as they began to slide out, unfolding them as she once again set down the second booklet. 

Five yellowed pages with frayed edges rested before Jess, the first bearing small yet intricate sketches of archways and columns framing the figure of a beautiful woman; Zee. Immediately the walls of her apartment once again fell to the wayside, marble pillars rising to the tempo of Jess’ nervous breathing. In front of her stretched the most intricate rug she was made to imagine, running for about ten feet before making way for a raised altar. Jess traced the details of the drawn face with her fingers, a bright light burning into view just above the altar as she did. 

Jess folded over to the next page. From the light, wreathed in weightless silk and white feathers, another past body of Zee formed, feet hovering slightly above the marble floor. Wings of marble and gold arched from her back, her hair floating as if sunk in water. A singular, gleaming halo adorned Zee’s head. Her gaze now rested, not on nothing, but everything. Though the image lived only in Jess’ mind, there was a sense of reverence towards the holy depiction. Jess fell to her knees, turning to the next page. 

The marble hall was nothing more than a distraction now from Zee’s eminence. Her presence filled Jess’ imagination. The sketches grew less and less refined, wild scribbles somehow forming into the angelic figure before her. A gust brushed away a tear Jess hadn’t realized she’d shed as Zee’s wings flapped forcefully. 

This was total adoration. An artist and an acolyte had crafted these sketches in full reverence to Zee. Imagination be damned, Jess didn’t know her conscience could extend such empathy towards art. Perhaps she already felt this sense of veneration towards Zee, or perhaps she felt ashamed of not feeling such devotion already. All she could feel, knelt before the closest thing she would call god, was small. 

The final page floated Zee closer to Jess. Her chin came up to Zee’s foot, before she descended to eye level. These sketches were incoherent, arguably imperceptible, yet Jess’ mind made maddening sense of it. Light from Zee’s halo caressed Jess’ cheeks, and as they came face to face, Jess realized she had been holding her breath. 

Jess’ mind focused on Zee’s face while her eyes looked to the corner of the last page. Resting in two different languages lay the soul script of this collection. Jess was able to read the bottom translation.

The muse is Almighty; let her forgive my pleas

The gaze of Zee fell in front of Jess. It saw nothing.

Knelt on her hardwood floors, Jess gasped for air, tossing and scattering the pages to the side. She bent over feeling sick. There was an overwhelming inspiration of insanity those sketches held, Jess’ involved imagination making her all the more sensitive to it. Another work Zee had inspired, but Jess hesitated to call it art. 

Moose leapt to her side and pawed her shoulder. “What is the matter?” he asked.

“Why would she have these?” Jess muttered. “The hell would she need to look at these for? I, I don’t…” Jess comprehended neither the piece itself nor the reason Zee could keep such a thing. If Jess could so easily fall into a dreamscape of overwhelming devotion, what would these scrawlings mean to Zee?

Jess tried to rise to her feet. “God, is that what she wants?” Mad scribbles of worship were not works Jess would have once imagined befell Zee, but they rested among what Jess concluded were ancient keepsakes. The artist—Jess hesitated to call them such—reeked of obsession. Her stomach churned knowing part of her had fallen into step with such exaltation, but what kept her winded was Zee’s gaze. Though bright, Jess knew Zee stared directly at her while prostrated in sudden worship, yet felt no gaze on her body. Audiences could at times feel a piece of art return their gaze, respecting the attention that fed them life. These sketches of blasphemy shunned onlookers, bathing in self-glory. 

Zee, as Jess knew her, never found interest in her idolization despite her grand standing in the world of muses. On days where Jess’ psyche chose kindness, she admired Zee’s ability to stay so grounded. When insecurity dominated her thoughts, Jess despised how easy it must be for Zee to feel loved. Picking up the sketches, Jess deemed them a crime of creation. She looked at the gray booklet and letter once again, desperate to decide if Zee’s possession teetered on similar offenses.  

Jess unfolded the letter, immediately disappointed to find it written in a language she couldn’t understand. The alphabet was unfamiliar, the musk and tint of the page only telling her it was likely ancient. Jess opened the gray book, greeted by much fresher script, possibly only decades old. She understood this text, though it carried odd spacing, arrows, and heavy erase marks. 

An idea popped into her head. She unfolded the letter once more and held it to the page inside the gray booklet. Though the languages differed, the formatting seemed to match, and Jess gathered the letter had been translated. She hoped it had been done well. 

With caution gained from the last piece, Jess sat on the couch.

Moose joined her. “Do you want to do this?”

Jess chose to ignore him, knowing if she answered she would likely stop. But too many questions littered her mind. She didn’t want the fear she so often felt to bar her from getting answers.

Focused on the gray booklet, letter to the side for reference, Jess saw that a date rested on the top left corner of the page. 

1387.

Three hundred and fifty years old was what Jess and the world knew to be Zee’s age. What knowledge of Zee, if any, could be trusted? Reading was the only thing that could reveal more truths.

The letter started abruptly, with assertions of wealth and status by the author. It was direct, cold, and Jess’ mind remained grounded for the time while it belabored in menial talk. 

Then a name, “Zyra.” Another moniker from Zee’s past. Jess felt another twinge of nausea, but was caught off guard as the letter continued. The words labored on compliment after compliment of Zee’s beauty, still maintaining a firm coldness. They read as if they were testimonials, poignant but without passion. Jess’ mind slowly began to shape the world around the words. The apartment living room peeled away, brick by brick, leaving Jess in an empty, dark space. With each declaration to Zee of her own beauty, Jess saw a form in front of her, slowly being built. 

Your hands, lithe and well-kept—

Hands fit onto arms that had yet to find a torso.

Hips of promise, Zyra you possess much to desire—

A waist came into view, connecting to legs and a stomach. Jess watched as piece by piece, Zee was constructed before her. At each point where limbs had been bonded, there remained a gash of a joint, stiff. She looked like a doll, eyes closed and unmoving. 

Thanks was offered by the author, as if Zee’s beauty were a service. In Jess’ mind, the doll of Zee shrunk, or she grew, leaving the doll floating in a dark state of helplessness. Jess’ imagination felt more strictly governed by this letter than previous works, as if the author’s mind and hers were no different.

 Suggestions were then made. Zee’s doll flinched. Sentence by sentence they grew into demands. Words darted from wishes for a Zee to live in solitude to demanding adoration as the author had so coldly given her. In the dark space of Jess’ mind, the doll-like Zee began to dance. She twirled without friction, mechanical in each pirouette. Each landing was made in tandem with punctuation on the letter. Jess could hear her joints slightly click with every movement. On and on the letter went, the doll dancing to its whims. For a moment, Jess forgot the doll was supposed to be Zee; supposed to be human. In that moment, Jess felt powerful.

The letter came to a close. Offering their final sentiments, the author pulled back the doll’s strings, sitting her still once again. The last sentence told Zee the time in which they expected a letter in response. Jess then remembered guilt. 

Darkness faded, and the living room returned to view. Moose purred to Jess’ side while she remained dejected on the couch. What had she just read? It left her with the taste of rot and grease. Jess had read of a lust that could not be satiated; an individual that couldn’t see breath outside their own. She felt sick having imagined it all; the moment of feeling power in particular haunted her heart. She hated to think that control would be the only way she could feel powerful.

However Jess felt, guilt wrung the loudest, so she readjusted her focus. The question of why Zee would keep such things now felt even more unanswerable. Doubly so once Jess realized she had read all there was from the suitcase. How would she ask about this? Could she? The only thing more terrifying to Jess than the answers to her questions was the act of asking them. It hit her then that she had snooped through her girlfriends personal belongings. The guilt stacked, forcing her mind down into a spiral. Her eardrums beat down, her temples pulsing. Jess bowed her head and covered her ears, unable to fight against the shame and panic. She dropped the book by her feet, the noise spooking Moose who scattered off the couch.

From the very back page, a small leaf of paper that had been stuck slid out.

Jess, head between her knees, stared at it. Before she knew it, curiosity once again grabbed her mind, only slightly trampling the wave of self-loathing and questioning she’d been preoccupied with. She picked up the paper. It was more a scrap than anything, small and narrow with wild edges. Jess was slightly afraid it would tear if she unfolded it. With caution, she opened the single page up. In barely legible ink, no more than ten lines were written, spaced apart into stanzas. Jess squinted, and was disappointed to see yet another foreign language. 

She reached back to the gray book, flipping through the pages once more to see if a translation for this piece existed. Nothing but the letter had been transcribed, and part of her loathed having to see it a second time. Holding the poem, she felt defeat creep up her throat. 

“Fuck it, I’m here now,” she said. Jess walked back to her desk and pulled her laptop from one of the side drawers. She didn’t recognize the language, so she searched through different alphabets hoping to find a match. At one point she tried to describe the shape of some characters, hoping the internet could interpret her ramblings. Time went by and frustration began to build as Jess spent minute after minute in failure. An hour went by before she finally found a match. 

A poorly formatted website hosted a research paper written on lost languages. Scrolling down some, Jess saw a gallery of photos of recovered text matching the paper’s. In a stroke of luck, the researcher had been a thorough one, providing a chart of phonetic equivalents from the old language to Jess’. From the side drawer to her left, she pulled out a notepad and grabbed her pen from earlier. 

She began to translate what she could, methodically comparing and contrasting each symbol with the equivalent. The paper’s writing was written in a hasted ledger, so some symbols she had to check upwards of four times. She had to read more of the actual research paper than she thought, breaking down certain grammar laws and incompatible translations. At about the middle of the section on this specific language, it noted the origin was of a nomadic peoples long wiped out by imperialistic civilizations. The last recorded use of the language was well over fifteen hundred years ago. Jess paused as she read, and then continued, choosing to translate first and process later.

Another hour and a half passed before Jess sat back, done with what she hoped was an accurate translation. It was well past two in the morning, and her eyelids hung dangerously low, but translating had occupied her from reading, and she needed to read this final piece.

Side by side the original poem and Jess’ translation sat on her desk as she poured over them. Immediately, Jess’ imagination faded out her desk and chair, building each line into a space of thought. 

Thy touch; sweet, I caress as you do, with ease

We, love swaddled and tied between our bodies

Around Jess’ dreamscape, swathes of fabric unfurled from a shaded ceiling. Ornate designs weaved throughout each of them, unique and complex, illuminated by candlelight. Similar patterns stretched across the floor. In front of Jess, fabric became fur and rose up from the ground. Amidst this intricate layered abode, a lone bed rested in the center, candles off to the side. Jess held her breath.

She read the next line. Within the bed, pelts and furs wrapped two writhing figures. Every movement revealed small glimpses of skin. 

Jess read the next line. Arms escaped from the fur followed by faces, passionately melding together. 

The next line. Two women pulled at each other's bodies, desperate to meld into one. One was Zee. 

The next line. Jess hadn’t known their passion to be possible. Zee trailed her lips down the other woman's body. 

The next line. Every part of the lovers’ bodies were interlaced. Their sex was tantamount to scripture, their love like a divine decree. 

The next line. Through sighs and moans, they stared at each other, gaze reflecting one anothers. Jess could only watch. 

The last line. The other woman drew Zee’s hair back while keeping her gaze.

God could not forget our Love, Lazarus

Hold me, we will show them

Jess ripped the original poem in two. Immediately she was shunted out of her imagination, the bed replaced by her desk as she hastily shuffled away from it. Her chair pushed into a side table, nearly knocking over a vase and some keys. Jess stood in silence, barely able to keep on her feet and still unable to take a breath. She couldn’t find a reason to move; actions were useless if not made with love like that. Jess couldn’t love like that.

“Jess, what are you doing?” From the corner of her eye, Jess could see Zee standing in the middle of the stairs, holding Moose. 

She couldn’t respond.

Zee made her way down the rest of the stairs. “Seriously what is going on? Are you alright—” She stopped as she saw the gray booklet on the floor. “Jess,” she said, putting Moose down. Her gaze fell on her still open suitcase, then on the blue book and letter on the bookshelf. Finally she looked past Jess, seeing the now torn poem laying on the desk. Now neither of them took breaths.

“Jess,” Zee said. Jess, still frozen in place, raised her head and met Zee’s eyes. Sorrow was all that met her, emerald eyes clouding with tears. 

Fear acquainted itself with Jess early in life. No decision was made without taking it into account. Many things in this world scared Jess, for many things hurt Jess. Good emotions were so hard to come by, she could never risk hurting. It was a step too far back. She met Zee’s sorrow with true fear; fear of Zee. Perhaps it was the purity of that fear, so intense and whole, that it absorbed and took away others. Like her fear of speaking.

“Zee, what the hell were those?” Jess said.

Like her fear of being angry.

“What the hell are you!” she yelled.

Zee remained silent and walked over to the broken poem, picking up both pieces with trembling hands. She held them to her chest, and wept, grieving.

After a series of stifled gasps, Zee looked back at Jess. “Did, did you read them all?” Jess had never heard her sound so defeated. It made her feel less scared.

Jess nodded. “What are these, Zee? What are they and why do you have them?” A surprising level of conviction pierced through her shaky and sore voice.

Zee clutched the poem closer. “You did, Jess why would you read them—”

“You were hiding them. Why?” Jess interrupted. She knew if she stopped asking questions, guilt would overtake her.

“God, Jess,” said Zee. She tried to sober up from her grief, turning back towards Jess. “They’re pieces about me. That’s what they are.”

“I know that, I read them. I saw them”. Jess paused. “So, what. They’re sick keepsakes to boost your ego?”

“What? No, Jess I wouldn’t keep those just to—”

“Then why? I’ve never seen these, no one has. You’ve got plenty other artists fawning over you, why these?”

Zee stumbled over her words. “I’m— God I don’t know. Shame, maybe.”

“What shame? So they were just boosting your ego—”

“No, Jess!” Zee tried to take a deep breath. The two stood in silence while she gained composure.

 “I can’t remember them,” she finally said.

“What?”

“I don’t remember any of these.” Tears fell freely down Zee’s cheeks. “Jess, I don’t know how old I am, or where I’ve lived, or who I used to be. I’ve been given so much life but my mind just can’t keep up.” She walked around the living room, picking up the various pieces of her past.

Jess stayed silent, sitting herself down on a nearby chair.

“Do you know what it’s like,” Zee continued, “to live so many lives and forget each and every one? It's awful. The only memories I have” she held up the booklets and letters, “are from the eyes of an audience. They didn’t even see me as human.”

Eventually, Jess said, “What about that last one?”

Zee gave a wilted laugh. “Yeah, that one.” She looked at the two ripped pieces. “This, I think, was the first time someone wrote about me. I can’t read it, I think it was my first language but that’s all gone. I can still feel it, though, what it was about. Love, whoever wrote this loved me.”

Jess let her heart sink. “And, you?” she said.

“I loved her,” Zee said, “and I can’t remember her name.” She sobbed, heaving with each new stream of tears. Moose, who had stayed silent to the side, jumped up to Zee’s side before curling into her lap. His head pressed against her cheek, purring. 

“Thanks, Moose,” Zee said. She looked back at Jess with a pained smile. “I don’t remember her, but you somehow remind me of her.”

“What? How?” Jess said.

“I love you, yet know so little about you.”

“What does that mean?”

“Jess, you close yourself off so much. I can feel when you hold back or retreat into your mind.”

Fear clenched back around Jess’ throat. She hated looking into herself. There were too many thoughts and emotions she felt ashamed of, and if she acknowledged one, she would have to confront them all. That was too much. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

“You do! You just did it,” Zee said. “You wanted to say something but you didn’t.”

“No, that’s not—”

“Jess, when was the last time you did something unafraid?”

Jess felt indignant. “I’m not always afraid.”

“Then tell me exactly what you’re feeling,” Zee said.

“What has that got to do with anything?”

“Your feelings? Fuck, Jess we’re talking, we’re crying, and I want it all to stop! I love you, that's why they matter.” Zee put the books and poem down. “I don’t know what you’re feeling, or what you want, or anything. Please for the love of God let me learn.”

Jess’ head pounded while her body shook, fighting to continue holding everything in. She had felt enough she didn’t want Zee to see it all too. 

Zee pressed again. “Jess, let me in. What is it you want?”

“I don’t want anything.”

“That’s a lie. What do you want?”

“That’s, fuck, I don’t know Zee.”

“You do! You do know!”

“No, I don’t—”
Zee stood up. “Just fucking say it! Something, anything!”

“I want you to shut up!” Jess yelled. Her head spun, her nose ran. The bottlecap of fear had popped off. Shame couldn’t catch up. Her emotions flowed. “I want you to throw that fucking letter away. I felt sick reading it. I want to forget I read it. I want to forget all of this.” She looked up at Zee. “I want to call you Lazuras.” Zee’s eyes went wide. “I want you to hold me like she held you. I want to love you enough that you forget about her.”

Jess caught her breath and slumped into the chair. Zee drew closer to her, eventually kneeling down and holding her hand. Nothing held Jess back for the moment. Amidst her weeping, she continued to want. 

“I want a new desk, I hate that one. God, I want a whole seperate fucking office. I want to not constantly feel like shit every time I pick up a pen that’ll never reach paper.” She squeezed Zee’s hands. “I want us to have kids. I want to show them a book I wrote, and another, and another, and I don’t want any of them to be about you.” 

Zee reached her hand out next to Jess’ face, not touching her. Jess leaned into it, feeling its warmth brush away her tears. 

Jess relented into her exhaustion. “I just want to believe you love me. I know you do, but, it’s hard to feel. Maybe I’m just selfish.” The two sat together, weeping, touching, letting silence wash over them. 

What pitiful amount of sleep the night afforded them was taken. The next day, Zee canceled her flight while the two continued their discussion, this time with much less yelling. Jess had to once again pry away the walls of fear and shame. Difficult as it was, Zee was patient, and gave her ample time and space to do so. Jess divulged her guilty frustration at Zee’s muse identity and her own writer's block. To her grateful surprise, Zee gave no ridicule. 

“I have enough writings about me,” she had said. “I only have one of you.”

For days afterwards, they both made it a point to take two hours to talk of their feelings, working against shame and guilt together. Jess divulged some of her childhood, not realizing some tainted memories existed that she had yet to confront. Zee continued to talk about her lack of memory, how a thousand year hole in her life weighed down so much. Yet she knew just as little of the future. With so many artworks of her, Zee didn’t know how long she would live. 

During some conversations, Moose would interject with his odd questions, acting as a cat pseudo-therapist. 

“I don’t know, it’s just, with the state of the world; It’s scary to think I could outlive society,” Zee said.

Moose stopped licking himself and turned to her. “How does that make you feel?” Both quickly concluded real therapy would be much more beneficial. 

About a week passed, Jess breathing easier and easier. She still felt chains of self-deprecation lace around her, but they were lighter, if just by a bit. She knew she could remove them with help. Zee had shown her that despite her own wishes, and she was grateful. One morning, while the two sipped fresh coffee, Zee with her nose in a book, Jess pulled out several papers from her desk.

Walking over, she handed them to Zee. “Here.”

“What’s this?” Zee said. She set down her book and grabbed the papers.

“I’ve apologized already, and I know I can’t make up for ripping that poem,” Jess averted her eyes, “but, I thought this would help.”

Zee looked down at the pages. The top few were printed copies of the research Jess had found on what she now assumed to be Zee's first language. Immediately Zee’s eyes flared with recognition and a smile spread across her face. She looked through each page, until finding the last one. Different material than the rest, the final sheet was thick and rough textured. Through the center, in the best penmanship she could make, Jess had written out her translation of the first poem, with the original script on the other side.

Zee cupped her mouth while her eyes watered. Before the tears fell she pulled the papers away so as not to stain them. 

Jess sighed. “Whoever she was, I should thank her. She let you live long enough for us to meet.” Zee swiped away tears before embracing Jess. For a moment, it felt as if they were one.

“Oh!” said Zee. She parted from the hug and ran upstairs quickly. Jess stood confused until she returned a couple moments later, holding her own sheet of paper, though it was slightly crinkled. 

Zee said, “Okay, you can’t laugh or anything.” Jess could see her stand a little tense, her face the slightest bit more red. “I tried to write something about you.” 

Jess stood shocked, unable to keep a slight smirk from curling into her cheek.

“Jess, I swear to God, don’t make fun of me,” Zee said. She took a deep breath, and began reading.

I am in love with a writer

As Zee read, Jess’ imagination once again enraptured her senses. Each word of the poem inspired a world in Jess’ mind, an ideal world. She was delighted to see her surroundings stayed the same.  Eventually the poem finished. Zee hid behind her paper, and Jess simply smiled.

She felt her life grow just a bit longer.