Muse-R-Us

Trigger warning: stuffed animal abuse :p

“Hhh, what am I doing here?” Timmy sat in his truck, contemplating leaving. He had run out of ideas, and desperate Tims do call for desperate measures and all, but he was embarrassed to be seen here. It was so cliche, so beneath him. Even the word muse made him cringe. Yet there he was, staring at the store front with big red letters, ‘Muse-R-Us.’

Pulling up his jacket collar, pulling down the bill of his hat until it almost covered the sunglasses he was wearing, he exited his truck and swallowed his pride. He couldn't help but punch that stupid air dancing tube man on his way in for mocking him. It was probably a good idea to let out a little steam anyways. It's so hard to focus when you're stressed out.

“Welcome, welcome! Can we help you find anything today?” Some overly Jolly employee tried to greet him, but he was having none of that as he shook his head, "No," and picked up the pace.

He wanted to get in and get out. Scanning the aisle signs, he saw lame options that didn't interest him. He didn't want a computer app, Alexa extension, board game or flash cards, nor did he want 'Prompts for Dummies' or a motivational calendar.

Then he just so happened to see the giant yellow clearance/ scratch and dent/ slightly used sign all the way in the back of the store. It's hard to pass up a good deal, you know, so Timmy made his way past all the other incognito artists to see what he could find.

Much to his disappointment, it was just one small shelf of the same junk he had already walked passed on his way back there, only marked down. Bummer. Then he saw her, the viking muse-bear. She was larger than him, overstuffed and tawny, donning a horned skull. How could he have missed her?!

He stood there kinda cackling like Chris Farley. He'd heard of build-a-bear, wound-bear and victim-bear, but never muse-bear. He quickly stifled himself when he noticed a woman in a bad wig judging him with disgust.

“Only five dollars, that's less than Starbucks expects for a tip, and maybe if I buckle her up and put my hat on her, I can drive in the carpool lane. Alright toots, you're coming home with me.” He grabbed up the ear of the bear and dragged her behind his back up to the register. She was a viking, she didn't mind, so don't start.

“How's this thing supposed to work, anyway?” He whispered to the jolly lady as she rang him up.

“Oh you're gonna love her. All you have to do is talk to her. You wanna round up your total to donate to the starving mime foundation?”

Crap. Just talk to her? Too late for the walk of shame to return this thing. “Yeah, go ahead. Yes, receipt for write-offs, yeah yeah good day you too..”

And with that, he threw his new viking over his shoulder, caveman style, and beeline waddled back to his truck, strapped her in and headed home.

Once he returned to the house, he wrangled up the largest six bucks he'd ever spent and welcomed her home. He forgot his manners and didn't show her around, just threw her on his bed like a typical male does, and went to make himself a drink.

After many, he was ready to write, but he had absolutely nothing to write about. “Hey uh, what's your name anyway?” She was a quiet type and didn't reply. “Okay fine. Play your games. Hey Google, what are some female viking names with meanings?”

"No no, not Hilda, Helga or Hulga, not Freja, Gertrude or Inga. Too obvious. What's that, Thyra? Means helpful? I kinda like that. Thyra it is." The beast just smiled like always.

So because they were alone, with no witness to blackmail him later, he started venting to the viking. It turned into a rant actually.

“Let me introduce meself.” Insert over the top sarcasm. “I've been writing for years. I'm a prize winner gone stale. I have searched for inspiration, but everyone bores me. I need something surreal! Nothing formulaic, nothing Hallmark, something original, something timeless and meaningful. Absolutely no cliches! Conflict, I need lots of conflict. Oh, and I hate writers writing about writing. Hum, what else? It has to be three thousand words, too. You got anything yet?” Silence. “Yeah, that's what I thought.”

So Timmy turned Irish and went on and on until the wee hours of the morning, because, why not? She was listening, and he had a lot to say, so he said it. She really was easy to talk to after all.

He gave up for the night, because it was now morning, and he was schnookered. He crawled over Thyra the viking muse-bear, curled up into HIS spot, and bump checked her so hard with his bum that she fell to the floor. So much for hospitality. Once again, she’s a viking, it's okay.. what wasn't okay was that even though she was the bear, he snored like one.

Later that afternoon, when he couldn't sleep anymore, coffee and food were in order, then social media maintenance, then the local bar. Okay, checklist done. Time for Timmy to do what Timmy does.

Once powered up, his laptop displayed something peculiar. A brand new account was signed into his story-posting site under a name he didn't know. Who was ‘Muse's Muse?’ Weird. And what's this? A new story had been posted called ‘Popping Balloons.’ He read it.

It was a story about a sad man that painted his face to hide his sadness, becoming a clown. His goal in life was to make people happy with balloons. Thinking making others smile would cheer him, he soon found they only popped his balloons and laughed at him. Every balloon they popped deflated him until he was out of latex and hope. Then one day a small boy recognized his sadness, and gave the clown a balloon, making him smile for once. TLDR. The message was basically that there are people out there in this world who are trying to help others, because they're the ones that need the help.

“What in the world? Did you do this?” Thyra the beast was still on the floor, silent. “Of course you did. I know I didn't. We're the only ones here. Ha. That's ridiculous. There's no way. Was I that tipsy? I'm not a black-out drinker, or am I?” He questioned himself on the way to the kitchen to get some doctored up coffee.

When he came back and noticed the post had likes and comments, he was confused. They loved this story. It really resonated with them. “But it wasn't even funny, it was sad. Mine are funny. Why don't I get likes and comments? ” The horned helmet wearing princess only smiled.

Feeling defeated (and buzzed), the writer went to bed. “Stay off my computer or I'll give you to my daughters.” He had already considered that, but they had passed the stuffed animal age. Maybe just the sheer size of her would be enough to upset the ex. That would be funny. Amused with his thoughts, he slept (and sawed logs) until it was almost dark.

Upon realizing he was awake, he rushed straight to the laptop, didn't even pee first, to see if there was a new story. You know there was. This one was titled, ‘Washing off the paint.’ Timmy read.

In this one, the clown was washing the paint off his face, exposing himself. It was written in first person, and he was telling the reader what had happened in life that made him feel so sad. Nothing new, we all have some kind of trauma, it was just raw and personable, told by a clown that was melancholy because he was lonely. Aren't we all? Yet there were so many likes and comments. They understood the bozo.

“Lame! Look at all these losers feeling their feelings over some crying clown, pfft. It's not even that good.” He was on one, grabbed up budget-bear by her throat and shook her as he yelled in frustration. Why was she still smiling? Did she like it? He dropped her and went outside to smoke and think.

“I'm not amused at all. I don't get it. I'm not inspired. I'm mad. Why, you ask?” No one asked. “Because! Only my few friends like and comment on my stories, and they're good, funny stories. This stupid new mystery account with all these people loving these stupid inspirational stories make me sick. Sick. I… wait a minute… that little…” The jealous clown rushed into the house, because he just realized he WAS the clown.

“You big ole bi.. bear. You're a bloody genius!” He choked her, he bear-hugged her so hard, then dropped her right back on her big bear rump. Timmy jumped into his seat and began clickety-clacking on the keyboard. He had a story to tell, but on his account.

It was called ‘A Musing,’ and it was all about his Viking Princess’ silent smile changing the world by being a good listener. Yup, people are boring, always have been, always will be, but they still like to be heard (and hugged.)

Satisfied, finally, he posted his submission. The jealousy had turned into something better. Understanding. There's no better rest than the rest you get when your mind shuts up and lets you rest. Ah, sweet peace and quiet.

He jumped into bed and smiled, then grabbed the viking by the back of her neck and pulled her on up next to him and threw his leg over her. “You got enough room?”