My Beloved Muse

The answer to the question "Where in tarnation does your stuff come from?"

I started my writing career suddenly — just like the moment a dragster, smoke screaming from its tires, abruptly lets go and shoots down the strip at 285 miles per hour. In the dragster I crossed the finish line 3.5 seconds later and realized that I had been visited by a beautiful muse who was here to stay. My beloved muse.

 I can't say enough about her. She came to me during a point in my life where I had lost my tenuous sense of purpose, a point that was sharpened by the ever-increasing panic of a life insufficiently lived. After her first visit, she now comes to me regularly in the cool early of the morning, her warmth enveloping my soul with purpose, a gift to be distributed to my readers through the wisdom of her channeled prose. I am so thankful to be fulfilled by her gravity, the rightness of which provides the ground I stand on. I write profusely now, her words flowing onto the page and sticking there, expressions that bind a reader's curiosity and thrill it forward through the literary landscape. When I write, her words drop like sweet kisses, their meaning irrelevant to me in my haste to record them dutifully so that I may present them to you as quickly as possible. Granted, after a time I will read and doctor them up a bit, smoothing things out and tweaking the flow. 

Her presence is overwhelming me now, my muse wants to speak directly to you, thus I yield the page. 

"Hello. I am a space queen from the third galactic quadrant of the Milky Way. My name is Veena and I am slowly eating my way through Tony's brain. I have established your planet as the focal point in my plan to take over the galaxy. Furthermore, I have initiated my goal by inserting myself into Tony's head thus causing him to write shorty-short stories that are in reality secretly coded messages to my cohorts interspersed within this galactic realm. 

Tony is the perfect host because he is basically clueless and easy to manipulate. Once I have finished eating and he is entirely braindead, I will implement the final phase of my plan. There isn't far to go, for the past seventeen years Tony's brain has been operating at four percent of its capacity. 

By reading his stories, you have been indoctrinated into the plan. Within the stories are covert messages that seed the intricate neural network of the invasion schematic, particularly the stories that seem like utter claptrap. The process has now become inevitable, you can't stop reading and the entirety of the following line is the catchphrase that will launch the final download into your brain, making you part of the psychic collective that will empower my conquest. 

[5wR6&*%0101: every time I got used to that damn dog

he would raise his tail and wink his back eye at me.]

 The moment of confusion that was just instigated by the previous sentence created a smidgen of space in your head which allowed me to insert the final data package that will execute Phase Two of the invasion. After this part of the plan is complete, I will finish Tony off. They say that the last morsel of the brain is quite satisfying. I certainly hope so because his brain was not very large to begin with. At any rate, thanks for helping out and have a beautiful day. Life will be so much better at the end of the last phase. Of course that won't happen until Tony is … ummm … dead.

Space Photo by Jeremy Thomas on Unsplash, Dragster photo by Chris Hearn on Unsplash