Yellow Mama E zine

The Tenth Muse

by

Pamela Ebel

 

         Emma sat at her easel and watched a woman she hadn’t seen before set up a table and chair next to her. Dressed as a fortune teller, she  placed Tarot cards and a crystal ball on the table, opened a beach umbrella, and lit a stick of incense.

          The smoke drifted to Emma’s face and the umbrella blocked the view of her  paintings that leaned against the fence at Jackson Square. As she started to complain, all six feet of the woman stood and leaned down to study five paintings of the St. Louis Cathedral.

         “Who is the Muse for your paintings?”

         “A Muse? I have no Muse. I paint what I see.”

         “Ah! To be appreciated  art needs to inspire. To inspire one needs a Muse to show what’s beyond reality.”

         “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I paint what I see. My works are photographic in their precision. The tourists can remember their experiences every time they look at the paintings in their homes.”

          The woman leaned closer to the five finished works.

         “Yes, they are exactly alike. All the same details of the cathedral. And the one on your easel will make six, yes?”

         “Yes! That’s what they want.”

         “If that’s the case, why don’t they just take photos with the phones they seem so fond of? That will also give them an exact likeness for free.”

        “I have a lot of artist friends and none of them have a so-called Muse.”

         “Perhaps they just haven’t told you. A Muse is a powerful friend to have.”

         “Do fortune tellers, if that’s what you claim to be, have a Muse?”

         “Yes. Urania, the Muse of Astrology and Astronomy, aids all who see the past, present and future.”

        “Well, I have to get to my next painting, which is coming out just fine without a Muse. So, please excuse me.”

        As Emma turned to her easel, the woman placed a bright red turban on her head, sat down, and started laying the Tarot cards out.

        For the next four hours, tourists passed Emma to give money to the fortune teller. Finally, frustrated, she packed up her easel, chair, art supplies, and paintings and rolled her cart three blocks to her small rental apartment.

       The mail brought another rejection from the local MFA program Emma was sure would develop the creativity she needed to become famous.

       Opening the window of the un-air-conditioned apartment, she poured the last of the cheap wine into a plastic cup and, checking her phone messages, saw one from her father.

       “Hi Dad. Sorry I missed your call. I was down at the square working.”

       “How many paintings did you sell?”

       “Well, none today. But I had a lot of interest, and several said they’d think about the work and come back. I . . .”

        “Emma, let’s not waste time on the same story. You haven’t sold a painting in almost a year.”

        “I told you and Mom that the MFA program I’m going to get into this fall will make all the difference in my works.”

        “Honey, I know you got another rejection for the MFA program.”

         She looked at the letter and saw her parents were copied on it.

        “I’m going in to meet the dean of the program. I know they’ll change their minds.”

        “Your mother and I have talked it over and we want you to come back home. It will be less expensive, and Ohio State accepted you last year.”

         Emma gulped down the last of the wine.

        “Dad, I’m not coming home. I don’t want to live in Ohio. I want to be here where art’s appreciated and there is something worth painting.”

        “We won’t pay for the apartment after this month. If you want to stay in New Orleans, you’ll have to get a job and take care of yourself.”

         “Fine. I’ll find a way to take care of myself. I won’t be a burden to you and Mom ever again.”

         Ending the call, she walked to her favorite bar and spent the night drinking. The next morning, as she entered the square, she saw the fortune teller, giving readings to a line of tourists.

        In the afternoon, with the sixth identical painting of the cathedral finished and no sales, Emma packed to leave when a hand stopped her. She looked up into the fortune teller’s smiling face.

         “Make just one small cup of the tea in this bag and drink it each evening. Your Muse will appear.”

         “And what is the name of this Muse? What does she look like? How would I even recognize a so-called Muse?”

        “The Muse of Painters has many names. She was the last to be created by the Greek Gods. Be patient and . . .”

         “Sure. Patient. That’s all I’ve ever been. And it’s just my luck to get a Muse that was an afterthought.  But since I’m getting short on food and money, I’ll take this.”

         Back in her apartment, Emma fixed a peanut butter sandwich and stared at the plastic bag. She was about to toss it when a piece of peanut began to stick to her throat. Coughing, she warmed water, drank a large cup of the tea and, feeling drowsy, went to bed.

In the morning, she stared at six exquisite paintings of the New Orleans landmarks and people she had only created in her dreams. She raced to the square and looked for the fortune teller, who wasn’t there.

        Emma set the paintings against the fence. In four hours she’d sold them all. When the fortune teller still hadn’t appeared, she rushed home, brewed the remaining tea, and drank it all.

She woke to see six more paintings and sold all of them at her spot in the square as the fortune teller looked on.

        “You’re right. The tea is my Muse. I need more.”

        “I can’t give you more. The rule is that the artist must capture the inspiration the Muse offers on their own after a point. To rely on anything but your own talent is to court disaster.”

        “I can’t wait. I need more now. Give it to me or else I’ll…”

        “I’m sorry. I have to go. Trust yourself and the Muse will help.”

       Emma followed her through the crowded street, keeping the red turban in sight. Turning into a courtyard, the fortune teller opened the door to her apartment. Emma rushed forward, pushed the woman through and stepped in, slamming the door. She saw a large bag of tea sitting on a table.

         “I want that tea. I have money. But one way or another, I’m going to have it.”

        “I don’t want your money. I’ve told you that a person is only allowed to drink so much.”

         The fortune teller turned to the door. In a rage Emma picked up a heavy vase and slammed it on the back of the woman’s head, crushing the red turban.

         “No one can keep me from my Muse. You, of all people, should know that.”

          Grabbing the bag of tea, Emma kicked the still body out of her way and left the apartment, closing the door behind her.    

         The next day the fortune teller, bright red turban in place, was back at her table. She watched as a man approached.

        “Good afternoon. I’m Detective Clay with the police department. We’re investigating the death of a young woman, Emma Clark. She died sometime last night. Several others who work around the square say you sat next to her for several days. Is that correct?”

        “She’s the painter, right? Yes, we worked next to each other for about three days. I’m afraid I didn’t know her well. How did she die?”

        “It was some kind of drug overdose. Her apartment was covered from top to bottom with all sorts of paintings no one can seem to figure out. We’ll know more after the autopsy. Her parents are coming in tonight.”

         “I’m sorry I can’t be of more help. Sorry, too, about the young woman.”

         “Unfortunately, it happens a lot. They come looking for something and never find it. Here’s my card if you think of anything else.”

        That evening the fortune teller found Emma lying on a steel gurney in the morgue.      Removing her costume and the red turban, the woman exposed her full auburn hair with no head wound. She held up what was left of the bag of tea Emma had stolen.

         “Inspiration can offer fame, or ruin. The artist has to choose how to use the power given. You now have eternity to consider your choice.”

         Then Sappho, the Tenth Muse, sighed and disappeared.

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      Pamela’s short stories appear in Yellow Mama, Shotgun Honey, Kings River Life Magazine, and various anthologies. Her poetry is in the Delta Poetry Review and The Five—Two Poetry Crime weekly. Her novella, Four Pieces of Evidence, is a Judges’ Top Pick in the Supernatural Category at the 2025 Killer Nashville Conference. Pam teaches courses on how to write and market short fiction. She lives in New Orleans with her husband and their two cats, Jake and Elwood, The Blues Brothers.

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     Bernice Holtzman’s paintings and collages have appeared in shows at various venues in Manhattan, including the Back Fence in Greenwich Village, the Producer’s Club, the Black Door Gallery on W. 26th St., and one other place she can’t remember, but it was in a basement, and she was well received. She is the Assistant Art Director for Yellow Mama.