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Summary
“Write like this,” Madoc had adjured. Calliope scoffs. She cannot give him the erosion that whittled Sappho's poetic fragments down to a fine point anymore than she can turn back the clock to pull the poetry's full form from Helicon’s seams.
The Muses are of time and of power, but Calliope is just a fragment. She is not a whole but a one. To give Fry what he wanted, to give Madoc what he wants, she has to be wrung out, squeezed. It is torture, trying to create an entire call by herself when there used to be eight others, when there should be eight, when she can sometimes feel them shrieking into the dark for her.
(Or: what if the Muses were symbiotic?)
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Bookmark Notes:
I’m incoherent and cleaved in two.
With every call, there came eight responses. It was an echo that always met its mate, a poem that was repeated and refined, a whole that was a circle bending in on itself until the end was no different from the beginning. Seeded with memory as much as power (for they were their mother’s children as much as they were their father’s), the Muses were a part of time itself. They were artifacts of imagination, externalizations of creation, and these roles seated them on this mountain just at the edge of mortal lives.
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Bookmark Notes:
fragments
by historynut101 -
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