December 20, 2016

PodCastle 447: It’s a Wonderful Carol

* Authors : Tim Pratt and Heather Shaw

* Narrator : Dagny Paul

* Host : Graeme Dunlop

* Audio Producer : Peter Wood

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PodCastle 447: It’s a Wonderful Carol is a PodCastle original.

Rated PG.

It’s a Wonderful Carol

by Heather Shaw & Tim Pratt

“Who the hell are you?”

The man is standing in my walk—in closet. Except he’s not. He’s also standing at the foot of my bed. And he’s sitting in my window, languid like a pampered cat. Everywhere my eyes go, there he is. He’s so beautiful my teeth ache when I look at him, like I just bit into a piece of cake that is too sweet to taste good. Then he speaks, and my ears shiver in a glorious golden aural bliss.

“I’m your muse, Colleen.”

I want to scoff, deny his existence, refuse to believe him. But I do believe him. His voice rings truth like a perfectly tuned fifth.

Yes. That’s my muse standing there beside me, and sitting beside me on my bed, and flipping through the sheet music on my vanity chair.

“Damn. My muse is hot.”

He smiles and the room lights up rosegold in a way that warms me from the inside out. “Yes, Colleen, you have one of the very best muses in the business, if I do say so myself.”

This time his voice is mellifluous, like he’s the best soloist in a choir of angels. He’s a baritone, but I have no doubt he could hit the mystically low bass notes of the opening of Mahler’s second symphony or the clear highs of a Wagnerian heldentenor

“So, um, this isn’t a new assignment for you, right? I mean, you’ve always been my muse?”

He grins the self—satisfied grin of someone who’s on top of the world and striking a pose there. “Right.”

“So you’re the bastard that’s responsible for Jolly Bells?”

His perfect forehead wrinkles a bit. I let out an involuntary sob as the rosegold light flickers and I’m hit with an overwhelming emotion I can’t name.

“That… was you. It’s all you. I provide the inspiration. You decide what to do with it.”

“Great. So it’s all my fault.” I sigh. I try to look away from Mr. Golden Muse but he’s everywhere I look, even behind my eyes when I close them. “So, to what do I owe this in—the—flesh visit?”

“Well, it’s about that thing.”

“What thing?”

“Jolly Bells.”

“Of course it is. Everything is about the Jolly Bells.”

“Hmm. That’s what I’m talking about. Your attitude. It’s….”

“What, I’m not grateful enough about it?”

“It’s not that, exactly. It’s your dissatisfaction.”

“If I’m supposed to be satisfied about Jolly Bells, I’d rather be artistically frustrated, thanks.”

“I’m here to address that frustration.”

I perk up at this. “You can fix it? You can make it so I’m no longer the Leonard Nimoy of the composer set? I think about him a lot. He was a photographer, a writer, a drama teacher, but all anybody remembers is pointy ears, a goofy hand greeting, and Pon Farr.”

My muse cocked his head adorably. “You’re in more of a Sir Arthur Conan Doyle situation. Sure, everybody knows Sherlock Holmes, but there are fans who recognize his other work.”

I shook my head. “It’s really more like poor Bobby McFerrin. The man’s an astonishingly capable and insightful musician and composer, but he’ll never escape the shadow of ‘Don’t Worry, Be Happy.’”

“Is that so bad? People love that song. It makes them happy.”

“So? Corn syrup makes people happy. Reality television makes people happy. And, sure,

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