Hurry Up, We're Dreaming: The Muse Chronicles, #2

By Sara Crawford

To find her Muse, she must first find herself.

Sylvia Baker used to live for music: constantly listening to artists like M83 and Moonlight Bride, writing songs, and playing drums in a band. But now, the soundtrack of her life is silence. If she lets the music back in, she's worried she will return to her delusions about the Muses--the mystical beings who inspire artists to create art. She's worried she'll have to face the wounds of losing Vincent, her Muse, her love.

She tries to move on, immersing herself in the real world--working at the grocery store, mending her relationships with her friends and her father, and developing a new love for hiking. But in her dreams, she is forced to face the questions growing in her heart.

What if they never were delusions? What if a vicious battle between the traditional Greek Muses and modern Earthly Muses tore her from the world of the Muses? What if she never lost Vincent at all? And what if he's the one who needs to be saved?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sara Crawford
• Release date: Nov 28, 2017
• ISBN: 9781393847595

Sara Crawford

Sara Crawford is an author, a playwright, and a musician. Ever since she was five years old, she has lived for art in one form or another. This manifested itself as writing plays at age eight and convincing (forcing) the neighborhood kids to perform them on her driveway, auditioning for Atlanta Ballet's The Nutcracker three years in a row before finally landing a small role as a toy soldier, starting an all-girl band in high school, writing and producing her own plays and short films, and most recently, writing a YA trilogy about a girl who falls in love with her Muse (THE MUSE CHRONICLES). Sara has been an actress, a singer, a playwright, a songwriter, a guitarist, a keyboard player, a poet, a screenwriter, and an author of both fiction and non-fiction. She graduated in 2008 from Kennesaw State University with a B.A. in English and in 2012 from the University of New Orleans with an M.F.A. in Creative Writing (emphasis in Playwriting). She has taught creative writing courses for Southern New Hampshire University, and she has been in numerous bands in Atlanta, including Pocket the Moon. She also loves to talk about books, music, and writing on her YouTube channel and talks art and creativity on her new podcast, Find Creative Expression. For more information visit http://saracrawford.net or https://www.youtube.com/user/saracrawford.

Book preview

Hurry Up, We’re Dreaming

––––––––

Book 2 of

The Muse Chronicles

––––––––

SARA CRAWFORD

Copyright © 2017 Sara Crawford

All rights reserved.

Edited by Liane Larocque

Cover design by Caroline Teagle Johnson

ISBN: 9781973425038

Note from the author –

This trilogy is a love letter to music.

If you’d like to listen along to the songs referenced in the book, there are playlists available.

https://saracrawford.net/the-muse-chronicles-playlists

For my grandmother, Merle Clark

my friend, Michael Livaditis

and my high school drama teacher, Steve Jones.

You have all been Muses to me.

You live on through us

and the stories we tell.

Table of Contents

PROLOGUE

PART ONE 

ONE THE WALKING DEAD

TWO MARIELA

THREE VALENTINE’S DAY

FOUR MARIELA

FIVE MELPOMENE

SIX GIVE ONE, TAKE ONE

SEVEN VINCENT

EIGHT VANN

NINE HANGOVER

TEN EMPTY

ELEVEN MARIELA

PART TWO

TWELVE WHITE CHIP

THIRTEEN MELPOMENE

FOURTEEN LYDIA

FIFTEEN VINCENT

SIXTEEN REUNION

SEVENTEEN MISTAKES

EIGHTEEN VINCENT

NINETEEN MOONLIGHT BRIDE

TWENTY SING ME HOME

TWENTY-ONE VINCENT

PART THREE

TWENTY-TWO LOVE LOST

TWENTY-THREE VANN

TWENTY-FOUR CORRIDOR

TWENTY-FIVE VINCENT

TWENTY-SIX NEW POSSIBILITIES

TWENTY-SEVEN LYDIA

TWENTY-EIGHT PROM

TWENTY-NINE WHISPERS

THIRTY URANIA

THIRTY-ONE GUIDING LIGHT

THIRTY-TWO FREAK OF THE WEAK

THIRTY-THREE AWAKE

PART FOUR

THIRTY-FOUR VANN

THIRTY-FIVE A RAISIN IN THE SUN

THIRTY-SIX MYTIKAS

THIRTY-SEVEN LYDIA

THIRTY-EIGHT A GIFT

THIRTY-NINE MARIELA

FORTY CLIO

FORTY-ONE VANN

FORTY-TWO THE CLIMB

FORTY-THREE MOM AND DAD

FORTY-FOUR LYDIA

FORTY-FIVE INTRODUCTIONS

EPILOGUE

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Preview of

Book 3 in The Muse Chronicles

You and the Night

About the Author

PROLOGUE

When I open my eyes, I find myself sitting on top of a mountain, and the gorgeous world below overwhelms me. I’ve never seen this place before. I can’t tell what town it is below. It doesn’t look urban; but it doesn’t look particularly rural either. Everything looks so small from where I am: the trees are tiny bushes, the houses are toy homes, the fields are little patches of green. The rocks around me stick out along the side of the mountain, and there are various plants growing around me.

I know this is a dream. I’m not sure how, but I know it is.

Never in my life have I been surrounded by such stunning beauty. It makes me feel divine. Tears form in my eyes as the wind blows my thin brown hair into my face. I reach up to brush the strands behind my ear, but I find his hand there instead.

Vincent.

He gives me a joyous grin, and I throw my arms around him, inhaling his scent. I can’t remember how long it has been since I last saw him. I pull away, staring at him.

You’re here, I say in amazement. A tear spills down my cheek.

His grin transforms into a dejected smile as he gently wipes the tear off my face.

The air around us is crisp and clean. It feels like anything is possible, like the two of us could jump off the side of the mountain into any town in the world below.

I lean my head on his shoulder. I can’t believe you’re here.

And then I feel as if my chest is tightening. I draw back from him and look at him more carefully. You’re not really here, are you? He looks away, staring out into the distance.

I long to hear him speak, the way his voice spills from his mouth like liquid, the irresistible British accent that sends shivers down my spine.

I close my eyes, and the music starts to play inside of my mind.

It sounds like M83. The sustained notes of the synthesizers fill all the space inside me. The breathy vocals send goosebumps all over my skin. The piercing melody of the guitar dances with my soul until it swells into the most heart-wrenching climax. The tears pour out of me now in desperate sobs.

And now I know the dream is fading.

I cling to him until we both dissolve into the soaring melodies.

PART ONE

January 2013

ONE

The Walking Dead

Every day is exactly the same.

It’s a rainy Wednesday in January. I’m in my American history class. I don’t remember the teacher’s name, but it’s only the second week of the semester. He’s a chubby, middle aged, balding man whose voice puts me to sleep. If this were my old life, I would be writing in my journal right now, but I don’t do that anymore.

I like to refer to the way things used to be as my old life. I guess it really ended when I went to Riverview last November. That was when I realized I was delusional.

I have seen imaginary (what I called) flickering people since before I can remember. They flickered in and out like a flame on a candle or the picture on an old-fashioned television. But when I started speaking to one of them last fall, my delusions got much worse.

It wasn’t just that I saw people who weren’t there, but now I had created an entire story to explain their existence. And the one I had been speaking with—I called him Vincent—had given me a detailed account. He said they were Muses. And I don’t mean that in some metaphorical way like some film school boy might say oh, my girlfriend is totally my muse. I mean, they were actual immortal beings called Muses who Inspired artists. Inspired with a capital I. I believed in this as one might believe in a religion.

I even imagined my dead mother was a Muse, which made me a half-Muse. I imagined a whole secret world of these beings where the Nine Original Greek Muses had created Earthly Muses when artists died—the way vampires created more vampires in old horror movies. Usually, Muses didn’t reveal themselves to their artists but they could if they wanted to. Of course, because I was a half-Muse, I was able to see all Muses even if they hadn’t revealed themselves. (How did I not think that was insane?) I even imagined that I had an entire romantic relationship with the one who was supposed to be my Muse. Vincent.

When I think about him now, I melt in embarrassment and shame. How is it possible that I could have imagined someone so unconventionally gorgeous? So talented? So passionate? How is it possible that I could have imagined the goosebumps that would form on my skin when he Inspired me, the way he would hold me against him, the way he would kiss me and I would collapse into him, the way we exchanged music like air? I was so sure it was real, and yet, it couldn’t have been.

That’s why I don’t think about him anymore. Whenever I do, all I can think about is how crazy I must have been. But I’m not crazy now. I’m not depressed. I’m not even emotional. I’m not really anything.

And now I’m constantly second guessing myself. I try to make as few decisions as possible. I never decide the right thing.

They put me on an antipsychotic medication that would stop my hallucinations, an antidepressant, and a sleeping pill. Most doctors don’t like to prescribe these things to teenagers, but they said I needed them. I see a psychiatrist at Riverview, once a month, though I rarely have anything to say to her.

I don’t speak to my friends from last semester anymore. Bianca, my childhood friend who I reconnected with last fall. Cassie, who is sweet but is so quiet most of the time, I don’t know much about her—except that she harbors major feelings for Bianca. Ryan, the stoner bass player I was in a band with for two seconds. Derek, the drummer I replaced. I’m sure he’s glad I’m out of the picture so he can get back to playing with The Red Lampposts. And Travis. Of course, I don’t talk to him.

He’s the lead singer and guitarist of The Red Lampposts. I guess you could say he was my best friend. He’s also the reason I went to Riverview. He stole my journal and told my dad about my delusions. Even worse, though, he told Bianca, Ryan, Derek, who knows who else. And then it spread.

My first day back to school—the first day of spring semester—was absolute misery. Everyone was whispering about me everywhere I went. I tried to keep my head down and interact with as few people as possible. There have always been rumors about me because of my dad. He's a bit of a local celebrity musician, he had me when he was just 18, and his history with drug and alcohol abuse is no secret. Now the rumors are at a new level now. A few people had the guts to ask me questions directly those first few days back. They got progressively more ridiculous.

Hey, Sylvia. Is it true you believe in Greek Muses?

Sylvia...did you really spend the last couple of months of the semester in Greece looking for Hercules?

Is it true that you took mushrooms that made you think you were having sex with Greek gods? Can I have some?

At first, I would mumble something, but after the questions started to get so out there, I ignored anyone who tried to speak to me. I stared straight ahead always and acted like I didn’t even see them. The questions all died down by the end of last week, but I know people are still talking about me behind my back.

The biggest difference between now and my old life, though, is that there is no more music. I was obsessed with music, listening to it 24/7, even when I was sleeping. When I wasn’t listening to it, I was playing guitar or singing or playing piano. Last fall, I wrote a bunch of songs. I used to imagine Vincent was Inspiring me to write them. I even played a show at my favorite coffee shop, Cool Beans. That was when my hallucinations started to disappear; that was also the night I went to Riverview.

My life is largely defined by lack these days. No music, no friends, no delusions, no emotions.

The bell rings, and it takes me a second to realize that everyone else has gotten up. I shove my history book in my bag and shuffle off to Algebra.

I’m walking down the hallway, thinking about how I’m going to start the second season of The Walking Dead on Netflix when I get home.

Sylvia! I hear someone call from behind me. I turn around to see Ms. Bolton. She was my Greek Mythology teacher last semester. I haven’t seen her since November. I stayed in Riverview for a month, and all my teachers worked out ways for me to finish my classes from home. It was extremely difficult to write a paper about Ares, the Greek God of War, given my Greek-mythology-based delusions, but somehow, I managed.

Hi, Ms. Bolton, I mumble.

How are you doing? she asks me with a specific sympathy in her eyes that you will only see after you have been institutionalized. I consider ignoring her, but I decide not to. She is a teacher, after all.

I’m okay, I say as I shift my book bag around on my back. I’m surprised she hasn’t tried to talk to me about my delusions, given the fact that she teaches a class about Greek mythology.

And then a strange flash of anger rushes through me, but it leaves as quickly as it came.

I wanted to talk to you about taking my Philosophy class next year, she says, smiling. A piece of her blonde hair falls out of her bun. For a split second, I have a memory of when I saw her singing in her band at Smith’s Olde Bar—wild hair flowing around her, tattoos visible, totally liberated. It’s a different image than the professional-looking woman in glasses and a pantsuit who stands before me.

I don’t know, I say quietly. It’s only January. I can’t start thinking about next year.

The truth is that I don’t want to take another one of Ms. Bolton’s classes.

You know, Sylvia, she says with a peculiar look of concern on her face. We really need to talk. I tried to get in touch with your dad when you were in Riverview. I wanted to let you know that—

I have to get to my next class, I interrupt her before she can say anything else. She frowns, her blue eyes dazzling with pity.

Sylvia, I really—

Sorry, I say. Gotta go.

I can hear her let out a frustrated sigh as I turn and walk away. The bell rings, and I’m still walking to Algebra. I can’t find it in me to care about being late.

***

I am sitting on the bus. I used to write in my journal and listen to my iPod when I rode the bus, but now I just sit here. (I even used to call my iPod and journal names. My iPod was Murphy, and my journal was Lily. I mean, really.) I’m staring out the window at the city of Marietta as we drive by. Georgia in January always looks pretty dead. There are a few houses that still have unlit Christmas lights hanging off the ceiling, and no one is outside. Winter has a way of shutting people away in the South. It doesn’t feel like anyone is alive until late March.

I have almost walked to my front door, and I realize I have no memory of getting off the bus. Life is like this now. I’m just stumbling through it, like one of the walkers on The Walking Dead.

Speaking of, I decide my season two marathon may as well start now. I turn the TV on downstairs and turn on Netflix. 

I am in the middle of the second episode, totally engrossed in the story, when I hear my dad come in the house.

Sylvie? he asks to make sure I’m home. But where else would I be? I don’t go anywhere anymore except here and school. I don’t even go to Cool Beans or go walking around Marietta. I prefer to be at home because I can make sure there’s no music playing.

Mostly, I just watch TV shows or read. When I watch TV, I always mute the sound and put captions on. This way, I can be sure I won't accidentally hear any music.

Hey, I call back to my dad as he carries in his guitar case.

Things have been awkward with my dad ever since he put me in Riverview. I understand why he did it, and I don’t blame him, but our relationship was practically based on music. Now that there’s no music in my life, I don’t know what to say to him.

We have band practice tonight, my dad says. Do you want to come downstairs and jam with us after we run through our set for the Smith’s gig?

No, Dad. I look away. He sighs.

Alright...you will at least be at our album release show, right? It’s a pretty big deal.

I don’t think so.

He is quiet for a moment. I am noticing a few streaks of grey in his dark brown hair for the first time. He’s only thirty-four, but he looks a lot younger. Maybe if he gets more grey hair, people will stop thinking he’s my older brother.

Sylvia, he says with a sigh. I always know it’s serious when he uses my full name instead of his usual nickname. How long are you going to do this no music thing? It isn’t you.

I just... I can’t seem to come up with an explanation. It’s like my brain is full of empty space.

Sylvia, you aren’t yourself without music. You don’t do anything except watch TV. You ignore your friends. You practically ignore me. You’re being incredibly selfish, and I’m tired of it. I can tell that he is frustrated with me. He moves to sit next to me on the couch, keeping his hands to himself. We don’t touch that often, Dad and me. I say nothing.

I know on some level, he is right. I have been acting selfish. I don’t like myself like this. But what is the other option? If I let the music back in, the hallucinations will come back, the overwhelming emotions will come back. I can’t be that person anymore; it’s not healthy.

What is it? He stands up. He is almost yelling at me now. He hardly ever gets like this. "Why can’t you even listen to music or come support me and my band? You’ve always supported us. Why don’t you ever pick up your guitar anymore or sit down at the piano? You don’t even play drums anymore. What is it?"

I can’t, I explain. Listen, you can either have crazy emotional Sylvia who has relationships with imaginary people, or you can have the Sylvia who doesn’t do music and acts like a cold-hearted zombie. You can’t have both. I can’t be both people! There it is again—the uncontrollable fury boiling inside of me. I blink, and it subsides.

But life without music isn’t worth living, he says quietly.

We sit in silence for a moment.

I’m going to finish watching this upstairs, I say. You should probably get ready for band practice. Leo and Jake will be here soon. I turn the TV off without speaking and walk up to my room.

I open Netflix on my computer and click on The Walking Dead. The episode starts up again. I finish watching it and start the third one.

I’m only a few minutes into it when I hear my dad’s band playing downstairs in the studio.

Guilt washes over me. How could I have acted like that with Dad? Growing up hasn’t been easy, and we’ve had our rough times, sure, but I always felt like we were on the same team. Now everything’s messed up.

Frustrated, I shove my earplugs in my ears so I can’t hear the muffled sounds of music coming from downstairs. It’s not enough. I need something else.

I look around my room at the posters I have been mostly ignoring since I got back from Riverview. It’s as if I am realizing for the first time that they’re still up.

The Smashing Pumpkins poster from the Tonight, Tonight music video. The Radiohead poster with the bear icon from the Kid A album. The Sargent Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band poster. The Beach House poster from their Teen Dream album. The Black Keys poster signed by drummer, Patrick Carney. I peel each one off the wall and carry them in a pile downstairs.

I start a fire in the fireplace in the living room and hurl all the posters into it. I am staring at Patrick Carney’s signature as I watch them fold and burn. I stare at the brightness of the fire until it hurts my eyes. I walk upstairs calmly, feeling nothing.

TWO

Mariela

On the roof of Constellation Place, Mariela and Vincent were both tied to chairs with the shiny silver fabric that prevented Muses from Traveling. Two of the Nine Original Muses sat across from them on the roof: Clio—the Muse of History—and Melpomene—the Muse of Tragedy. Several of their Earthly Muse followers were scattered across the roof, looking bored. Mariela knew one of them intimately. Hector. The Spanish Muse who had once been her lover. The Muse who had sold her out to Clio and allowed his friends to torture Vincent’s whereabouts out of her.

Ever since Vincent was brought here, they had saved all the beating for him, sparing Mariela. She suspected this was Hector’s doing. Sometimes she would catch Hector looking at her with what she imagined was remorse. He never sent her any thoughts, though, so he couldn’t have felt that bad about it.

Mariela couldn’t believe Hector was one of them. Clio, Melpomene, and all their Earthly Muse followers wanted to revolutionize the way Art was created. They despised the flux of artists the 21st century had created. With the Internet, now anyone could learn anything: how to paint, how to sing, how to act, how to dance. And they could all share their songs, their books, their films, their photographs, their artwork with the world. Anyone could be an artist now. Mariela thought it was an amazing time to be an artist or a Muse. Inspiration flowed through the air, and anyone could catch it.

Inspiration. Mariela longed to Inspire. She thought of Travis and the way he sang as though he was the last singer on earth. The ineffable passion that escaped from him every time Mariela Inspired him made her feel elated, truly alive in a way she had never been as a human.

How could they want to limit that?

Mariela watched as the sleeping Vincent woke with a start, inhaling sharply. She wished she could sleep. A Muse didn't need it, of course, but they could if they wanted to. Mariela's guilt kept her awake.

They both looked weak and emaciated—like starving humans. Vincent looked worse than Mariela. Although a Muse couldn’t sustain wounds for long, they had beaten him so much that he had light scars all over his skin where the wounds had healed.

Vincent, Mariela thought in his direction. She was grateful that Earthly Muses could send thoughts to each other. Were you dreaming about her again?

It didn’t work, he thought. I’m too weak to enter her dreams now. Even his thoughts sounded weak.

A group of Earthly Muses appeared on the roof.

Well? Clio barked at them.

We haven’t found anything, an androgynous Earthly Muse said.

Sylvia must be the last half-Muse, Hector said to Clio. We’ve been searching for months now—talking to every Muse we know. There are none left except her.

Mariela’s blood ran cold. She couldn’t believe Vincent had let Sylvia’s name slip. To be fair, he hadn’t been conscious at the time. It was during one of the more brutal beatings given to Vincent by the Earthly Muse follower named Vann. Mariela detested him—the sick obsession he had with violence. Apparently, he had killed the majority of the half-Muses himself. He seemed almost even more passionate about the cause than Clio.

To save himself from the pain, Vincent had passed out. Once Vann had finally stopped beating him, Vincent started whispering her name. That was when he could still enter her dreams, Mariela supposed. 

Did you hear that? Melpomene suddenly asked Clio.

Yes, Clio whispered.

What? Vann said.

It’s Terpsichore. Our sister. She’s awake, Melpomene said.

How many of your sisters are still sleeping? Vann asked.

"Well, Clio and