Response to a muse
To ChampagneOnIce, thanks for the prompt!
This was the prompt
https://similarworlds.com/literature/i-write/5631809-I-Challenge-You-to-Write-THE-WEEKLY-MUSE-August-3-2026-This
I arrive at the station, an unfamiliar hoodie pulled tightly over my head. It's 6 o'clock in the morning, and I have to get all the way back across town before work starts. It's still dark outside, but there are a lot of people waiting.
There's an old lady sitting on one of the few free benches. As I get closer I see she's not just old, she's ancient: wispy white hair clouding around a face made of papery skin lined with a thousand crisscrosses. Brown eyes, sharp and wary, catch mine. She smiles and pats the seat beside her.
I sit down next to her. An automated voice calls out times of departure. I check the time again. Yes, I need to get on the 6:15 train or I won't make it. The stranger beside me watches me pleasantly.
"Cherise," she says. "Don't be afraid."
I stare at her, mouth open.
Nobody calls me Cherise. No one, except... me. It's my pet name for myself, ever since my mother offhandedly told me that she wanted to name me Cherise, but my grandmother couldn't pronounce it. Any time I stub my toe, or get a new job, or generally talk to myself, I say "Nice one, Cherise" in my head. And I thank my grandmother for her lisp.
So this old, old lady is calling me Cherise. I look down at her hands. They're small and gnarled, but her thumbs look familiar.
She smiles again.
"See this hoodie you're wearing?" She touches the logo, a blue compass. I look down at it for the first time. I had grabbed it off a chair before sneaking out of the apartment of someone I had just met. "He may seem charming now, but he's not going to be looking out for your best interests. You really have to start doing that for yourself, now."
"What man? What are you even talking about?"
She says his name. The man I had just met. The owner of the sweatshirt.
"How do you know me?" I say, but her voice, which I've been hearing this whole time, deep and knowing, completely unbothered, tells me without having to say it. She gently grabs my hands and presses her flat thumbs on mine. They are a perfect match.
"I came here to tell you that you have so many choices, Cherise. Don't fall into the trap of always choosing what you think is best for someone else. This blue compass is his dream, not yours. So every time it's time to make a choice, I want you to take out this sweatshirt, and remember my words. Go and do what you want to do. What do you want to do?"
"I don't know...."
She chucks a finger under my chin. "Exactly! Go and figure it out."
This was the prompt
https://similarworlds.com/literature/i-write/5631809-I-Challenge-You-to-Write-THE-WEEKLY-MUSE-August-3-2026-This
I arrive at the station, an unfamiliar hoodie pulled tightly over my head. It's 6 o'clock in the morning, and I have to get all the way back across town before work starts. It's still dark outside, but there are a lot of people waiting.
There's an old lady sitting on one of the few free benches. As I get closer I see she's not just old, she's ancient: wispy white hair clouding around a face made of papery skin lined with a thousand crisscrosses. Brown eyes, sharp and wary, catch mine. She smiles and pats the seat beside her.
I sit down next to her. An automated voice calls out times of departure. I check the time again. Yes, I need to get on the 6:15 train or I won't make it. The stranger beside me watches me pleasantly.
"Cherise," she says. "Don't be afraid."
I stare at her, mouth open.
Nobody calls me Cherise. No one, except... me. It's my pet name for myself, ever since my mother offhandedly told me that she wanted to name me Cherise, but my grandmother couldn't pronounce it. Any time I stub my toe, or get a new job, or generally talk to myself, I say "Nice one, Cherise" in my head. And I thank my grandmother for her lisp.
So this old, old lady is calling me Cherise. I look down at her hands. They're small and gnarled, but her thumbs look familiar.
She smiles again.
"See this hoodie you're wearing?" She touches the logo, a blue compass. I look down at it for the first time. I had grabbed it off a chair before sneaking out of the apartment of someone I had just met. "He may seem charming now, but he's not going to be looking out for your best interests. You really have to start doing that for yourself, now."
"What man? What are you even talking about?"
She says his name. The man I had just met. The owner of the sweatshirt.
"How do you know me?" I say, but her voice, which I've been hearing this whole time, deep and knowing, completely unbothered, tells me without having to say it. She gently grabs my hands and presses her flat thumbs on mine. They are a perfect match.
"I came here to tell you that you have so many choices, Cherise. Don't fall into the trap of always choosing what you think is best for someone else. This blue compass is his dream, not yours. So every time it's time to make a choice, I want you to take out this sweatshirt, and remember my words. Go and do what you want to do. What do you want to do?"
"I don't know...."
She chucks a finger under my chin. "Exactly! Go and figure it out."
