Evenin' all,

Just a short vignette here to say 'hi' to everyone an' introduce my Muses. Heh. Subreality Cafe mailing list -- how could a metafic-mad bloke like me pass up this one?

Disclaimerette -- Ieuan and Bronywn belong to me. Unfortunately.

Another crash of thunder rolled in the skies above the Subreality Cafe, temporarily drowning out the conversations within. It was Muse night at the cafe and some Writer had given in to the cliche and made it the darkest and stormiest night the cafe had seen in a long while -- even going so far as to add a small leak in the roof that would occasionally dump a sluice of cold water on an un-suspecting patron. Several Muses had threatened revenge for that.

As the rumble died away the door slammed open and let another gust of wind and rain into the cafe, followed by two people who stumbled through the doorway, caught by the wind. Despite the rain that had drenched them both they were busy arguing even as the second one slammed the door shut again.

"And what's wrong with a bit of poetic simile every now and then?! It's got to be better than the endless drinking, hard-man-in-a-pub routine YOU keep forcing him to churn out all the time!" The first was a young woman with long black curly hair -- now completely soaked with rain -- who was struggling out of her leather jacket even as she spoke.

The second -- a heavily-built man with close-shaved hair and a red rugby shirt on -- seemed oblivious to the rain-water streaming down his face, and headed straight for the bar. "You what? At least I'm givin' 'im decent stories to write! Stuff about real people doin' real things! None of that deep-an'-meanin'ful-explanation-of-the-bloody-human-soul drivel YOU shove down his throat all the time!"

"Ieuan, it's a story! It's SUPPOSED to have a point! What's the point in writing something if you aren't trying to get a message across?!" She pulled off the raincoat and hung it up on the coat-rack, leaving it to drip water over the floor.

"How about just gettin' a decent tale out fer once?" he replied, moving across to the bar where he leaned his rain-sodden forearms on the counter. "You remember them? Proper adventure tales? Boys Own adventures, Ernest Hemmingway, Isaac Asimov? None of that artsy-poetry stuff."

She sat down next to him, wringing the last of the water out of her hair and flicking it over him."If that's the way he wants to write stories then why is he reading Lewis Carroll all the time? Tell me THAT, huh?" The Bartender stood in front of them, waiting for an order.

"Yeah, an' that was your fault an' all," Ieuan muttered. "Gettin' 'im to read all that bloody Gaiman stuff 'stead of leavin' 'im to me to get some good old British tales out into Subreality."

"Excuse me," the Bartender said, trying to get their attention.

"'Good old British tales'? What, full of testosterone and beer, you mean? What was your next idea then? Something about a boxing club, I'll bet."

"Excuse me," the Bartender repeated.

"Well...yeah, actually," he replied, taken aback. "But there's more to it than that. There's history, an' friendship, an'...oh I dunno. *Real* people. Non of this 'anthropomorphic personification of dreams' stuff where everything's an allegory to everything else. Who the hell wants to read about that?"

"Excuse me!"

"A hell of a lot of people, actually," she replied. "Look at how well the Sandman stuff was received."

"Hah, little-Muse-Bronwyn's private success. Just 'cause you managed to sneak that one past me..."

"Erm, do either of you want..." the Bartender tried again. Two Muses bickering in Welsh accents was *really* not something he needed tonight.

"*Sneaked" past you? Hey, listen, you stupid gorilla," she prodded him in the shoulder, unfortunately hurting her finger more than she hurt him. "Calliope assigned us *both* to this Writer. I've got as much right to get tales out of him as you!"

"HEY! Do you two want a drink or not!?"

The two Muses paused mid-argument and turned to look at the Bartender, whose patient smile was wearing very thin.

"Uh, yeah. I'll 'ave a pint of Directors, cheers. Bronwyn?" Ieuan turned to the dark-haired woman.

"Guiness, please," she replied in a far more polite tone of voice, and then leaned over to whisper in the Bartender's ear. "You couldn't stick a sedative of some sort in his, could you?"

"I 'eard that," Ieuan rumbled.