Baterie - Hand-made Collage

Most school boys dream of being football stars; not ten-year-old Clive Philby-Downes. He laid awake at night envisioning portable forms of electrical energy. His accordion-pump generator had been a success to an extent. However, the inept renditions of Lady of Spain required to power a flashlight irked his parents and halted further night-time experiments. All that changed one night while he paced back an forth in his bedroom trying to imagine charged electrical cells. A golden-haired beauty with a corona of light appeared to him. "Are you an angel?" he asked. "She smiled and laughed. "No, dear boy. I am the muse of Edison Park, New Jersey." The boy's heart leapt. "You are the ten percent inspiration that the great Mr. Edison speaks of." The apparition pursed her lips and closed her eyes as if overcome by a migraine. "Mind if I sit?," she asked pointing to Clive's desk chair. Seating herself, she pulled a cigarette from behind her ear and lit it on her crown of light. "Edison, doesn't appreciate me. I mean what sort of man demeans his fount of ideas and claims ninety percent of the credit for himself? He doesn't even do any of the heavy lifting. He pushes it all off onto the boys in the laboratory. Not that he'd ever share the spotlight ...which by the way was one of my ideas. I've had it with him. Whenever I ask to sit down and talk he says he's too busy. He is deliberately avoiding me," she sighed.

"So, what brings you here?" asked Clive. "I want to hit Tom where it hurts," she said with vehemence. "I don't understand," said the boy. The godess took a long drag from her cigarette. "Look, the old man has been trying to develop a portable power cell for some time. I'll be damned if I'll give him the idea without some long-overdue recogition and at least two week's paid vacation. He's driving the boys in the lab to the point of breaking." The boy scratched his head. "But how do I figure into all of this?" The deity leaned forward and patted the boy's head. "Excellent question Clive." She leaned back in her chair. "The other night after a particularly rough day with that tyrant, I met my friend Helena for a drink. After venting she suggested that I get back at the old man by giving the idea to you." The boy was stupified. "Don't look so surprised young man. Helena is your muse. She's been considering giving the idea to you for some time, but thought it might look suspicious, you being eleven years old and all." The boy slapped his thigh. "I knew it! I can feel the idea almost coming to me, but then it slips away." "Listen, Sweetheart," the embodied inspiration said, "You seem like a nice boy. Can you promise to give credit where credit is due?" The boy stood at attention. "Yes, M'am!" "And do you promise to do so for the rest of your life?" "You have my pledge." "In that case," she said, "here you go." And with the flick of her wrist the idea came to him. He looked up at her as she rose and started to recede into space. "I shall never forget you!" he called out. "You better not," were her last words as she faded into the night. "I'll be watching you."