The problem, Guinevere found, was deciding whether she was in a game or whether she was the game.
That’s the problem.
But then what about her status as a muse?
Hadn’t she posed for a set of photographs?
Those are the questions.
Who was the artist who would make her as permanent a fixture in history as any muse before?
What is art?
Are the men who bombed a marketplace considered artists?
What about the huge explosion in West, Texas? Is that art?
Were the designers of the atomic bomb that flattened Hiroshima artists?
Is surburban sprawl art?
A mud puddle covered with a sheen of oil has artistic lines, does it not, even if the oil will kill the bird soaked to death in oil’s gooey grip.
Guinevere looked up at the Martian sky once more.
She checked her internal calendar, verifying that the 4th of May was not that far off.
Why did she keep comparing her days on Mars to an Earth-based calendar?
Hadn’t she left all that behind?
Decades ago, by Earth standards.
Guinevere kicked one boot against another and leapt into the air, arching over the outpost, heading out to a hillside, a secluded place of meditation, a luxury that she shared with a few, a xeriscaped garden of peace and quiet, away from the hustle and bustle of the colony.
What does it take to be a muse these days?