Robert Quick

Where the -@!# did my muse go?

Writer, dreamer, knight, shackled by entertainment . . . and people.

Anthony fingered the thick woolen blanket that nearly suffocated him with stuffy heat. The fabric was rough, well-worn from use by his grandmother who had passed it down to his mother. Now it was his.

It was foolish to be wrapped in wool during the hottest part of a summer afternoon but here he was naked and sweating. Beneath the blanket the air was thick and choking, totally unfulfilling. But he endured, persevering like a diver or an astronaut in the deep. The thickness of the blanket didn't quite keep the sun out. There was a shadowed light inside with him. It was uncomfortable but it was his.

A single, wracking sob escaped him but he swallowed the rest. His eyed burned, hot with shame and impotency. Rubbing his face back and forth on the interior of the blanket, he wiped away the stinging wetness. A few more minutes, perhaps moments, and he would throw off the blanket and revel in the comparatively cool air. Everything was a matter of comparative sensations. Everything. Even an unwanted inheritance.


No prequels yet. Why not write one?

« Write a prequel


No sequels yet. Why not write one?

Write a sequel »

Comments (1 so far!)

ElshaHawk LoA

ElshaHawk LoA

As usual, huge descriptive scenes, plenty of questions, you went for a twist at the end, but I'm lost on the character's motivations. He seems to want to prove something, or hide, or be frustrated, or fight until he can emerge and throw the blanket away. I can't tell if he cherishes it, if he hates it, if he is sick and delusional, or if he is trying for some sort of spiritual awakening.

  • #1375 Posted 6 years ago
  • 0

Author's prompt text:

Mothered, Abby's Loneliness


This story's tags are

  • Published 6 years ago.
  • Story viewed 7 times and rated 0 times.

All stories on Ficlatté are licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 License. What does this mean?