Ruminations Among the Ruination

Robert Quick

Where the -@!# did my muse go?

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


The house was still half-built, half-destroyed. It had never been completed and for every few hours of work I put into repairing it, it seemed like something new broke, or nature won another victory. Yesterday, a long brick wall that lined the dining hall had been infested with ivy and crumbled into separate piles of rubble strung together like sad Christmas tinsel by twisting vines.

A couple of other travelers had passed through but they were gone now. They might return, I thought they would, but I didn't know when. By Halloween? By Thanksgiving? Before the great snows came? I wanted them to return but I had a hard time speaking up when they were here. It was hard being crazy and anti-social but craving company and help I would never accept. My fingers never betrayed me in the ways my mouth did.

I had grand visions of keeping this house alive. It had strong ancient bones and stories written into the complex stonework of its foundations.

Okay but how do your resuscitate a dead house?

Send out invitations?


Comments (3 so far!)

ethelthefrog

ethelthefrog

It feels very much like you are telling the ongoing story that began with Ficlets.

  • #1518 Posted 3 years ago
  • 0
ElshaHawk LoA

ElshaHawk LoA

Oh, he is.

  • #1528 Posted 3 years ago
  • 0
Robert Quick

Robert Quick

I like to think of it as a creative diary. I am cataloging it and thinking about it, while living it. It's also an invitation . . . as always.

  • #1530 Posted 3 years ago
  • 0

Inspired by (sequel to):

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  • Published 3 years ago.
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