Abasement

Robert Quick

Where the -@!# did my muse go?

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


Although the night was clear and cloud free, the streets were dark. A summer wind brought a refreshing coolness off the ocean and I stopped my midnight wanderings to lean against a building, letting the air wash over me. It was sweeter than expected, almost perfumed, and I shivered as it whispered along the bare skin of my shoulders, tousling my hair, and caressed my face.

“Bearer.” It beckoned.

Enchanted, I stumbled after it.

Two streets and an alleyway later, I found myself in small forgotten plaza, where a statue of a woman watched over a pack of stone dogs arrayed in attendance before her. One hand carried a basket filled with books and a bottle of wine. Though she had the color and coarse texture of granite, she was beautiful. Her features were not like those favored by the locals. She was slimmer in hip and bust and where they looked rogue-ish and sultry, the sculptor had somehow captured the fire of curiosity in her eyes.

I threw myself at her feet. "What would you have me do?"

"Remember me."


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Comments (1 so far!)

ElshaHawk LoA

ElshaHawk LoA

Interesting. I want to see how this impacts his day to day, then what he has to do to 'remember' her, for I foresee something public.

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