Where are you

Robert Quick

Where the -@!# did my muse go?

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


Wind hammered the windows and made the shutters crack against the outside of Kevin's house. Bent over a chair near the fireplace, he listened to the sounds and imagined some great beast being hunted by enthusiastic men, courageous and true. Yesterday rain had poured down as if God had gathered every drop of water and cast them back at the earth all at once. Today there was little more than a light mist, gray and gauzy, that curtained the air between ground and sky.

The fire was dying and still his friends hadn't returned. Where had they gone? Surely he hadn't chased all of them away. They were supposed to be here. Perhaps time had crossed that threshold where even a little was too much. He didn't begrudge them for that, not most of them. He'd been there himself. Locked in a dark room with nothing except a voice telling him to end it. Through the large windows overlooking the beach, he saw peaked waves nibble at the shore in small bites. It wouldn't be long until it was gone. If no one came, he'd be gone too.


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Comments (1 so far!)

ElshaHawk LoA

ElshaHawk LoA

The sentence about time and threshold and a little being too much threw me because I was like 'too much what?' It took me four sentences more to figure it out.

He had chased them away? He's more of a monster than that storm? I doubt it. Not if the water is going to kill him, too.

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