See You Next Time

Robert Quick

Where the -@!# did my muse go?

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

I awoke with a start to noise from downstairs: a series of thumps punctuated by broken glass, as if someone had tipped out the contents of my liquor cabinet.

Throwing on my camisole, I slipped through my bedroom door and crept among the darkness of the upper landing, unsure of what I'd find. I'd been alone for so long but I'd kept lights burning and signs posted. Maybe someone had misinterpreted all of that. Somehow.

Another crash made me jump. This time it was followed by snorting and snarling and spitting that made me think of a wounded animal. Yet the noises carried the cadence of language but I understood none.

Whoever was down there was still here. Breaking things. My things. Anger flared consuming fear as fuel. While I considered this house my own, I was also its custodian in case the others ever returned. A thought struck me. This wasn't one of them. Surely not. It couldn't be. Why would they come back to destroy our collective home?

One thing was damn sure--I wasn't going to leave without a fight.


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