The Writer's Muse

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Scattered around his chair was a blanket of worded paper sheets. His eyes were sill wide as he scooped them off the floor and stacked them into a neat pile. Then he sighed. What he couldn’t do for weeks, he did within a day. And that was not normal…Especially when one doesn’t remember doing it.

‘I’m definitely dining in hell’ he thought as he methodically ate his reheated frozen dinner. Somewhere he was satisfied with his work, but when he reconsidered if it really was his, Raoul could feel a strange fear creeping. And that’s how he slept through the night, his worries manifesting as the wildest of dreams he’d ever had.

Next day, his muse was there again. She had braided her hair; some strands hung from the imprisonment and she trudged around in a long plaid blue shirt. But like always her face was something he couldn’t call concrete and that made it all the more reason to wait till she showed her straight face.

‘So carefree and…real’ he mouthed as he began his writing for the day. Cups of coffee willed him to stay awake to find out the mystery behind yesterday. But he dozed off again, waking to a similar sight.    

When the morning arrived Raoul draped a cloth over his typewriter, fixed his tie and locked his door. He was finally going to meet his source of inspiration. ‘Tonight I shall dine in heaven’ he thought as he pictured the hearty meal they’d have together and the talks they’d share as artists over glasses of wine.

Dreaming forth, he rang the bell and waited.

‘Come in!’ she called as if she knew exactly who was at her doorstep. Raoul smiled wide counting the possibility that she’d been watching him too. He turned the knob and a draft of cold musty air hit him unexpectedly. The inside was barely lit, a candle or two at every compartment of the tiny room. He could make out a figure against the orange glow, slowly approaching but his mind was wandering restlessly. She was what made him come here but now the frustration was not that he still couldn’t see her.

‘Can I help you, sir?’ she asked meekly her blue eyes judging his expensive clothing.

Raoul couldn’t reply. His eyes darted everywhere. It registered the easel and the smell of paint. What it couldn’t register was the fact that no matter how much he searched, he couldn’t find the window where it was meant to be. 

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