Paula's Prompts: A Writer and Her Muse

On August 1, 2018, P.T. Wyant posted at ptwyant.com a Wednesday Words prompt involving medicine, a grumpy human, and an abandoned road.

This story was the result...

“You need your medicine.” A transparent hand gestured toward the bottle of pills sticking out from her backpack.”

“I’m going to need a lot more than that.” The writer glanced at the abandoned road, surrounded by trees. “What’s the point in bringing me out to the middle of nowhere? Or me bringing myself since you’re just a blasted figment of my imagination?”

“Quiet. Solitude. Moving out of your usual space.” The muse gave her writer a critical look up and down. “This is one place where you can’t hear all of the voices of your social media, distracting you from your stories.”

“Wonderful. Another one of your stupid plans to stimulate my non-existent creativity. You know, the only thing I had going for me was I around. Consistently.” The writer considered her muse, whom wore a willowy androgynous form with a cloudy skirt and tunic which billowed around her, making her more of a creature of air and wind than anything solid. 

Quite appropriate. 

“Trollish Tart will be ready to spew some poison about me to anyone who’ll listen.” She closed her hand into a fist. “He’ll tell anyone who’ll listen about how I cracked under pressure.” 

“Don’t crack.” Her muse shook her head in disapproval. “Don’t listen to Trollish Tart.”

“I’ll listen to whoever I feel like listening to, no matter how toxic they are!” The writer glared at her muse. “Who are you to tell me who I can talk to? You’re not real. You’re just the result of my pathetic attempt to spill my guts about how lousy my work really is.”

“Pathetic attempt or not, blasted figment or not, I’m on your side.” The muse slung her arm around her grumpy writer. “You understand this or else why would you listen to me? Why would you be here now?”

The writer leaned back, doing her best to pretend the imaginary arm was warm and comforting. 

When she didn’t have anyone on her side, she’d reach for anyone she could create. Figments of her imagination were still better than Trollish Tart. 

“Anything could happen on this road.” She glanced ahead at it, winding through the trees. “Perhaps a ghost has made this place her private haunt for centuries.”

The muse nodded, offering encouragment, while her author started plotting her next story.