Monday, April 2, 2012

MMWUC: A Musing Tit Bit


Some day my muse is with me, sitting naked on my lap, feeding me sweet nectar from an IV tube tied to the well of free-flowing dreams dreamt and remembered. Other days, my muse takes a break and heads out to I-40, sticks out a well-sculptured leg that would make Angelina Jolie drool with envy. My muse heads to Spivey's Corners and inspires some awe-inspiring whistling. Then, she gets lost. Can't find her way home, distracted by all manner of people in need of direction, inspiration, and idleness-made-incredible. The last four days she's been recovering from a trip, slowly feeding me from the deep well. Today, pay dirt; "Next Spring," she says, "the final product will blow readers away." Keep tuned. I may be whistling for joy.
- - -
Aaron Anderson returned. After seven years, thirty-two days, and some odd hours, the dead man wandered through the back door of the house he had once owned into the kitchen, poured a cup of coffee, and sat down on a chair he milled years ago at the small, round wooden table he'd created with his own hands in the shed outback. Jenny, his daughter, didn't go into hysterics, faint, or approach him. Without looking away from his worn face covered with stubble, she picked up her cell phone and dialed 911. "Aaron Anderson is in my kitchen. Please come." She stayed on the line with the cops as instructed. His lean and long fingers embraced the steaming cup. Without a coat, she figured he must be cold, coming inside from the morning's nip. Aaron Anderson carried the stench of death. His shirt was many sizes too large. His pants hung low, barely on. He parted his lips as if to speak to give life to this apparition. Seconds like minutes; minutes like hours, she waited. Her jumble of emotions couldn't settle. She beat back any pretense that she was glad to see him, but here he was. His steady gaze dropped from her to the cup. After a sip, his eyes shifted in the direction of an approaching siren.

He looked her in the eye once more then slid a key across the table to her, "I'm sorry." He folded his arms on the table and lay his head in them. Aaron Anderson died once more.
- - -
So what's your muse up to lately?

1 comment:

Guilie said...

Haha--"heads to the I-40"--love it. There's no I-40 here, nor any other major highway. I'm on an island that can be driven around in under 2 hours (if the roads were any better, it might be 40 min). But, still, my muse has flown. I have some serious revision to do and cannot for the life of me find the gumption to write even the first line of a new, very necessary, chapter. How to lure back the muse? Hard work and discipline, I know--they seem to respect us more for that. Well... Maybe today.