He struggled to rise from his bed, his old bones grinding and popping. When he finally made it over to his computer with a steaming cup of coffee, his muse was already there, waiting. She flit around in his mind as they waited for the first blank page of the day.
He swallowed his morning pills with coffee. Blue pills for his heart, pink for blood pressure. The big white pill could wait. He couldn’t write on pain killers. His muse couldn’t reach him through the fog.
In his youth, they’d traveled the streets of London with Jack the Ripper, fallen in love together with Romeo and Juliet. Then she’d brought him through new stories, showed him new worlds, introduced him to new characters. That’s when he’d started writing. She’d stopped bringing him into stories years ago. Now, she waited to see where he would take her.
Her world had dimmed as he’d aged. Only the vibrant tales in his imagination kept her from fading entirely. Her world was almost dark now. She knew this would be his last story. When he died, she would go wherever muses went when their writers passed.
He painted a picture with his words, each sentence forming a masterpiece. Magnolia bushes scented crisp, cool morning air. This world he’d brought her to was different from all the rest. It was taller.
She’d always towered above the humans he wrote about. Here, people just like her walked wide, paved streets, raising a din as they went about their daily business. They weren’t the pink, peach and brown of humans either. They were blue, like her.
At the approach of a woman with features similar to her own, she felt a sense of peace, even as the thread to her writer thinned.
“Welcome Home,” the woman said.
To her writer, the muse whispered, “Thank you,” as the sun set on all stories except hers.