Short Little Stories

There she was. A vision born of dreams and memories, of auburn hair and pale green eyes. From whence she came the writer could not say, but caught upon the brink of the world of myth and magic, her visage was made known to him.

She hovered there, garbed in shades of gray, clad in fabric that seemed to draw the light – and sound, and sense, and solitude – in unto itself. Her piercing eyes rested upon him, and as she noted his gaze turn towards her, shock and surprise etched themselves across her features.

“How unexpected.” Her voice could be called a monotone, but in truth, it was pitched at the perfect harmony to sink into his mind, almost bypassing understanding entire.

The writer looked upon her, and struggled to find words within himself – but was torn between too many things. Questions to ask, pledges to make, invectives to hurl.

The vision smiled. “I know what you are wondering, mortal man. I ponder myself that you can see me, but perhaps too long have I lingered here, and a bit of my own nature has spread to you.”

“But!” he gasped, “Who are you?”

“Know you not?” She stepped in close, and lowered her lips to his ear, and spoke in a whisper. “I am the anti-muse, my little writer. I have come to take your dreams away.”