Short Little Stories

The writer stared at the blank page in disgust. The words, they would not come. The stories were there, tales waiting to be told… but the words, they would not come. How to tell them seemed an insurmountable task, and the longer it went without his visions making their way to the page… the weaker the stories grew in his mind, till they faded away entire.

It had been like this for days. Hopeless, adrift, an artist bereft of his craft. Coffee and biscuits his only sustenance. Half hour periods spent failing to write, followed by brisk walks through the chill winter air. More coffee, more lack of writing, more walking. His days settled into pattern and lethargy, and nothing more.

Weeks passed, and again he finds himself here. At the table, pen in hand. Notebook – a new one, he kept buying new ones in search of one that he could write in. But… no words. Just despair, a feeling that, perhaps, his time has come and gone. What worth a writer who will not write?

He turns and casts his gaze into a small hand-mirror that rested upon his desk. His features, hollow and weak, stare back at him.

A motion in the mirror catches his eye. Drained from lack of sleep and emotion, he drifts half between the waking world and the world of lore… and she is revealed to him.

It is now that he sees her, and knows where his inspiration has gone.