Muse

The boy sat in his room. Quiet. There was no sound outside. The moment seemed to stretch on forever. He understood that his creator had lost his muse. The words stopped after twenty pages, with a single period.

Just like this one.

The pen lay on the blank and brilliant sheet waiting for the next paragraph. His bike lay outside the house, its wheel stopped spinning months ago.

The writer walked by the pen and paper on his desk. ‘I can’t find you Marcus.’ He thought maybe saying the main character’s name would bring the story back to life. No avail. He walked away to make a cup of coffee and stare out the window at the birds and squirrels in his backyard. He caught his reflection in the glass. Long white hair fell in strands. Deepening furrows crossed his brow. I’m not too old. Yet.