Arielle

Arielle

I lost my muse today. Arielle took flight to land in someone else’s ear, but before she left, she whispered in mine, “You no longer need me.” For the life of me, I couldn’t understand, as I watched her flutter away. Part of me wanted to follow her on gossamer wings, ride a dragonfly and fight spiders with a sword made from an extinct insect’s stinger, as I’d helped a character of mine do before.

“Come back,” I called. “We’ve got crimes to solve, worlds to save, kisses to invent.”

My hand grabbed at air, not thin at all, but dense with the heaviness of nothing. Did I think I could catch her and hold her gently in my palm? For what? To covet her, watch her whirl with excitement and twitter as she spun tales for me to write?

Who did I think I was? She was not mine to have and hold, or watch twirl on the pedestal I’d built. Yes, it was fun when she giggled as I woke. My muse danced in rhythms, sang to me in tongues I did not comprehend, and introduced me to colors I’d never seen.

At times, she thumped me on the head. “Write the words. The message will follow. The space between is where the magic lives.”

Last night, just past the witching hour, as I lay in my husband’s arms, I said to her, “I’ve lost my capacity to think. A sieve has replaced my brain, and words are falling through the holes.”