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He
stood before her, a sometimes highwayman and a muse of calamity,
demanding that she write.
“Sorry,”
she replied. “My imagination is on the clothesline next to my green
wrap.”
He
pointed his pistol between her eyes and arched one elegant eyebrow.
“You
will do as I say.”
She
sighed and pushed the pistol away.
“Nice
pistol,” she said. She noticed the cursive script on the pistol
barrel.
“It
that 'May' engraved on it? Who's May?”
She
felt a little miffed that he would have someone else's name engraved
on his pistol.
“May
is not a who. It is a month. I have a dozen pistols, one for each
month of the year.”
She
looked at him blankly.
“What
on earth for? Isn't one pistol enough for you to spring into action
on some unsuspecting writer or artist?”
“No,
not when that unsuspecting writer or artist is you. I need all the
help I can get. You have been my most difficult assignment to date.”
“Well,
here's a deal for you. How about you give up on me and go back to
your other assignments?”
He
dropped the pistol to his side, his face troubled.
“I
have no other assignments anymore.”
“Why
not? Surely I'm nothing but an appetizer in the world of creativity.”
He
grasped her right hand as he went down on bended knee.
“Dear
nothing, you are everything to me. You have a touching quality of
light and love, yet exude true grit. Let me be the base from which
you can fill the world with the wonderfulness of your extraordinary
mind. Marry me!”
She
felt herself begin to sway and slide to the floor. Oh, fun. Now she
was going to faint. But that was OK. It's not every day your muse
proposes to you.
Inspired by a prompt from Jill Badonsky in The Muse Is IN Writing Club.
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