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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Fantasy  |  House: The Imaginarium
short story for akumakaze;s prompt in imaginarium

Submitted: January 14, 2019

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Submitted: January 14, 2019



Writers are weird crazy people. I’m sorry, I call it like I see it. There is no point in lying to yourself or others, we, are, weird. We have strange brains. We turn our fevered vivid imaginings into words that hopefully infect other people with our madness. When someone reads our work and says stuff like “you bastard I couldn’t put it down.”, we grin with evil glee.

Utter mad geniuses I tell you. When you combine that with the almost schizophrenic nature of holding several different people in your head, all with differing goals and emotions, well let’s just say not all of us are stable.

You see, I’ve always felt not just an urge to write, but the necessity of it. As in, if I don’t, that will be the thing that will drive me over the edge and into a white jacket with the stylish extra-long sleeves. If it happens, at least I will get to stay in a comfy padded room, but for now I’ll keep writing and hold that off as long as possible. For me writing is a compulsion, an obsession, which sometimes rewards you. You look down at what was a blank page now full of words that have ignited a fire in your imagination, with your mouth open thinking I wrote that?!

That’s where I am right now. In my hot room, looking down on a page and wondering exactly where did the mad genius come from? And then I felt it. A touch of cool air reminiscent of the stroking fingers of a lover across the back of my neck.

One thought blazes across my mind. Wonda.

You see I think that maybe I made a mistake. I’m not sure if every writer does it or just me, but I might have just personified my imaginary muse. It wasn’t on purpose, it just kinda happened. In ancient Greece there were eight muses, and I always imagined Wonda was the ninth. The one who left because of creative differences before they got famous. Whose method of inspiration isn’t the calm and gentle guidance of her sisters. The holding of soft hands and saying reassuring words like, “I’m here for you,” Or “You can do this, I believe in you.” Yeah, that ain’t Wonda’s style. She will arrive on the back of a motorbike in a squeal of tires, reveal her bright silver mohawk and proceed to pummel your brain with ideas using her spiked biker gloves until something sticks.

But here’s the thing. Even though she’s a ball-busting, domineering bitch, she is still sexy as hell. And those ideas that stick? They are the ones where you look at the page and marvel at what you wrote. It’s at those moments I feel close to Wonda…and the thought that crosses my mind is…maybe she feels the same?

Do I do it? Do I have the courage to turn around and see? What will I find? She’s not like her sisters, you have to be worthy, and somewhat crazy to see her, I know this. A succubus, not an angel. I swallow hard, preparing to push back my chair and turn around.

I pratfall on my face, lacking the manual dexterity to simply push a chair away. Maybe for a split second I saw something, or that could simply have been the concussion talking.

Oh well, maybe next time I’ll see her.

© Copyright 2019 Julian St Aubyn Green. All rights reserved.

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