Standing Alone

He wasn’t quite sure when the last time putting pen to paper had resulted in anything profitable. Smiling gratefully at his ever-patient partner, he sipped softly from the cup she’d given him. She had never seemed to mind his affair with the muses, had laughed longingly when they had seized him up and she could only watch as he danced.
Although now they had forsaken him, she stayed, caring beyond belief; always placing a drink in his hands before slipping off to work. The scalding liquid slipped down his throat as he tried to focus on what he was meant to be writing. He must’ve heard the door close behind her, she wasn’t here now.

He was alone.

There was a whisper just out his hearing, an echo of his mind. He turned quickly, surveying his small apartment; only a shadow across the wall, silent laughter hanging in the air.
Groaning he returned to his desk, staring dismally at the crumpled sheets of paper before him. Of all the things escaped out of Pandora’s box, he was sure, hope had been the most evil.

View this story's 1 comments.