This story and painting, were created for a Writer friend who had just lost his very best friend; his gorgeous dog, Boo. I couldn't do anything to help but I knew how devastated he was and this was a little something I could do. The painting is now his.
He felt a hot breath on his neck.
Just a small, pale whisper. Enough to make him raise his hand and feel for damp. There was none. He turned around and saw space. Empty space. Not of things but empty of Life.
There had always been Life following him around. Even when his own felt tenuous and strained. When life strained at the leash and pulled him along into the dark and the unexpected.
Life held onto him when he needed it to and kept him warm when he was cold.
Now Life was gone and he felt empty and lost. Un-tethered. His daily programme smashed into little soulless pieces. He walked with Life, sat with Life, watched TV with Life. Now Life was gone and it was wrong. All wrong.
The desk looked up at him. “Go on,” it seemed to say “lean on me, tap me, put paper on me and write on me. Use me. Come on. Come on.”
He threw his pen down. Picked it up. Threw it down again. Sighed.
The breath was back. A warm tickle.
He turned quickly this time. Tried to beat sound or light.
|The Muse Tracey Edges 2012|
The pen was back in his hand. Silver and heavy. Slippery with his perspiration. Hand was wiped on trouser leg. Then pen. Pad was angled and he began.
Not knowing. What? Who? When? Where? Why?
The words came out from the end of the silver shaft.... drip.... drip.... drip.... Then faster. A flow. A release.
Three hours. Five thousand words. Good words. Great words. Hand ached. Head didn’t. The throbbing had stopped. He smiled for the first time.
The Muse lolled his tongue and was happy. He breathed the connection.
He was his Master’s Voice.