Brock Santangelo was a writer. His destiny was to be a writer. His name, after all, was Brock Santangelo, and that name has writer written all over it! But he’d been unable to scratch even a single paragraph for almost three months.
In desperation, Brock joined the On-Line Writers Guild to get prompts.
Nothing.
He enrolled in a creative writing class at Shelbyville Community College.
Nothing, again.
He went to the neighbouring city of Clayton to visit the airport, and eavesdrop.
Still nothing.
Brock knew that his muse, Mirta, loved water. He tried with a full kitchen sink for three days, and finally, he went to Scarscastle Gorge and waited along the banks.
After two days, he got hungry and left, but all was not in vain – he met Michelle there.
He and Michelle discussed his long dry spell.
“You know, Brock,” she recounted with her whisky dry voice, “In ’85 after I published ‘Abeng,’ it was two years before I got my next book, ‘No Telephone to Heaven,’ to the publisher. I don’t think you have anything to worry about, but if you are worried, you might look for another muse. Try a desert muse or a muse from the green. I can take you to the Afèith, in Evergreen County, or there is a Zawn in Dorado County where the waves smash against the cliffs with wild abandon. That’s a wonderful spot. Your muse might be in either of those places, you know.”
Brock and Michelle stared into one another’s eyes and considered their options. When she spoke again, Michelle ploughed ahead, “Or you might enjoy listening to the whispering trees. You have some in your garden, I think.
The two clasped hands and moved slowly to Brock’s house, nestled below the foothills on the east edge of town.
Brock pointed Michelle to the gate and he slipped into the house. He grabbed two glasses and a bottle of red. There was no cheese in the house, but there was a soft, rustic loaf of bread. He took that as well.
The two writers sat in the grass beneath the old Sycamore and listened.
tnkerr-Writing Prompts and Practice 