I tap my fingers, slow and rhythmic, against the empty page of my notebook.
I watched my hand move my pencil backwards and up, line after line. Each letter traced over with the lead tip vanished from the page until I found myself here. My hand is unoccupied. My HB pencil evaporated into a thin mist scattering on the air currents. The ticking clock echoes in the silence, an auditory nudge towards my deadline; two things that won’t dissipate. The timeline for creative my ideas approaches. The clock’s voice is a continuous reminder of the disappearance of my muse.
By Shari Marshall – 2022
Written in response to Carrot Ranch Literary Community 99 word story challenge.