He was doing nothing. By that, he meant that he was playing a computer game. The television was on. Picard. A cat slept on the desk to his right.
His wife was in the recliner to his left, on her computer, playing a game, too, but also voicing disapproval about the television show’s plot.
Suddenly, they were there, more substantial than ghosts, surrounding him. Two seated their asses on the desk on either side of his laptop.
He looked at them. They crossed their arms and smiled. “What’s this about you’re not going to write for a few days?” one said, classic New York accent.
His muses. He wasn’t surprised. “I thought I’d take a few days off.”
The muses laughed. “Why? Stories are waiting. You’re eager to write them.”
“I’m a little tired.”
All laughed again. “Aw, he’s tired,” one behind him said in mocking sympathy.
“So?” the muse on the right asked.
“That’s okay,” another muse said behind him. “Let him go. If he doesn’t want to write, that’s his choice.”
He nodded. “That’s right. Just for few days. My eyes are tired. I feel like I need a break, you know?”
Muses leaned in. They began whispering scenes. He paused his game and watched television.
Or tried. Eager and resigned, he opened a new file.
He’d just write a little. See where it went.
The muses nodded. “That’s the spirit.”
Was it too late for coffee?
Michael Seidel, writer 