• “I was afraid to say anything to you because I thought you were writing” It was his muse who spoke. A colorful bundle of cloths and yarns twiddled her thumbs on the couch adjacent his.
    “Romance is a touch cliché, though far be it for me to judge you.” The silky voice seemed to echo within those pale lips, not quite moving. Each word stirred the air to caress him, a gesture as sensual as innocent.
    He gave no answer, resenting the thing as he did. Shadow to his adolescence, often she chased away sleep with insistent stories and poems. A restless thing that repeated herself until her thoughts were stained to paper. He never saw why she simply wouldn’t take the damn pen herself.
    “The girl he seeks is beautiful… that is your main fault. He seeks her for lustful reasons -- it’ll never do if you want for it to stand out. Mix in the ingredients no one expects to find, if you want an addicting heroine.”
    He scratched more words on the page, despite the typical blathering he was so accustomed to.
    “You should curve her description with softer words too, if you want her to show more alluring femininity. You’re cutting your sentences to jaggedly to have the right affect.” She needn’t move or see his paper for these critiques. Figments of the imagination seldom need to do such physical tasks. No blink shielded her still, porcelain eyes either. That may also have contributed to his loathing.
    “Wouldn’t it be interesting to kill off who the audience expects to be the protagonist early on, only to reveal a ‘secondary character’ as the main? It’s all about style you know, in the art of writing.” He gave a heavy sigh and turned over the splotchy sheet.
    “Not that I’m ordering you around here. You needn’t listen too me…. I just supposed you wanted to write well” the motionless lips finally took the contortion of a small, pale smile. It looked very strange on a creature of three dimensions that was still composed of little more than outlines. Only the various pink and orange fabrics that swaddled her seemed to have any depth to them.
    “You need yourself a more influential setting too… at least give it some dimension. There’s no depth in it. A proper stage is more than a balance beam.” Her intriguing voice grew trite when you knew her well enough. Finally he acknowledged her presence, rising from his seat.
    “And some contrast to your pro…. tag….” Her voice halted in the stale atmosphere as he approached. He placed two fingers below his muse’s chin, lifting her empty gaze to his face.
    “I no longer see the need for your services.”
    In a spiteful motion he ripped away the blankets and scarves to reveal an ivory body, distorted by lack of features. He unsheathed the tip of his ballpoint with a violent click and made for a quick stab where a heart may have been hidden. Lightning webbed over the eggshell surface until extremities shattered and the torso caved. Ink spurted upwards, painting him with the spiteful murder.
    Her head rolled to the wood floor with a hollow clatter, something like a dismounted clay vase. A boot of malice came down upon the remains, folding it like paper sheets.
    Without guilt he returned to his unfinished story, double-clicking his pen in preparation. As he began the scrawl of a new sentence no ink would discharge. Another pen wielded the same result and the following five and ten identical. Pencils, crayons, paint -- none would mark a paper for him.
    Finally the thought of pricking his finger seemed inevitable, but even that pool of blood proved futile in battle with his new conflict.
    ***
    The body was found covered in blood from the slit wrists, upward and efficient. All around the carcass were soiled papers, each of which contained THE INK written in various medias.

    “I was afraid to say anything to you because I thought you were writing” It was his muse who spoke. A colorful bundle of cloths and yarns twiddled her thumbs on the couch adjacent his. “…Is that truly how you see things?”