by Connor Greenaway
He put the pen down, defeated. He couldn’t get the words right. No. He always had the words right, he just struggled to get them out.
They were all there, those beautiful, perfect words swimming around in the soup of his consciousness, caged inside his skull, an unjust prison.
She was watching him, always silently watching, judging.
Help me, please, he breathed wordlessly to her, my beautiful muse I’ve always needed you.
She was always there to inspire him, she never failed. Dead eyes gleamed lifelessly inside her rotting face as he kissed her, enraptured.
Work your magic, baby girl.
Connor Greenaway is 25 years old, from South London. He works as an IT engineer and submits dark short fiction to obscure publishers in his spare time. He has recently appeared in anthologies by Gypsum Sound Tales, Tales from the Moonlit Path and Bloody Ribbons.