I found Billiken, beaming along side of the street, joyfullly belonging wherever he sat. I nearly cried, it hurt so much, the loneliness and wild fearful imagination torturing me in his absence.
He smiled when I told him this. I stuttered.
“But I need you!” I shouted. “My writing cripples into a frozen state without you. I cannot write a single story without you, Billiken.”
His twinkly eyes laughed at me.
“You know how lucky you are? It’s a wonder a squirrel didn’t take you into his nest or a crow didn’t work on you for a snack.”
He only looked at me, amused.
“Tell me then, now that you returned home, tell me of your adventures. Share with me your stories. It’s the least you can do for all my suffering.”
My pleading with him profited nothing. He simply found himself another fanciful spot in which to gaze and enjoy the simple life.
I know I am supposed to learn a lesson in all of this but I refuse to.
However, now that my muse sits comfortly in my company again, it feels so good to have him home, I feel stories whirling about my head, swelling and growing to a heft, a sensual weight, to the point I must release them on the page, stitch them together into a book, and send them off into reader’s world. Yes, this is good. Very good. Oh yes, stories after stories brew and stir, alright.
I might even share small snippets here for you to read.