She’s right there beside me, watching me struggle, dangling the words like strawberries, or honey running down the comb. I reach to take them into my hands, then they fade to nothing.
She gives me dreams of pushing the stone of Sisyphus.
They surround my head, and I reach up to take them, but they dart and dance like dragonflies.
“Let me have them.”
‘Say please.’ Her laughter is muffled, soft, like we’re separated only by a thick wall we can still hear through.
‘Take them from me. Tell me what I’m thinking you should write.’
“Can I get a hint?”
‘No.’ Again the laughter, and the silence became one not just of amusement, but complacency.
I smiled. “I have an idea…”
That startled her. “But I–”
“It didn’t come from you…” I pointed to the mirror she had her back to, “It came from her.”
She was visibly shaken. “Th-th-that’s impossible!”
“Apparently not. She’s the spitting image of you, and she wants to take your place.”
“NO!” My elusive muse watched in horror as her reflection gave a feral smile and take and reached for her, then bolted for the door, but it was locked.
Panic-stricken, she turned to see her own arm come out of the glass….