My hands tremble slightly as I lay them down on the hard plastic keys before me. I hate this, hate this moment as I sit expectantly, waiting, praying for a thought to occur, for inspiration to strike, for my muse to speak.
That's all it takes, just a single thought, an idea, something different, something interesting. Unique, no that's not required, just something rare, something beyond the ordinary, beyond the routine.
But what if nothing comes, ah what then indeed? For as with every creative endevour, writing if a fickle thing, inspiration found in the most unlikely of places, and lost at the most inopportune moments.
A month can be barren, devoid of any spark, any event to awaken a story, yet a day can present enough opportunities to fuel a week, a month, a year, a lifetime of writing. And a lifetime is what it feels it would take to capture the vision I saw today, the path of the story so bright before me it dazzles my view and shades its secrets in light.
So where to start? Her perhaps, the way she moved, swaying as if to an inaudible beat intended for her alone, her every motion capturing the gaze of all those around her, whether in desire or envy they were all helpless to turn away.
A beauty, certainly, red hair flowing down her back like wine, spilling over shoulders and reaching her hips, a living curtain to hide the bare skin beneath, ending shy of the black clinging fabric by barely an inch, leaving her entire back exposed to her waist.
The fabric itself, clinging to her hips, her thighs, her everything as if it were aware that it itself was receiving jealous glances from those around it, the black night of the cloth a backdrop to the endless star field glimmering deep within it.
But despite it all, despite her staggering beauty and near-mythical poise it was something else that caught the eye and trapped the heart. She seemed to glow with confidence, a slight smile curling her lips as she walked by, a control so utter and absolute that it seemed impossible to wish for anything more than to be subjugated by it.
Yet as captivating as she is, beauty alone does not give birth to inspiration but is merely the first splash of paint on canvas. But watching her move, walk through the crowded tube carriage like a goddess amongst the damned as the damned parted before her was like an addiction.
The rustle of that fabric as she slid into the seat beside left shivers racing through the spine, a hint, a tantalizing taster of some subtle, spicy perfume teased the senses, a tease that was inflamed at the soft, gentle touch of her fiery mane against bare forearm as the tube lurched into motion.
The dim fluorescent lights of the station drifted past, then in an instant were replaced by utter darkness as the tunnel closed in. The roar of air past the carriage, the squeal of wheels on track seemed impossibly loud and totally at odds with the serene tranquility that sat beside me.
Perched on the seat my hands had already been hanging by my sides and a bolt of lightning passed through my fingertips and on to every last nerve in my body as something soft pressed back into them.
Fearing that looking directly would cause the touch to evaporate a stolen glance in the reflections of the opposite window show the truth. Her legs tucked under her, her shoe dangling down from her ankle, the sole pressed against waiting fingertips.
The almost overwhelming urge rising, roaring for release, for control. The temptation overwhelming, the consequence, even unknown as they are, surely worth the risk. Fingers twitching, eager to touch, to taste, to feel the creamy flesh writhe beneath them.
Darkness! Sudden and complete as the train looses power for a moment. The reaction instinctive, nails diving and digging in, body tilting towards her as the scent, her scent, washes up and embraces me. For long moments I revel in this, in her, in the feel of her sole dancing and twisting at my direction. And then as the lights flicker and come back on, as I wrench back upright it happens.
A single moment of inspiration, pure and undiluted. A single note of clarity in the last moment of darkness as the sound of a single giggle escapes her lips. A tone that reverberates in my mind, my heart and my soul.
The tube pulls into the next station, my station, and I reluctantly walk away from this vision of ticklish perfection. A last lingering look of her scent seems to ensnare me and I crane my neck for a last look at her through the window. A last look that is rewarded by a secretive smile and a lightning fast wink.
At that moment my mind explodes, images of her racing before my eyes like wildfire. Images of her tied down, helpless, hysterical as I play her like the finest harp. Or perhaps better still the image of her towering over me and my helpless form, her surely talented fingers hovering over ribs or soles like the sword of Damocles.
Even standing there, on the now-deserted underground station my fingers twitch. First with the remembrance of those perfect soles, then shifting to the thoughts of keyboards and tales.
I've found my muse.
That's all it takes, just a single thought, an idea, something different, something interesting. Unique, no that's not required, just something rare, something beyond the ordinary, beyond the routine.
But what if nothing comes, ah what then indeed? For as with every creative endevour, writing if a fickle thing, inspiration found in the most unlikely of places, and lost at the most inopportune moments.
A month can be barren, devoid of any spark, any event to awaken a story, yet a day can present enough opportunities to fuel a week, a month, a year, a lifetime of writing. And a lifetime is what it feels it would take to capture the vision I saw today, the path of the story so bright before me it dazzles my view and shades its secrets in light.
So where to start? Her perhaps, the way she moved, swaying as if to an inaudible beat intended for her alone, her every motion capturing the gaze of all those around her, whether in desire or envy they were all helpless to turn away.
A beauty, certainly, red hair flowing down her back like wine, spilling over shoulders and reaching her hips, a living curtain to hide the bare skin beneath, ending shy of the black clinging fabric by barely an inch, leaving her entire back exposed to her waist.
The fabric itself, clinging to her hips, her thighs, her everything as if it were aware that it itself was receiving jealous glances from those around it, the black night of the cloth a backdrop to the endless star field glimmering deep within it.
But despite it all, despite her staggering beauty and near-mythical poise it was something else that caught the eye and trapped the heart. She seemed to glow with confidence, a slight smile curling her lips as she walked by, a control so utter and absolute that it seemed impossible to wish for anything more than to be subjugated by it.
Yet as captivating as she is, beauty alone does not give birth to inspiration but is merely the first splash of paint on canvas. But watching her move, walk through the crowded tube carriage like a goddess amongst the damned as the damned parted before her was like an addiction.
The rustle of that fabric as she slid into the seat beside left shivers racing through the spine, a hint, a tantalizing taster of some subtle, spicy perfume teased the senses, a tease that was inflamed at the soft, gentle touch of her fiery mane against bare forearm as the tube lurched into motion.
The dim fluorescent lights of the station drifted past, then in an instant were replaced by utter darkness as the tunnel closed in. The roar of air past the carriage, the squeal of wheels on track seemed impossibly loud and totally at odds with the serene tranquility that sat beside me.
Perched on the seat my hands had already been hanging by my sides and a bolt of lightning passed through my fingertips and on to every last nerve in my body as something soft pressed back into them.
Fearing that looking directly would cause the touch to evaporate a stolen glance in the reflections of the opposite window show the truth. Her legs tucked under her, her shoe dangling down from her ankle, the sole pressed against waiting fingertips.
The almost overwhelming urge rising, roaring for release, for control. The temptation overwhelming, the consequence, even unknown as they are, surely worth the risk. Fingers twitching, eager to touch, to taste, to feel the creamy flesh writhe beneath them.
Darkness! Sudden and complete as the train looses power for a moment. The reaction instinctive, nails diving and digging in, body tilting towards her as the scent, her scent, washes up and embraces me. For long moments I revel in this, in her, in the feel of her sole dancing and twisting at my direction. And then as the lights flicker and come back on, as I wrench back upright it happens.
A single moment of inspiration, pure and undiluted. A single note of clarity in the last moment of darkness as the sound of a single giggle escapes her lips. A tone that reverberates in my mind, my heart and my soul.
The tube pulls into the next station, my station, and I reluctantly walk away from this vision of ticklish perfection. A last lingering look of her scent seems to ensnare me and I crane my neck for a last look at her through the window. A last look that is rewarded by a secretive smile and a lightning fast wink.
At that moment my mind explodes, images of her racing before my eyes like wildfire. Images of her tied down, helpless, hysterical as I play her like the finest harp. Or perhaps better still the image of her towering over me and my helpless form, her surely talented fingers hovering over ribs or soles like the sword of Damocles.
Even standing there, on the now-deserted underground station my fingers twitch. First with the remembrance of those perfect soles, then shifting to the thoughts of keyboards and tales.
I've found my muse.
