The Gardener

“The thing about inspiration,” Simon said, “is that it is not a tame thing.  You can’t force it, it should pounce on you unexpectedly,”
“From outside?”  I was bored with his nonsense and this dire little bar.  I wanted to get home and write, but I was suffering a bad case of writer’s block
“Yeah,” his eyes drifted to a woman sitting nearby, shabby and reading a paperback.  “Yeah…”  She looked up and met his gaze.  Her eyes narrowed.
She strode across the room and slapped him hard across the face.
“For the last time,” she said, “I am not your muse!”
She stalked away.   I looked at the shocked expression on his face and at the blossoming painflower of red on his cheek.
Painflower I thought, A garden of painflowers raising their heads towards a dying sun.
“See you later,” I  told Simon, “I’m away home.”

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