Sam got out of the car when he saw the old man walk out onto the lawn. Though they were fitted, Sam wasn’t used to the new clothes, or maybe nerves convinced him his hands weren’t busy enough. He checked his pockets three or four times before the old man saw him. Sam smiled and was unsure if it was appropriate to hide his smile or not. The stern look on the old man’s face assured him it would be best to do away with the smile and shake hands. The old man looked at Sam’s hand for a reasonable second before shaking it. Two large men were carrying a large dresser out of the old man’s front door.
“What’s going on?” Sam asked. “Are you guys moving? I thought you loved this place.”
“Actually, we’re starting renovations on the house this weekend.”
“Looks like you’re moving a lot of stuff.”
“We’re doing the whole house, practically.”
“Nice!” Sam was unsure if he was feigning interest or not. “So Paul is going to get a bigger room?”
“Paul won’t be living with us anymore.”
“He’s moving out, heading to college.”
“College? Wow! That is excellent news. I can’t believe my little brother is headed out to college. I bet he’s super smart too. He was always the genius of the family.”
I certainly hope that you, the reader, would find it in your heart to forgive me for making you wait so long in between releasing stories. You see, I’ve run into what we in the trade like to refer to as writer’s block. It’s a concept that I’m sure you’re all too aware of. Even as I commit these words to the page I haven’t the foggiest notion how to tug on that proverbial narrative thread. But to make up for my long absence, I present to you, to the best of my recollection, what has occurred during my unannounced hiatus as I battled writer’s block. What follows after this paragraph is based on true events (mostly).
Poised at my desk with my wrists elevated over the delicate keys of my aged Underwood, the ideas were all but flowing. I looked behind me at the open door to my office and called for Muse. I would not be so presumptuous as to call her mine, but she had seemed to favor me lately. Perhaps I was hers. She doesn’t have a true name so one day I referred to her simply as Muse, a moniker she seemed to find amusing. This particular day her fickle heart brought her—Well, I had no idea where she was. I still don’t. This would not be a problem if I wasn’t so near to the end of a story and was in dire need of her inspiration.