Four-armed is Forewarned
Brown Jenkin part ten
Brown Jenkin crept silently down the seven hundred stairs to the bottom. He could be really, really quiet when he wanted to, and this was one of those occasions.
It wouldn’t do to create any commotion. Not yet, at least.
Night-gaunts didn’t hear him coming. The Gugs didn’t feel the stairs vibrating. Jenkin stepped onto the grassy sward unmolested, the sun glinting off the silver key he wore around his neck.
He carried a small bag in his right hand. In it were several cans of sardines and a package of steaks.
These were his offerings.
This satisfying story starts with a question that every successful scribbler of fiction has been asked—and then pushes us straight into the terrible Void where one writer’s answer resides.
“Where do you get your ideas from?”
The question came from somewhere out in the audience. Sam squinted but couldn’t see past the stage lights. A bead of sweat tickled his hairline and threatened to roll down his face, smearing his pancake makeup. Those lights were so hot. He struggled with a feeling of irritation and pushed it down, then smiled.
“My ideas? I have a muse trapped in my closet.”
Cue laughter, next question.