His Muse Novels & Stories

My lips traced her spine. I whispered against her skin. “I have found my muse.” She smiled. I felt it in the way her body relaxed against me. I looked at the other women. They were watching. Their eyes wide. Their bodies ready. “Come here,” I said. “All of you. Join us.” The audition was over because I had found my muse. And the real creation had just begun.

It's good to hit Misha, it just makes me feel heavier. I walked out of the museum and put my suitcase in the van. Reed is also distancing himself from me, that's probably part of his moving on so it's okay. I went inside and put the headphones on my ears to listen to the music. I closed my eyes tightly because of the song that was playing. My playlist is just random. Fuck! Is this song hopeful? Crashing, hitting a wall Right now I need a miracle Hurry up now, I need a miracle Stranded, reaching out

"Alone?" "Yeah." Miles gave me a lopsided smile. "I need a new muse for my next collection." Collection? "I'm sorry. What?" "I'm starting a couple of paintings. Gonna sell the pieces next year. If I finish all of 'em on schedule." "And you want me to...pose for your paintings?" Me? His new muse? "Sure. You said you need a modeling gig." He snickered. "No full-on nudity, if you're uncomfortable with that."

Declan was a famous pianist, and as opposed to others who like to use dance and other to fit in, he only liked to play solo. Because he was proud and arrogant. He felt that no one could dance perfectly to the rhythm of his piano. People had tried to before but he felt nothing watching them dance. But now the girl in this video was perfect. Inspiration swirled in his mind. He got more motivation to perform. He watched the video more,suddenly wanting to know her. And then realization flooded into his mind,he immediately rushed out. He was going to find her! To ask her to be his muse!

“All five of you are my muses.” They stared. Then they laughed. Then they cried. Then they kissed me. All at once. The exhibition would not have one muse. It would have five. And the canvases would be filled.

“It was the closest I could feel like I was giving up on life completely. I’d given up. I just…could never step out. I don’t know why. Maybe it was the Moon Goddess or the connection to my fated. It had me by the chokehold and I just gave up in my life without actually dying. Which, looking at it now while wearing new clothes, having access to food, a bed, everything, was probably a worse way to continue.” Turning from the pages, I continued to walk through the museum. Taking my time at the things that interested me as I felt Kirk’s fire get doused like I poured cold water on him. A Rembrandt sketch caught my eye next and I stopped. “Why here? Why a museum?” Kirk stood next to me this time.

“You weren’t tired. You were angry. Angry because I asked to go home. Angry because I didn’t stand beside you at that gallery like some proud little prize.” His jaw worked but he didn’t answer. Her voice cracked slightly, but she pushed forward. “I feel like I’m just the Muse. Not the woman. Do you even see me outside your canvas?” Something inside him snapped at her words. His pride reared higher, pressing back the softer truth clawing at him. “Of course I see you,” he shot back. “Everywhere. In everything. You’re in every brushstroke, every line...”

“I just… I can’t seem to get it right. I can’t concentrate.” She looked at him, surprised. “Concentrate? Are you kidding me? You literally designed everything in the Monalisa collection.” His gaze dropped again. “I tried. But I just… I can’t. Everything feels so far from my reach.” He sighed. “I just can’t reach my muse.” Monica shuddered. “Why does it feel like you’re talking about me?” He didn’t respond right away. His silence hung heavy in the room, more telling than anything he could’ve said.

“That’s not, it’s not like that. He’s just…” “Your muse,” Cássia finished, wiggling her eyebrows. “Yes!” I seized on the word as if it were a lifeline. “Exactly. He’s my muse. That’s all. The hero in my book needed something, and now he has it. Crooked grin, sarcastic hero energy. Inspiration. Nothing more.” Cássia leaned back, sipping from a mug I was ninety percent sure wasn’t coffee. “So let me get this straight. He saves you, brings you chocolate-worthy inspiration, makes you write like wildfire again, and you’re telling me it’s not personal?”

"Ugh, disgusting fools! You and your daughter have held me back long enough! Do you know how hard it is for me to find a muse? I—" "Muse, my foot!" Mom suddenly started lashing out. "Henry, you're just a loser who got lucky. You have zero creative talent, and you're weak, spineless, and irresponsible. I don't believe for even a second that someone like you could paint anything that matters in the slightest. Trash like you have no right to be talking about muses!" "...What?" Dad was dumbfounded. After all, for as long as he could remember, Mom had always admired him. She had never voiced her true thoughts like this before.