Words of a Broken Muse

Words of a Broken Muse

A breeze pushed against Quintin’s cheek as he sat with his eyes closed. He readjusted his coat, pulling it tighter around himself. Even wrapped in layers, the mountain chill wormed through the thick fabric. It settled deep into his muscles—relentless and unyielding. A reminder of the pressure building inside him.

Opening his eyes, Quintin glanced at the empty space next to him. Dim evening light lit the empty rock. His late grandfather Ryan had often sat there. Most evenings, like this one, they would bring their easels to the mountain and paint together. When they had emptied their creativity onto the paper, they would meditate on the stone. The silence and comfort of each other’s company had been a welcome respite from the rigors of adulthood.

And now there was only silence—not shared, but hollow.

His vision blurred as he began to cry. He blinked, but the tears kept coming.

Groaning, Quintin wiped the tears from his eyes. His nose picked up the scent of paint. He glanced down at his hands. Splotches of brown and green paint covered the majority of his fingers. He was too tired to care that he had smeared paint across his face. Besides, no one could see him. And if anyone could, they wouldn't recognize the artist or person he used to be.

His thoughts drifted to the studio—cluttered, cold in its own way. Without his grandfather’s income, he had struggled to sell paintings. No matter how much effort he had put into his work, no one had shown interest. Most of his sketches lay crumpled on the floor—every one a rejected design from his clients. The canvas stayed blank. What they wanted was not something he could give.

The mess had grown so thick that the only clear path was between his aisle and bed. Grandfather Ryan's works also hung on the walls, both finished and unfinished. Living there felt like living in a mortuary, except that every facet of his soul was pinned to the walls.

After the funeral, he had stayed away from this spot, the grief a palpable barrier between him and his art. Inspiration and creativity had departed from him, and grief had hounded him. He had tried to paint, but only sadness came.

Without new work, Quintin had sold nothing. His livelihood was unraveling while he watched, helpless. His rent was due at the end of the week. Paying rent depended on being successful at the gala.

He promised his landlord, Fjord Gellan, that he would sell enough work to pay for the rent. But he had nothing to bring except for the scrap paper on the floor. The exhibition was tomorrow.

If he left this mountain without an idea, all that awaited him was his paint and empty paper. Hardly a substitute for the recognition he craved.

And so he had returned to the only place that had offered inspiration.

His fate was set. He would either leave the mountain with a masterpiece—or the inspiration. Or he would…

Perhaps… Quintin glanced at the edge of the cliff, a thought forming unbidden: what if I… let go? There, he wouldn’t have to face his disappointed friends and his landlord. The dead don’t worry about art. Down there, there’d be no deadlines or expectations.

Don't go there. He scolded himself with a lack of conviction. Focus. Breathe. He tried to let the cold air anchor him, as Grandpa Ryan had taught him. But it only made him feel more exposed. Still, he kept breathing at a slow pace, trying to find stillness.

His heart raced as he continued the exercise. Cold sweat gathered along his scalp, running down his neck. The wind pressed against him again, drying the sweat but leaving a chill that sank into his bones. It was insistent, a voice that he couldn’t silence.

He formed the mental image of a calm meadow, of lying in a field of lush grass, the sun warm on his face. A place untouched by cold or trouble. A place where his mind could unwind and find inspiration again.

But even here, something was wrong.

Clouds loomed around the sun. The grass rustled. A distant wind blew. It was the same wind he felt on the mountain. He recognized it dimly—faint, familiar, unwelcome—but continued breathing. Behind the low hum of the wind, an ominous presence lurked, like a hidden thought in the shadows.

His heart slowed over time, thoughts thinning to breath and bone.

He let his consciousness drift across the mountainside. Moved by the wind, it flowed through the trees below him, searching for answers. The muses, Grandpa Ryan claimed, lived in the trees. They whispered their secrets so softly that even a breath or a stray thought would chase them away. Artists who mastered the art of stillness could hear them.

The wind brushed their vast canopy below. The faint bray of mountain goats mingled beneath the wind’s low, unbroken hum.

He listened to the trees, hoping the muses would speak to him.

Quintin focused his attention inward, taking deep breaths. As his mind stilled, he opened his heart to the muses, revealing the question that troubled his soul.

What should I paint?

Minutes passed, then hours.

Nothing.

The meadow darkened. Within his head, the clouds overhead formed into the face of landlord Gellan. The man's smile sharpened as the heavens rumbled, his eyes glittering like cold stars. Sudden wind whipped the grass into a frenzy, a sea of flailing blades. The thing that had been hiding surged toward him, incorporeal, black as shadow.

Quintin’s eyes shot open, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

I have nothing. Hot tears blurred his vision.

Without a masterpiece, his future as an artist seemed destined to falter. And his landlord Gellan would spread knowledge of Quintin’s inability to fulfill his promises. Benefactors and curators would lose interest in taking him on as a client.

Big dreams. Small reality.

“This isn’t working.” Quintin stood up, his legs tingling as blood began to flow through them. “Nothing! After a whole month of brainstorming, I have come up with nothing!”

He massaged his temples. This stress had been eating him alive for months. Even before meeting Gellan, the anxiety of creating a piece for the art gala had been gnawing at him. Many talented, rich curators would be there with bulging coin purses. If he could not find someone to buy his work, then he could at least network. But even that felt impossible.

Brooding, he sat down on his favorite large rock. It overlooked the valley. Below him, the forest spread like an emerald surf, rushing with a soft leafy current. The wind was colder here, as if he had stepped into an icy pool.

Something about that spot was different from what he remembered, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

“No more art… no more failure," he whispered, a tear rolling down his cheek. If he couldn’t find inspiration within himself, then maybe it was time to leave. To join Grandfather Ryan in the afterlife. At least he would be among the greats—those who had pursued perfection until it broke them.

“Quin?" an old voice asked. Familiar. “Is that you?”

Quintin’s breath caught. That voice… Something about that voice registered in his memory. But…

This can't be…

He hadn’t heard footsteps. No crunch of gravel.

Just the voice.

“Grandpa?” Fresh tears sprang to his eyes as he turned around, stepping away from the cliff edge.

Grandpa Ryan stood there, smiling as he always had. “It is so good to see you. More than words could describe," his brow furrowed as he took in his grandson's expression. "What's wrong, my dear boy? You look like hell."

Something about this interaction felt… off to Quintin. The cold, the silence, his grandfather's sudden appearance. But Quintin didn’t want to question it. Not yet.

“Sorry, Grandpa. Things have been difficult since—” he cut himself off, running a hand through his hair.

Trying not to meet his grandfather’s eyes, Quintin folded his arms, looking at the trees lit by the amber of evening. Was he daydreaming? Hallucinating? He had to be dreaming.

“Since I died?” his grandpa asked, his tone quiet.

Quintin looked at him, his face ashen. Could he tell his grandfather what he had almost done? He folded his arms, trying to soothe his nerves.

"Have you not been doing well?" Grandpa Ryan finally broke the silence, attempting to smile.

"I can't do it," Quintin muttered. "Not having you, not having anyone—" His voice choked, tears collecting in his eyes. "I will be homeless by the end of the week if I don't sell any artwork."

“You know, this cliff,” Grandpa Ryan stepped past Quintin, gesturing to the valley below. “This cliff has seen many artists come and go. Some find peace in their careers. Others… didn't."

Quintin flinched.

“It’s true,” the old man said as he walked away from the cliff and sat down on the ground. He gestured to the place next to him, indicating for Quintin to sit. “Several of my closest friends… went right off the edge in the spirit of mania. Didn’t find what they wanted. For my sake, please do not jump.”

Quintin settled down on the ground beside Grandpa Ryan, a cold shiver running down his spine. Just the cold, he told himself. He didn’t answer the question. But it clung to him, deeper than the wind.

“Have you been trying to listen to the muses?” Grandpa asked.

Quintin nodded. “Yes. So far, all I’ve felt is a cold shoulder,” he quirked a smile. His shoulder was cold, he thought.

Grandpa chuckled. “Oh, yes. The muses can be like that. Aloof. Shy. Mysterious. They don’t shout, you know? All they can do is whisper. Inspiration is most effective when you have to strain to hear it.”

Quintin looked at the trees in the distance. This did sound like his grandfather, but in his heart of hearts, he knew that Grandpa Ryan had been long gone. Still, the words of the shade rang true. And it was comforting to sit by something that was close to being his grandfather.

“Anyway,” Grandpa Ryan said, continuing. “I remember when they told me what to paint. It took hours of sitting on this cold rock to get an answer out of them,” his eyes turned sad. “They told me to draw how I see emotions. Now, I thought them crazy; to render what I couldn't see, only felt?”

Quintin blinked. “Did you do it?”

Grandpa Ryan was silent for several long moments. After a long pause, he spoke. “It was a very frustrating process. I believed they had set me on a wild goose chase. Quite impossible, I told myself. My expectations weren’t realistic. I realize that now, after a couple of months of introspection,” he glanced at the cliff edge. His voice gained a sad touch. “I am sorry for leaving you the way I did. Because of how I was feeling, the world seemed like a horribly lonely place. It was here that I abandoned hope and…"

He stopped talking, tears choking his voice.

Quintin didn’t speak. Words wouldn’t come. The weight of his grandpa's apology settled over him like the mountain breeze—light, but like ice.

He wanted to reach out, to offer comfort to his grandpa, but his hands stayed in his lap. He wasn’t sure if they would touch anything real.

“I miss you,” he whispered.

Grandpa Ryan nodded, wiping his eyes. “Me too, son. I robbed you of the time we should have had. And I lost the chance to do the work that was mine to finish.”

For several moments, they sat in silence, listening to the wind rustle the vast canopy below.

“You know,” Grandpa said at last, his voice steadier. “I think that you have asked the wrong question.”

Frowning, Quintin turned to him. “What do you mean?”

“You keep asking what to paint. But maybe you should ask how to feel.”

“I don’t understand.”

Grandpa swept his hand toward the forested valley below. “What you’re trying to capture is solid. But every artist worth their paint does that. But the muses: they live in motion. In memory. In breath.”

He looked at Quintin, eyes tender. “What if your painting captured something immaterial—like the wind, perhaps. What if your paints could capture everything the wind could do from your canvas?”

Quintin didn’t respond immediately, watching the forest below him. The wind flowed through the trees. It rippled the leaves and branches, bending them in slow waves.

Inside him, something shifted. Not a thought. Not a solution.

Just a breath. A whisper.

He closed his eyes, imagining a canvas.

Not blank, but waiting.

Not demanding, but listening.

What would the wind look like if it could live on paper?

Then he saw it: a smear of silver. A burst of ochre—a line that never quite settled. His mind raced as colors began to fill the canvas, a picture appearing.