AUGUST AFFAIRS

by Dean F. Wilson

I don't like August. It's one of those months that is too warm, too stuffy, too close to the end of summer (and the holidays), and always the month when my Muse packs up and cycles off into the sunset, cooling the lava of my inspiration, leaving it cracked and dormant. This year, however, was different - but not in a good way.  

After the novelty of novel-less days had passed, I became almost ragingly restless, and languishing in my wordless despair was simply not an option I was prepared to tolerate again. So, I hired a private investigator to help me track down my missing Muse, but for a long time it seemed that I was just handing fliers to the wind and pasting posters on lampposts only dogs paid attention to. But, like all things this year, I was in for a surprise.  

On the 16th of the month I got a strange phone call from a strange voice at a strange hour, whispering tales of my Muse being spotted in Las Vegas, in all the casinos, bars, and hotels from one end to the other. This anonymous person did not say much, but it was enough to tempt my intrigue and get it flowing again.  

I took an early flight on the 17th and arrived late the following evening. Jetlag was another of my enemies, but I tried to forget him. With the first droning signs of a headache I wandered the neon streets with the neon walls and the neon sky. I looked for signs of my Muse at every turn, quizzing the onlookers who watched as this crazed fool sought out an all too fleeting friend.  

I found him soon afterwards in a fancy restaurant, but it wasn't as I expected - as I passed through the entrance, I was greeted with a shocking scene: August, my Muse, had gone off with another writer! That cheating lowlife, I knew he was up to no good. Every year he'd come back with ink blots on his collar and crunched up paper in his coat pockets, not showing this other writer's phone number, no – it was worse; it showed story ideas, character profiles, plot layouts, the lot!  

I burst through those doors and back outside like the bullet I wanted to fire at him, my fists clenched as tightly as my teeth. Red rage volcanoed in my face and the people nearby backed away, as if I were a scarlet Frankenstein. It took me so long to regain my normal senses that I did not realise someone had followed me out.  

I felt a hand upon my shoulder, followed by a gentle voice: "Hello there," it said, soft like that phantom phone call. "I saw what happened back there, and I guess I'm in a spot of bother over it too. You see, I'm September, the appointed Muse of the other writer. Since I don't believe she needs me anymore, I think I'm free to pursue other relationships. Well, honey - what do you think?"  

Volcanoes never get this option. They have to explode – this month or the next. Luckily enough a writer follows the same calendar as everyone and everything else, and after one month has gone, the next one has to follow. I don't really like August. I much prefer September instead.

Dean F. Wilson lives in Dublin, Ireland, where he is currently a student of Audio Visual Media. In his spare time, he writes poetry, short stories, and novels of various genres. His work has appeared in Haruah Magazine and The Sword Review. He is currently editing his first novel, a fantasy entitled "Protos Mythos: Dawn of the Dark Age", for release in 2008 or 2009. For more details, see: www.deanfwilson.com - Contact Dean.