The Muse

At first he didn't mind the muse. In fact, he was downright pleased. Gradually, he became aware of how they were always whispering together, down in her study. He gritted his teeth, brushing the floating strands of the muse's hair away from his breakfast plate. In the end, there was only one option.

He stared from the bloody mess, knife raised again. "You!" he cried. "I killed you!"

"Yes," sighed the muse. "Without any imagination. Still, you have energy. I can work with this. But no one ever made Art killing just one person."

That was the way it began...