Waiting for Inspiration

The willow's long rope branches swayed in the wind and caressed my head and neck. I sat on the bench under the tree, staring at the ground, waiting for inspiration, keeping my head down lest the branches whip my face. Perhaps it was a mistake to expect inspiration to pop out of the ground, it being the kind of thing that only sneaks up on you. I turned my face up, and the willow whipped it.

I walked down the winding path to the serpentine bridge across the river. The late afternoon sun glowed orange on the current's ripples. On the far shore, near the Japanese garden, a short bearded man in flowing white robes seemed to hover upon the water, but this was only a trick of distance, light, and karate.

Behind me, I heard a whir like a blender and felt a sharp blow to the back of my legs. I fell, and something bit me and tore a chunk out of my leg. Then it leaped on my chest, twenty pounds of brown fur, muscle, and teeth, stinking of rotten meat. I tried to grab it or poke its eyes.

"Taz hungry," it said and dove for my neck.

"Jesus," I called out, but the far shore was empty.