English Short Story

I figure I may as well post my short story too. Have fun with it.


Robin hurried across the busy intersection, attempting to not be too late for a lunch meeting that started a few minutes ago. He ran a hand worriedly through his messy black hair, thinking of the people he was about to meet with. He was a swirl of anxiety and energy, his slim frame skilfully navigating through the swirl of people moving in a hundred different directions.

Then he saw Her, casually strolling on the pavement a ways from him, seemingly undisturbed by the surrounding people. They paid no attention to her either, though they maintained a distance, strange on the crowded sidewalk.

He always saw her from the corner of his eyes. Never when he expected it. A moment, crossing the street, seeing her lithe figure in the crowded sidewalk. When he turned towards her she was gone, lost in the sea of faces. His mystery woman, his muse in the midnight hours when he painted the face that haunted his dreams. Impossibly deep violet eyes framed by flowing white blond hair, pale translucent skin made slightly less ephemeral by the sprinkling of freckles across her nose.

He couldn’t remember a time when he didn’t know her, but they had never spoken, never met in the mundane sense. His muse, he called her, this mysterious, fey beauty his shadow companion in life. Robin was ever haunted by her. Relationships failed, opportunities passed without a glance. He painted, trying to capture this woman with his paints. Somehow he knew this would call her to him finally, compel her reveal herself to him.

That night in his studio loft he painted her as she has appeared to him that morning, so wild among the city people. He entered the trance state he always went into when he painted her. He only surfaced that morning, when the dawn sun shone through his windows. Blearily he came back to earth. She was there on the canvas in front of him. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder and he turned to see her, offering him a smile. Too tired to react he watched as she reached out to touch the paining of her. She shivered as she made a contact with the canvas like energy was coursing through her, like she was on the sweetest high. She moved closer to the painting and seemed to merge into her painted form. Robin stared in confusion for a moment before collapsing to the floor in a pile of exhausted limbs.


Robin woke that afternoon, lying uncomfortably on the hard floor. Glancing blearily at his watch he say that it was late afternoon. He couldn’t remember why he was there until he looked up at the easel he was curled below and saw another painting of his muse. Struggling to get upright his hand brushed the painting briefly, sending a feeling like the forest in a storm, wild fey energy. He saw her watching him and heard someone whispering Airlia.

Later that afternoon he was still brooding. He had made coffee and sat on his chair in front of the easel. The blackouts were getting worse. Looking at the painting he murmured the name he had heard, Airlia. He didn’t know why he had been gifted with her name finally. Things felt as if they were coming to a head. He felt trapped.

And then he sensed a presence behind him. Hopefully he whispered ‘Airlia?’
The voice that replied sounded like storm winds and lilting birdsong. ‘A name has power. Be careful who hears mine, my love.’
‘I’m yours as ever, my muse. Whatever you wish.’ Robin says. A thrill goes up his spine at finally voicing this to her, the object of his longing for so long.
‘Thank you. I’m sorry for what I have to do to you. Your mind, your paintings . . . they give me form again, they stop me fading away. They stop me going to the dark place. I’m sorry, I love you. I do.’ Airlia rambled.
Robin nodded. ‘I know.’ He replied.

He stood and turned to face her, seeing her for a moment only before she faded away. He called her name for the rest of the night, like a lost child.


It was days till he saw her next the agony of waiting, wondering if she would appear again. His paintings were flat and empty. Then one night as he was staring at the black canvas she appeared with the smell of the forest clinging to her. He stole a glance at her and saw tears silently running down her face. Her smooth hangs tugged him up and she him turned around to her and then her lips were on his and she tasted like tears and honeysuckles and she broke away to whisper again how sorry she was.

He painted. Airlia watched herself formed with tears running down her cheeks, making her green eyes brighter and her mouth red from kisses and blond hair tangled. As he painted Robin felt himself going into it and it was beautiful, his muse. His everything.

When he was done he collapsed gratefully onto the floor, thoughts gone and heartbeat faint. She looked down at him and kissed him for the final time and knew what she had to do.

She found a candle and lit it watching the flame burn bright. The studio loft, covered in countless paintings of her feeling like a shattered mirror.

Robin woke to find her standing above him, holding a candle as if praying. He understood immediately. ‘No!’ he screamed, ‘Please! Give that to me . . .now!’

The look in her eyes said everything. I love you. I’m sorry. I have to. Silently she moved the candle to the last painting. Silently they watched the red-hot flames hungrily devour the paintings.

Silently he watched his world burn.