Inked on Paper

Once upon a time in the land of writer’s block, I found myself searching for the elusive muse that had once been my reliable companion. My pen, now a mere prop, gets more use being twirled between my fingers than as a writing instrument. Now, unable to put anything on paper, I’ve resorted to hanging out at the local coffee shop, hoping the aroma of roasted beans will brew up some inspiration.

Enter Presley Abrams.

With hair the color of a brilliant sunset and tattoos that tell stories of their own, she is a living canvas of intrigue. Her gray eyes, sharp as a writer’s wit, and a smile that could melt the iciest of creative droughts, captivate me instantly. In her presence, my scattered thoughts begin to coalesce, and the words begin to flow once more.

But Presley is no ordinary muse. She is a riddle wrapped in an enigma, a challenge wrapped in a mystery. Thanks to her, my ability to put words on paper is no longer the issue, but now I find myself trying to answer the burning question: 

Does happily ever after only exist in fiction?