Clio woke to the musical chimes of her doorbell. When it didn't stop after ten minutes, she got up. Carefully, she picked her way to her robe and thew it on. Her to-be-read pile had suffered another avalanche, spilling books everywhere.
She reached the front door by ring number fifty-two. He was a poet, an no older than nineteen. Even his leather jacket was 'artisanaly distressed.' It had no history.
"Sing, oh muse—" He began. She raised a forestalling hand.
"Not before mamma's had her coffee." The Muse of History slammed the door in his face.
YOU ARE READING
Everyday DrabblesShort Story
A drabble is a very short story one hundred words long. No more, no less. They are designed for maximum impact in the least amount of space. For 2019, I'll be posting a drabble every day.