Sometimes I hear whispers of it in my dreams; dreams that I forget as soon as I wake up. It happened again today and I woke up wondering and feeling like I missed something very important. A muse forgotten. I was used to it though, that's the life of an artist; a writer. You think of something so brilliant, so inspiring, so unique and you think you're going to remember it—but later, either it sounds absolutely stupid or you forget it ever happened—very much like a dream.

"Good morning," Shen said. He entered through my apartment's back door, jingling the wind-charm that hung above it.

"Morning," I replied, busy with breakfast dishes.

Shen got comfortable in one of my beanbags in front of the balcony. It was his favorite spot, the summer wind breezed through the curtains in the morning and he would slouch further into the beanbag. I watched from the corner of my eye as he took out his little journal, eyes sparkling in excitement, browsing through the agenda for today.

Today was prompt day.

"Looking forward to writing, are we?" I called out from my bedroom. Wiping my hands on a towel, I retrieved my own journal and my laptop.

"Do you have a prompt ready?" Shen asked, hands squeezing his diary.

"Woah, woah—there's no hurry. It's only ten-thirty in the morning." I settled into a beanbag as well.

------

"Sirens? Like the ones in an ambulance?"

Shen and I had started on our prompt. Every few days when we're tired of math, science and computers, I help Shen improve on his English. Shen was Chinese, like his parents and although his conversational English was flawless, he wanted to learn how to write like a 'real author'.
You know, he said once, real authors who sign books and look old.
According to him I'm almost a real writer because he saw a white hair on my head once.

"No Shen, Sirens as in the mythological creatures. Like in the Greek Gods and Creatures book I lent you," I told him, watching him munch on the cookies his mom sent for me.

"Oh! I liked that book. It had lots of pictures." He was getting crumbs on his journal.

I pulled up a previously searched webpage on my laptop and showed it to Shen. We read out the history, background and a couple of small stories about the Sirens—how they lured in sailors by singing about what their hearts really desired.

"So, what we have to do is pretty simple, you write a poem or a song—whichever you like—but it should be about what a Siren would sing if it's singing to you." I wrote it down on Shen's journal in case he got confused. Kids, they have the attention span of a gold-fish.

"Won't it be like a death song? Because I'd die right after the Siren sings it to me," Shen said, looking down at my squiggly writing.

This kid was eleven-years-old for heaven's sake.

"Well then, make it a good one."

He grinned and set to work on it right away. I smiled at his brown mop of hair and turned to my journal.

Sigh

After a while, I gave up on trying to write anything. Shen raised his head.

"I feel like having wontons for lunch," he said, his eyebrows all scrunched up trying to look upset.

He came every two days, usually after lunch on a week-day but today was a Saturday. I looked forward to cooking with this munchkin during the weekends when we got tired of studying and teaching—and he'd take dessert back to his apartment a block away and share it with his mom.

"Your face looks like a wonton." I laughed at my own stupid joke while Shen attempted to hit me with his journal without damaging it.

"I'll get working on those wontons." I got up, putting my journal down in frustration. Nada. I had no inspiration to write. I'm supposed to be working on a novel but I can't even get a hundred words out for a prompt I came up for an eleven-year-old.

"What about your poem?" Shen looked up, his curious eyes lurking on my journal that was lying face-down on my beanbag.

"Do you want me to steam your face instead?" I asked, a bit annoyed this kid was getting out more words than me. Maybe I should hire him to write my novel.

Shen could tell I was annoyed but didn't want to push me further, he went back to his work.

Shen poked two holes in the wonton he was having, the filling oozed out.

"Look, it's me!" He held out his fork in front of my face, a plump wonton with two eyes. I giggled. That's what I liked about the kid, he could take a joke.

I broke my wonton in half and the filling fell splat on my plate.

"That's me." I was complaining to a kid.

"You're a mess?" He was quick to point out. I sighed again.

"I couldn't write an entry for the prompt today," I said, lazily moving the food around on my plate, "I just can't seem to focus. I think you'll need a new tutor soon."

"Why? I guess you are sort of bad at math—" he starts but I shoot him a glare, "Er, I mean that's what mom says but you're the best writer I know. Maybe a demon eats all your words before you can write them."

"The poor demon, he's going to be sick." I wasn't feeling very optimistic today.

It took a little time after lunch for Shen to finish his entry but he wouldn't let me see it.

"I've got to edit it, like a real writer," he had said.

"I'll help you with it," I had offered to help but he refused saying my demon would eat all his words too. That hurt a little. That's like saying my writer's block is contagious.

The world inside my apartment was a small one, but I had grown to love it. The windows were all strategically placed to let in as much sunlight as possible, the floor purposefully buffed roughly so I don't slip when I walk around in socks and the backdoor lead into the other side of the block where there was community of immigrants living in the apartments. Chinese, Iranian, Korean, Japanese, and some locals who married or lived with them. The backdoor lead straight into the busy street where people bought the groceries, came to look at the plant nursery some neighbours has planted and on the far end of the street, a line of food stalls that smelt like amazing in the summer nights.

It was pretty safe around here, often I would forget to lock the backdoor since the neighbours or Shen came in often from there. However tonight, I wish I had.

The days I couldn't write were very sad for me, I'd mope around—eating and browsing on my laptop or phone—never going out because that's purposefully getting away from what I'm supposed to be doing: writing. It was all very hypocritical because I would still not get any writing done at home.

That Saturday night I couldn't write either, sitting in my bed staring at the blank white screen of the laptop. It would blink after every ten minutes, always out-winning me at a staring contest. It was way beyond night now, it was the time when the entire world, besides me, would be asleep. The Witching Hour.

The sounds of the street had died out and my apartment was silent, so silent I could hear the clock ticking in the kitchen. It was a gift from a friendly Irani neighbour who lived on the top floor of the building I lived in. The clock was large and golden, outlined with a faded lustrous metal I didn't know the name of—I remember it being very heavy when I first hung it in the kitchen. Since it was really heavy, I never took it down when it stopped working a few weeks ago.

The clock had stopped working a few weeks ago....

Then why did I hear an eerie ticking coming from the kitchen?

It seemed like as soon as my brain registered the impossible ticking, another impossible sound came from outside my bedroom—someone had opened the backdoor. The click of the door wasn't very soft, as if the intruder was coming in like they would enter their own home. Familiar. Unguarded.

Keeping my deductions aside, I put the police on speed-dial but I decided to go out of bedroom to confirm it was indeed breaking and entering—well, finding the backdoor foolishly unlocked and entering.

I wasn't a violent person so the only weapon I had was nail filer that was lying on top of the side-table. Armed with it, I quietly approached the bedroom door, the mysterious ticking covering the sound of the soft scruffs my feet made. Whoever the intruder was, they were very inexperienced—I could hear the clumsy racket of them going through stuff on my living room table; the soft jingles of the cutlery stand, the metallic thud of the keys and the hushed flutter of the papers I had taken out of the printer earlier this evening—one after another, as if they didn't care I heard them.

Should I just call the police and lock my bedroom door? I had thought then. Good question. It would've been a logical decision.

But what's making that ticking sound?

I opened the bedroom door and flipped on the lights in the living room.

A tiny squeak and then a thud. The intruder fell flat on his ass.

Under the living room table, I crouched down and looked at Shen's small figure struggling to get up. He was in his pyjamas—black and white polka dots, looking ridiculous in the middle of the pale background of my apartment. In his hand was a tiny flashlight which was still on.

"You better explain yourself quick." I warned him. He gave me a sheepish smile before getting up and turning off the flashlight.

"I forgot my journal—and when I went to bed I couldn't sleep, I just had to fix my poem. So, I got up when mother and father had gone to sleep and looked for it. I must've put it in the kitchen when you gave me the chocolate and strawberry stuffed buns for home," Shen explained.

I was so engrossed in Shen's story I almost forgot about the ticking.

"Shh!" There was an urgency in my voice. I didn't realize I was secretly hoping for the ticking to be still there.
Shen quietened, his eyes moved to scan the apartment like mine.

Scribble, scribble—click, scribble, scribble—click, scribble...

The sound was crisp in the silence. I could clearly concentrate on it. It wasn't a clock ticking, the sound was like someone tapping a metallic surface with a nail, like the subtle tick of mouse, like someone was clicking a pen—and then writing.

"Is there...someone here?" Shen broke the tense silence. The lights were on bright but it felt like we were standing in the dark; unable to see, unprotected.

Putting a reassuring hand on Shen's shoulder, I moved towards the sound. It seemed to be coming from the balcony. The doors were slightly ajar, as they mostly were, linen curtains fluttering in the wind. I poked my head out of them.

There was something on the fire-escape stairs in the corner, I couldn't see past the plants and the laundry but I craned my neck until I could. A pencil. No hand.

"Shen," I called out softly, "I think I just found your journal."

It kept writing, everlasting lead in the mechanical pencil floating in the air, halfway through Shen's journal. Standing in the balcony, Shen and I had no idea what to make of the invisible force that was writing in Shen's journal. Every two seconds it stopped to click and pump out lead. Then it started again.

I couldn't make out what it was writing in the pale shine of the moon but it was definitely English. A lot of English.

"Is this a dream?" Shen asked, standing next to me in fuzzy slippers.

"Could be a nightmare." I offered.

"Then maybe it's the demon that eats your words," he whispered. This time he didn't say it like a nonchalant guess. An underlying fear. A question.

Scribble, scribble—click, scribble, scribble—click, scribble...

I couldn't help but feel mesmerized by the pencil. Soft and subtle, getting words out swiftly—an art. Slowly, my feet moved to the fire escape stairs. The pencil didn't falter. I moved closer. Shen stayed behind.

An owl hooted overhead. Strange, never any owls in the city.

"No way..." Shen exclaimed softly, probably seeing an owl for the first time. I was really interested in what the pencil was writing. Rows and rows of perfectly punctuated words, appropriate paragraph breaks, exceptional grammar, my story characters, engaging dialogue---

My story characters?

"What kind of bird is that?" Shen asked.

"Not now Shen, it's writing my story! My novel! The exact way I want to write it. This is amazing." I was so close I could almost touch it.

"There's so many of them." I could almost imagine his round face looking up in wonder. The fact was, there was an invisible force writing me my novel out on the fire escape of my apartment and Shen was more interested in bird-watching. I guess eleven-year-olds don't have their priorities straight.

I looked up on to the railing of the balcony above us, the hooting had started to sound like an acapella group harmonizing.

There were owls packed on to the railing and more rustling on the fire escape stairs that were leading up. In the middle of the flock...was a pixie.

"That is offensive. I am no such thing," It spoke to us. Voice like the last note of fading song. Humming. Harmonious.

It looked very feminine but in a very childish way. Instead of hair, there were small and smooth feathers growing on its head, stopping just under its chin. The same kind of feathers covered its thorax and upper abdomen, like fur dress. The face was an oblong oval, skin covered in freckles from head to toe, small brown dots or maybe they were peach; I couldn't tell in the moonlight. Eyes like an owl. Watching. Knowing. The wings were a whole other sight, pink and brown like a rare pigeon's. Some of the feathers were patterned, some weren't, the wings were twice the size of the creature's body which was as big as elf.

"Who...what?" I blurted. Shen for once stood paralyzed behind me. Not a squeak out of him.

The small winged creature threw their head back and laughed, though it sounded more like a melody.

"This is my favorite part," it almost sang and the owls around it rustled and took flight. At least twenty of them flew overhead, making the plants in my balcony sway in the wind. The creature stood up, flapped its wings once.

Next to me, the pencil stopped writing, going limp. The journal levitated mid-air for a second before flying into the hands of the creature.

"Some call us the Sirens of the mind, I think that's pretty cool. But you can call me Miyu. Short for Muse." It rose into the air.

"Give me back my journal!" Shen finally managed to get a word out. He stood his ground, eyes intent.

"Come and get it," Miyu said, her voice a song. Rising up, she headed for the roof.

That's my story she had and I couldn't just let her take it from my mind and fly away. Quite literally.

"The fire escape stairs! Quick!" I told Shen. We both sprinted upstairs.

The owls were close behind Miyu, she glided upward towards the roof. Five floors later, out of breath—specially Shen—we were on the roof.

"She's getting away. What are you going to do?" Shen asked between breaths, we had broken into a run. Two figures on the roof, running after something that defied existence, except in our minds. The pale moon hung low in the sky.

Miyu looked back at me, she knew what I was thinking. After all, she was in my mind. And if I could concentrate hard enough, I could be in hers. Miyu didn't like that.

"I'm going to chase after my Muse."

And the quest began.

Up in the stormy skies and seas in your mind, live the Sirens. In your dreams they lure you in with the idea that your painting, poem, story, song, script is going to be completed in ease.

Then they steal it.

Ever wondered why you get stuck in an art block or writer's block? It's your very own Miyu, flying away with your brilliant idea.

Now go and get it before she disappears with it forever.