Unfinished Muse by R.L. Naquin Page B

bobbing head.
    We turned again at the corner, walked past
two houses, and stopped at a brown and blue house with a detached
garage. Audrey held up the paper and squinted at the numbers above
the front door. “This is it.” She marched up the front steps and
took my arm. “Hold your breath.”
    I didn’t have time to do anything. She
yanked me through the front door before I had a chance to inhale. I
couldn’t have breathed if I’d wanted to.
    My head spun and my stomach lurched. I’d
walked through a door. A door .
    Of course, I hadn’t thought it through
first. Walking through walls and doors was how it would have to
happen. We couldn’t exactly ring the doorbell and wait to be let
in.
    A soft scuffling came from another room, and
we followed the sound. A woman not much older than I was sat on the
floor in front of a small wooden table. Paints, brushes, and
newspaper lay scattered around her, untouched.
    The look of despondency on her face didn’t
alter when we entered the room. Up until that point, despite having
been pulled through a solid door, I hadn’t really believed people
couldn’t see me. Being invisible isn’t exactly something a person
should take on faith.
    “Okay. Let’s get to work.” Audrey unhooked a
bottle from her belt and unscrewed the top. “This is your most
important tool. Everything else is meant to make things easier for
you. But if you don’t have this, you can’t do your job.” The cap
came off with a plastic stick attached inside. At the bottom of the
stick was a loop.
    My eyes widened. “Are those soap
bubbles?”
    “These are Transmutational Thought
Transference Bubbles. We just call them Thought Bubbles.” She
dunked the wand in the solution, pursed her lips, then blew a
stream of bubbles in the direction of our would-be artist.
    Some of the bubbles went wild and floated
away. Others popped before they reached her. One bounced off her
shoulder, and another smacked her right between the eyes before it
splattered in a rainbow. I winced, but she didn’t react.
    Audrey drew closer to her target, and her
voice was soft and musical. “Relax, Sophie. Let the colors and
shapes guide you. Creativity flows through you, and you have so
many new ideas. You can do this.”
    Sophie tilted her head as if she could
almost hear Audrey’s words. Her lips turned up in a dreamy smile,
and she chose a paintbrush from the selection scattered across the
floor. Dipping the tip of her brush in crimson paint, she hummed to
herself and made a spiral in the center of the table.
    Audrey cleared her throat and screwed the
cap on her bottle, though she continued to hold it loosely in her
hand. “That is what we call creating an inspiration . Done
right, the client should mostly continue on her own momentum with
only a few minor stalls.”
    We watched as Sophie alternated her brushes
and paint colors, dabbing dots and squiggles in elaborate patterns.
Each time she paused for more than a minute or two, Audrey whipped
out her bubbles and sing-songed words of encouragement. We stayed
for over an hour. I was gratified and amazed to watch the project
blossom from a plain wooden surface to a fantastical work of folk
art.
    Audrey clipped her bubbles to her belt. “I
think she’s got it. She doesn’t need any more help. Time to bug
out. We’ve got more work to do.”
    I didn’t say anything as we walked back to
the car. I’d been touched by what I’d seen, and I was still mulling
it over. Sophie had looked so sad and frustrated. With a few words
of encouragement—and some magic bubbles—everything about her had
changed. Her entire demeanor had opened up, her body language
becoming more positive and self-confident. And the work she did was
beautiful. She’d been a whirlwind of creative passion.
    Could I possibly do a job like this? Could I
inspire people? Help them achieve great things? Make them happier
with their lives?
    I didn’t notice when we arrived at the
car.
    Audrey snapped me out of my