“Drying up. Inspiration drying up. You bury ideas.” A creature not much taller than a toadstool, warty and fobbish…
Gnawing a pencil, I looked and saw a gnome pointing to a well-thumbed dictionary. “Warty I’ll give you, but fobbish. Nae a proper word.”
“Sorry. Am I awake?” I rubbed my eyes and erased fobbish. “So what’s this about?”
Fob settled himself on a nightstand saucer. “What with worry-warting about now, we miss what else. Poets can’t poem. Mathematicians can’t math. Reality can’t real. Every day like the last.”
“I thought it was me.”
“No, us. Together, we grieve it all.”
Monica's Monday Morning Flash 
Loved this. So many levels. By the way, would LOVE to read early drafts of any of your writing projects if you need a reader — they all sound intriguing and right up my alley.
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