A wide expanse of nothing rolls from edge to edge of a digital page. The Muse spends a moment trying to see if there is a black on black horizon somewhere, but it’s a simple emptiness. She sighs and heads over to where the Writer sits, feet dangling over an invisible edge.

“I’m going to regret this, aren’t I.” The Muse sits carefully on the edge of nothing.

“Yup.” The Writer squints into the nonexistent distance, then looks down at her hands. “Made you something.” She offers the mostly round ball of clay to the Muse. “Tada!”

“Gee. Thanks.” The Muse takes the clay with the sort of joy normally reserved for small children and vegetables. “You’ve got forever to work with and I get a golf ball.”

“It’s not a golf ball.” The Writer poked the lack-of-ground, “It’s, um, Primordial Ooze?”

The Muse gave her a look.

“Well, okay, Primordial Golf balls then.”

“I’d say something about lemons and lemonade, but—-” The Muse rolled the ball between her fingers and sighed.

“Mudpies?” The Writer held up another handful of clay.

The Muse grinned and shifted from aimless rolling to more concentrated manipulation. “Let the cooking begin!”