Leam Sins sat on his bed staring out the window. The window showed a bustling city that even at this hour of the night was alive and kicking. Every set of feet that walked the sidewalks had stories. And Leam had the uncontrollable urge to tell them. All of them. Each and every story seemed to be drawing him in. He looked around his apartment ruefully. Beautifull sketches and poems and even full chapters of book hung on his walls from thumbtacks. Each of them were works in progress. He couldn't finish the books.
No, the books would go on for some time, set in filthy streets, cardboard boxes, the biggest penthouses and the smallest shacks, these stories had years left yet to be told. These stories haunted him in the long hours of the night. He needed to know what the hero was doing. But how could he keep track of all those heroes?
He got hundreds of calls a day. From the willing heroes of his stories. His telephone bill was insane. He had his possesions repossesed at regular intervals. But still he couldn't help but continue. This was a good work. A wonderful work.
Still he got a sad look in his eyes everytime he veiwed the pictures on his walls. They were all criminally incomplete. And the culprit was the notepad. Each time he started writing a new work in his notepad it mean thumbtacks on the wall for whatever was in it before.
But he still loved each and every story. And he wrote in all of them every year. He had been told before that his work was beatifull. That it was elegant and that it touched the soul.
He looked at the cursed notepad. Never seeming to give him rest, the notepad had called him from his sleep to tell the story of the old woman who ran the florist's shop across the street from his building. He could see her now aranging her flowers for the last time at night. Undoubtably woken up by some fascinating, if rather tragic event in her life. His soul went out to her and he could help but make a note to ask her permission to write her story. Not that he needed her permission. Despite his strongest wishes to have her permission, he knew that art was never allowed to be detained.
His eyes were heavy but he spent the rest of his night jotting down what little he knew of the woman. To tell her story. To give her life true meaning through the medium of. . . .a novel. Unless there was more tradgedy in her life than she was letting on. Then it would be a poem. Something about flowers. . . . .nice title. It had an emotional ring to it. Whatever it was. . . .maybe he would do a poem after all.
When the sun rose his head had hardly touched the pillow. The sun seemed rather rude this morning and had positioned itself so that it burned his pupils when he opened his eyes. He thought about writing a small angry poem to the sun but them remember the epic he had already dedicated to it after a heavy night of drinking.
((More to come.. . . .. . ))
No, the books would go on for some time, set in filthy streets, cardboard boxes, the biggest penthouses and the smallest shacks, these stories had years left yet to be told. These stories haunted him in the long hours of the night. He needed to know what the hero was doing. But how could he keep track of all those heroes?
He got hundreds of calls a day. From the willing heroes of his stories. His telephone bill was insane. He had his possesions repossesed at regular intervals. But still he couldn't help but continue. This was a good work. A wonderful work.
Still he got a sad look in his eyes everytime he veiwed the pictures on his walls. They were all criminally incomplete. And the culprit was the notepad. Each time he started writing a new work in his notepad it mean thumbtacks on the wall for whatever was in it before.
But he still loved each and every story. And he wrote in all of them every year. He had been told before that his work was beatifull. That it was elegant and that it touched the soul.
He looked at the cursed notepad. Never seeming to give him rest, the notepad had called him from his sleep to tell the story of the old woman who ran the florist's shop across the street from his building. He could see her now aranging her flowers for the last time at night. Undoubtably woken up by some fascinating, if rather tragic event in her life. His soul went out to her and he could help but make a note to ask her permission to write her story. Not that he needed her permission. Despite his strongest wishes to have her permission, he knew that art was never allowed to be detained.
His eyes were heavy but he spent the rest of his night jotting down what little he knew of the woman. To tell her story. To give her life true meaning through the medium of. . . .a novel. Unless there was more tradgedy in her life than she was letting on. Then it would be a poem. Something about flowers. . . . .nice title. It had an emotional ring to it. Whatever it was. . . .maybe he would do a poem after all.
When the sun rose his head had hardly touched the pillow. The sun seemed rather rude this morning and had positioned itself so that it burned his pupils when he opened his eyes. He thought about writing a small angry poem to the sun but them remember the epic he had already dedicated to it after a heavy night of drinking.
((More to come.. . . .. . ))
