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Fanfiction ► The Artist



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Thor.

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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.. . . .. . ))
 

Thor.

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He looked down his body at the clothes he was wearing from the day before. They seemed a bit stiff and he thought that maybe it had been too long since he had a nice long shower and a change of clothes. So he dug through his very unorganized closet and found something that seemed appropriately clean. He had decided on dress pants and a hoodie. They were the only things in the closet that didn’t smell like cheese. He made a mental note to clean the closet and send all his clothes out to the cleaners.

He trotted down the stairs, wondering for a moment if there was a ‘cleaners’ to send his clothes to. He nodded to acknowledge the half-hearted greetings that the other tenants gave him. They seemed a bit afraid of him. He didn’t mind. People tended to fear the truth. Not that what he did was necessarily truth, it was certainly a dramatization. He often wondered what he should say about himself when he found himself in the hero’s path. Usually he just edited himself out. The narrator does not get a large part in any great work of fiction. Except maybe when the narrator is also the hero. In that case. . . . .not that he would ever write his own story, he couldn’t trust himself to be honest about it. He looked into a passing mirror in the stairwell and had to stop. He needed a shave, the beard had passed the attractive 5 0’Clock shadow point and reached the point where he was beginning to look like a hobo. His hair was long and ragged. He needed a haircut.

He shrugged

Between clothes and hair there would be no time to work on his pieces after work. He rolled his eyes at the thought of work. He hated work. It seemed to be the only thing hew could not develop artistic passion for. Not even anger like he had for the sun.

The dirty loud streets were music to Leam’s ears. Each life that passed shot a billion ideas into his mind. One man was arguing with another, one woman was having her purse stolen. There were men selling illicit substances in the alleyway. There was so much to see and write about that he could feel the notepad itching in the backpack that he had left in his apartment. He paused for a moment. He didn’t want to write anything today. He wanted to get his hair cut, his clothes clean, his closet de-cheesed. And the notebook would not allow that. So he had left it. But not he could feel it calling. The theif was escaping with the purse. What better way to start a story than with a purse robbery? He wanted to write it down. Now. He turned sharply and tackled the man with the purse. He muttered “Stay right there.” And ran off only vaguely aware of the thanks showering from the woman who had run over with a cop.

The stairs rushed past him as he sprinted up towards his apartment. He could feel the man getting pulled away by the cop. He knew he would be too late. He stopped mid stair-leap. He wasn’t sure what to do. He fell. He wasn’t sure if it was that he had missed such a beautiful story or that he stopped running in the stairs but he definitely falling backwards.
 

Drollive

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I like the story so far......and it's not one big block this time!

CA, you should finish one of your many stories and get it published!

<W00t for 100th post!
 

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He was surprised when he hit the ground. It wasn’t that he hit the ground that he found so surprising. The shocking part was how little it hurt. How soft it was. And why it was groaning and telling him to get off. When he shook the surprised he got off of the woman with as many blushes as he could muster and a few muttered apologies. He had forgotten about the purse thief. The thought that he had almost died trying to write a bout a purse snatching would have never come into his mind again only. . .that woman was holding the very familiar purse.

“I wanted to thank you.” She said after a long period of uncomfortable silence. All of which Leam had spent staring at the purse. She finally laughed. That kind of laugh that girls tended to push out when the conversation was really uncomfortable but she still wants to keep it going.

Leam’s extensive knowledge of ways to keep bad conversations going made it more awkward than he would have thought was possible. Still he liked something about her eyes,
 

Thor.

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((I'm just gonna post whatever I wrote every day. They'll all prolly be around this length.))

He was fairly sure it was her eyes that he liked. They were a kind of crystal blue that he had always enjoyed describing. He thought back to comparisons to icicles and shards of glass and. . .he was getting carried away now. Another awkward silence passed though this one was much shorter as he quickly realized that he was now, in fact, staring at her eyes.

“You’re welcome.” He said without much feeling. The niceties of society were kind of lost on him at this point. Being polite was not one of his strong suits he was willing to admit. He was not the man you came to when you wanted to liven up a party.

Not that anyone came to Leam for anything. He was too strange for anyone to ask him a favor. You never knew how a guy like him would screw something up. There was nothing quite wrong with him really. He was a bit absent minded but. . .He focused on a passing fly. They lead such meaningless lives, each hour counting down a very apparent biological clock. He smiled briefly at the woman then began to walk back to the apartment. He needed the notebook. After all, how could one person be able to remember all the wonderful ideas that littered the streets.

He whistled something bouncy as he stepped slowly up the stairs. Admiring the ceiling from a much safer position than before. He passed the mirror. He frowned a little at the hobo in the mirror, but he soon got over it.
 

Thor.

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I'll prolly contiune to post like I've been doing. . . .It takes the pressure off of me.
 
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