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Fanfiction ► The Artist



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Thor.

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I actually am writing as we post. . . . .



Written now.


As he opened the door to his room he found himself dwelling. Dwelling on the woman from the stairs. More specifically her purse. It was strange to think that it was just some cloth, it had so much character. He could see the purse’s point of view. Leam had still yet to notice that he could not see from the point of view of the woman herself. And that this was a much greater mystery than his strange infatuation with her purse, so he threw down a few sketches of the ornate little handbag before he raced back down the stairs.

The last thing Leam really wanted right now was to be sorting people’s mail, yet he knew that unless he wanted to be very literally a starving artist, he would have to labor in the mail room a little more often than he had been. The streets were as stimulating as always but Leam found himself rushing through the creative beauty. He needed to get to work on time. He needed the paycheck.

He needed a key. The door to the mailroom was locked. Which was strange because usually they just left it open and trusted that the general public would be kind enough to keep their hands off. Despite Leam’s nagging feeling that this wasn’t the smartest plan of action, he felt as if he were putting trust back into the world. And also his coworkers seemed to think it was a good idea. Granted none of them were very fond of him. . .

Leam shook his head and walked around from the back of the post office to the front door and looked in breifly. He was here before the guy at the desk. That seemed even stranger. He looked around the large yellow piece of paper at the desk and finally leaned back from the glass door. It was then that the paper caught his eye. There was some official talk about things getting stolen and the post office going under new management. Long story short . . .everyone was fired. While Leam was happy that he may now have time to get a haircut, it also occurred to him that not only would the barber want money. But he was out of granola.
 
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Thor.

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The streets were less interesting as he walked home. Or maybe he was just distraught. He never was good at maintaining his artistic integrity when he was in a bad mood. He usually didn't himself get in a bad mood for that very reason. It seemed rather pointless to allow himself to get upset over small things.

This however was not a small thing. He was likely to starve now. He hoped he could get a job elsewhere but the likelyhood of that was small. He knew he was not the most attractive candidate for an employer. Most people preffered employees that were able to do their job without large amounts of either paid or unpaid vacation. Someone that didn't stop doing his job in order to jot down a few ideas. The sun was high in the sky and the streets were filled with average people. The raw material of all his work.
 
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