16 April, 2013

Night and the Writer

Sitting on the roof was amazing, as he could see the city proper from there. One of the many perks of having a house at the top of a hill, he always supposed. Not to mention that his little perch added a touch of character to the neighborhood. Whenever someone would drive by his house, they could quite clearly see the lawn chair he kept two stories up on the ten-by-four foot balcony he fastened to the outside of his bedroom's bay windows.

That's where he was when he saw Mrs. Krenshaw slowly drive by. The closest he could come to figuring out why she gave him nasty looks whenever she saw him up there was because he had never actually gotten around to painting it to match. The whole block was on the same color scheme, a fact he hadn't actually noticed until he lived there for a year and a half. Either way, he liked the way it looked as-is, for in a sea of homogeneity, a little difference here or there never hurt anyone.

"I'm never going to paint it," he said to himself as she drove by, glaring. He stood, smiled, and waved before settling in once again for the evening's entertainment. He grabbed his tupperware container filled with elbow macaroni, and sprinkled the final pinch of celery salt on it before someone else could come and delay his dinner-and-a-show.

This promised to be a good one. The sky was clear, and the moon shone in a manner that indicated it would be brilliant once that other light source went away. Perfectly ideal conditions, indeed.

It was a matter of seconds before the show began. Brilliant reds, vibrant oranges, and vivid yellows seemed to pour out of nowhere, filling the sky. It reminded him of dripping ink into water. Staring into the sky was, as per usual, utterly breathtaking. As the colors changed from a light blue, racing through the spectrum down to the black of night, it was as though his brain suddenly began working.

Ideas of every shape and sort poured into his head from his muse, who he was sure was a redhead, despite that being neither here nor there. As each notion entered his mind, he rocked back in awe, wondering how he had never made these connections before. Of course those two are meant for one another, just look at how they're written! He was on a roll, jotting down notation after notation. Oh, man! Wouldn't she just DIE to know this?


Laughter came from somewhere, disturbing him from his reverie. It didn't take him long to realize that it was his own voice, his own mirth. It had been quite some time since he had laughed that hard, he realized. Quickly, he looked around to see if anyone had called the police on him for disturbing the blandness of the cul-de-sac. Hearing nothing except for the wind playing in the trees, he turned back to his notebook, resting in his lap.

He began to leaf through the pages he had filled since the sunfall. Thirty handwritten pages! How incredible; this was a personal record! Thirty pages in five hours. Sure, there were arrows restructuring and bits in the margins, but it was still the largest chunk he had ever written at once. I wonder, he thought, looking skyward, if I should do this more often. Writing solely bathed in the light of the full moon.

"How romantic."


Next: "Let me remember that I am not the sole author of my victories..." - Ze Frank 

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