It been too long, and now it comes at night. Always at night. I could ignore it. Read something unrelated or do some other important things instead, but then I’ll be all sadface when it’s gone. So now I’m writing some stories down, and just when I have some things to study for tomorrow. I don’t understand how inspiration works.
Here’s some (unedited, draft-y) snippets. To get me going, maybe. Unfortunately, these are unrelated to the story I was writing the previous post. I told you inspirations work in mysterious way.
The cafe’s owner was smiling, but his face tired. He said to the girl, “You’re a thorn at my side, cat.”
“Just a business, isn’t it, sir?” Erika said, tipping her fedora. “‘Open ’till midnight.’ At least you’ve proven it right.” She got up, reached for some bills in her pocket, came over, and gave it to the man. “Take the change. I’m feeling generous.”
The old man grunted. “Come back with a friend tomorrow. Someone who can tip me better than you.”
Erika smiled, still holding the coins she purloined from the man’s pocket, in plain sight, then hiding them in her fist. Hilbert, who was watching the whole spectacle, was incredulous.
After a while, Hilbert said to her, “You trust *us* first.”
Erika laughed. “Hahah, yeah. Dammit, I kept thinking that it’ll be a mistake. Hell, that you might be some kind of spies from the major cities. But you’re just two kids, lying low. No different than the rest of us.” She clicked her heels and stopped. In front of them was runt-down flat. The bottom floor’s windows and doors were boarded, but there were stairs on the outside reaching the first floor, where the windows were made of glass but closed, and the balcony seemed comfortable enough to be a surrogate porch.
“Right,” Erika continued. “Home. Just two kids looking for some new home after hell broke loose for them. That’s what we’ve all been doing.” She started climbing the stairs, two, three steps at a time and reached the door before the two boys were halfway there.
He started walking, one careful step after another. He was still tired, and hungry, and every few steps he had to stop and take a breath. But it was warm, and that was far better than out there with the storm raging around him.
More sculptures. A leopard, an elk, a large furry ape with an arrow pertruding out of its chest. And then trees, too. Large, empty trunk with all the leaves fallen. A collection of flowers larger than his fist. All sorts of them, and they were all made of perfect crystal-like ice. He touched one, the trunk of a tree with half a million branches. It was cold, colder than the floor, but, he realized in surprise, far less cold than the ice he kept in the his fridge at home.
So now I’ve got like, three, four writing projects running. All very different from each other, so I hope that’ll be enough to not make another one up before I’m done with any. Again.
Also, I’ve most or less finished a translation of another ZUN music CD. Just have to edit that, and I’ll put it up later.
Probably later, in a couple of days. When I’m done with the things I have to study.