Eternal Spring, pt.1
From Greenthings
Current revision as of 00:24, 16 December 2007
The last cool breeze before summer fled through the trees like a flock of sparrows. The park was loud and fairly crowded with people and with other life, dogs chasing squirrels and ducks pecking at bugs by the pond. He came here most days to read, a little ways off the beaten path between the trees where it was quieter but never lonely. One day, he was not alone.
Where the man had come from he didn't know, with his squirrely little demeanor and clothing a few decades out of style, and at first he rather suspected something, but the visits had been nice enough. Certainly there seemed to be far more interest in the books he was reading than in himself, really, and it was nice to have a friend to talk to. Well- he had friends- of course he did- but high school is so odd about that, of course, and people can just stop talking with each other for a while for the sake of some kind of social stratification.
He silently thanked all the gods that might be listening that that era was almost over.
That particular day he and the oddly-dressed man had been speaking for a few weeks, or something like that, and the conversation had drifted naturally as the time passed from the books and what was in them to the authors.
"I- you know," the man sat on the bench and half-curled over the back, eyes flashing, "I always wondered, these people who write these things, how do they get their ideas, I really do. Do you know?"
The white-haired young man sat demurely on the other edge, and smiled. "Oh, it's not complicated, I'm sure. Well-" he inclined his head at the man's disbelieving expression, "that's what they say when you ask them, you know, usually. You just take ideas and learn how to put them together in the right way. It's... practice."
The man flomped back over to the seat side of the bench and stared back at his companion curiously. "But they say, they talk about these things called muses, all the time. That's something special. Inspiration."
"Well it is, I suppose, but..." he shrugged slightly as he trailed off. "Well, uhm. I talk to my- friend, uhm, a friend of mine who does poetry," ah, not a good thing to say the word 'boyfriend' in front of people, "and he always says that the best muse is one's surroundings."
"So you know about these things?" He looked surprised.
"I..." That started the slightly uncomfortable feeling again. He wondered vaguely if the man was actually addled or just... was like this for his own reasons. "I suppose. Uhm. Why do you want to know?"
"Ohhh," he smiled oddly and looked off into the distance, "you know. I want to be a writer myself, someday. I hope. But... I need something first."
"You need inspiration?"
The man pointed and winked in a you-got-it expression. He smiled again, and brushed a lock of his hair back behind his ear.
"Do you think you could do something for me, sometime?" he asked warmly.
"Uhm, maybe. What is it?"
"Could you give me some inspiration?"
He blinked and tried to keep the lingering feeling of unease out of his face. Not an unreasonable request, if unusual. "Sure, I'll try. What-"
The clouds passed over the sun and he broke off in the middle of the sentence, jittery. He laughed a bit to pass it off, and the man smiled a great wide glorious smile in response, and offered his hand.
"Here, let me show you something that should help." He tilted his head curiously. "It's just right over there, no problem. Leave the book, you'll be right back."
