Writing Prompt

Elsie was strolling through the corridors, wondering what was inside them. As she finally arrived at the Mr Kingsley’s office, she didn’t bother to knock on the door, she just burst right in.

Mr Kingsley was sitting at his desk staring at Elsie. Elsie was his new illustrator for his book. Apparently she was the best of the best. Mr Kingsley thought the exact opposite. He was wearing a full suit and tie with slicked back hair. Elsie, on the other hand, was wearing baggy trousers, a white T-shirt with a rainbow on it, backpack and had her dyed blue, short hair half up. He was a very strict, organised man. She was a very unbothered, lazy woman. Mr Kingsley hated her very much, not only had she arrived over and hour late, but she hadn’t knocked on the door.

Elsie walked over to his desk and leaned on it. She asked when they were going to start. When Mr Kingsley told her not to lean on it, she obeyed and instead leant on her hip. She asked the question once more. He replied by telling her not to lean on anything. So Elsie walked over to his sofa, threw her bag down and spread herself out on it. “Not leaning now!”

Author: Are those cans of soup?

Artist: Why yes, they are! Many different kinds of soup.

Author: Looks the same. Why are there so many?

Artist: They’re all different. Look at the labels—different soups.

Author: That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard and seen.

Artist: Well, many people think it’s beautiful! Tell me, what have you accomplished?

Author: Oh, I’m a well-known author. I’ve written several novels that have all been well received! I’m sure you’ve heard of them.

Artist: Yeah? What are they about?

Author: About galactic hitchhikers and their adventures across the universe! It’s quite a funny series. They’ve even made a movie!

Artist: Ohhhhh, yes, I’ve read the first one. It wasn’t all that funny, actually. The meaning of life is 42. Really? That’s the best you could come up with?

Author: No, it’s funny because it took all that time, millennia, to compute the answer for the meaning of life.

Artist: Right, of course. It just sounds like you got lazy and couldn’t think of anything funnier than that.

Author: You want to talk about laziness? You painted the same can of soup 32 times, and all you did was change the type of soup.

Artist: Touché. I suppose we could agree that we both suck.

Author: Agreed.

The author and artist nodded to each other and went their separate ways, off to create more terrible books and pieces of art.

The National Art Museum had an entire exhibit dedicated to the paintings of Yvonne DeLac.

Three interconnected rooms bustling with visitors standing before tableaus of ruins and rivers, bloodied swords and rusted armor, rendition after rendition of human faces twisted with emotion. Soaring happiness, crushing grief, stony resignation and deepest desperation—Yvonne DeLac's paintings explored every thread of the fluctuating tapestry of human emotion. The only common factor throughout all her work was the raw realness of the subjects' expressions, marking Yvonne's paintings, fantastical as they might have been, as almost disturbingly human.

Those paintings fascinated Vivian Sanders to no end.

The castles, the battles, the ethereal women with fire for hair... They seemed as pages torn straight from every unfinished manuscript, every rough first draft that littered Vivian's desk. She knew nothing more of the painter than anyone else, but Yvonne DeLac was just as interesting to Vivian as the paintings—how did this unknown woman's brain work so similarly to hers? Whatever well their inspiration poured from, it was made of the same stone.

Such were Vivian's thoughts as she examined the newest addition to the exhibit: a painting of cobbled square, vaguely Medieval, surrounded by shops and stands of every kind. In the center of the square stood a stone cage, and within it a woman of almost divine beauty. Her legs were folded beneath her, the pleats of her dress concealing all but her ankles. Her chin was lifted regally, her hands clasped loosely in her lap, but her eyes... Her eyes were empty. Dull.

Those eyes were not, however, the focal point of the painting, Vivian noticed. The edges of the woman's dress, and what little of her legs could be seen below it, were made of the same stone as the cage that contained her.

Somehow, Vivian knew that this was not intentional. That the woman was not a statue or a wax figure. No, the stone was a disease, like mold or rust. Slowly, it would consume her, immobilizing the woman forever in her cage, the centerpiece of the town square.

Vivian's pen flew over the pages of the notebook she always had on hand, jotting down loose thoughts on the story behind the painting in an indecipherable scrawl. She did not look up from her inspection of the tableau as she wrote, absorbed in the depths of those dull, resigned eyes...

"It's my favorite, too."

Vivian jumped at the sudden voice, almost dropping her pen. She turned to find a tall woman at her side, arms crossed and head cocked slightly to one side as her eyes roved over the painting of the caged beauty. The woman smiled slightly at Vivian, nodding at the notebook she held.

"I see it's inspired you," she remarked, amused. Vivian noticed the stranger's voice held the undertones of a French accent.

"I guess so," Vivian replied, fidgeting with her pen. "I'll take inspiration wherever I can get it, nowadays. But there are so many possibilities with this one. Possibilities for a story."

"You see a story in this painting? Are you a writer?" the woman asked, quirking an eyebrow in a way that Vivian found undeniably attractive. She nodded lamely.

"I guess you could say that. Though with the amount of writer's block I'm facing right now, that might not be the right term." To this, the woman said nothing, so Vivian turned back to the painting to recount the contents of her jumbled notes.

"The caged woman," began Vivian, "is a a princess. The most beautiful in the land. In the world, even. Her father, the king, had her placed in a cage so the people of the kingdom could walk past her everyday, admiring her beauty, but they could ever touch her.

"His kingdom became the most prosperous in the land, lords and ladies from foreign lands traveling far wide to see the caged woman of legend. The king would allow no one to marry her, since that would take away his most valuable financial asset. But they left offerings: gold and jewels and wine brought to the castle in the princess's name. They worshipped her like a goddess."

Vivian didn't know where the words had come from, the story now much more elaborate than the messy notes she had penned. She and the woman beside her stood in silence a moment.

"And the stone?" the woman asked quietly at last. This seemed the easiest part to Vivian.

"She's been caged for so long, spoken to the same way an icon is spoken to in a church that... Well, she becomes an icon herself. She was treated like a statue, so she turns into one."

Vivian turned to find the woman smiling in a satisfied sort of way.

"That's exactly it," she said. "That's exactly how I meant it to be."

Vivian frowned. "What do you mean, exactly how you meant it to be...?"

She trailed off, realization seeping into her words.

"You're the artist," Vivian answered her own question. "Yvonne DeLac?"

It seemed wrong, somehow. Vivian had always pictured the artist of these paintings as someone middle-aged, someone who had seen enough in this life to be able to paint emotion so clearly. But this Yvonne was young, mid-twenties at most, with clear, dark eyes and complimenting brown hair pulled back in a claw clip. She was pretty. Beautiful, even.

The woman—Yvonne—smiled at Vivian's dazed expression. She flipped over the laminated image hanging on the lanyard around her neck. Yvonne DeLac, visiting artist, it proclaimed.

"That would be me," she said. "Tell me, do you often decipher the stories behind my paintings in your free time, or did you just start today?"

Vivian laughed. "It's my biggest hobby, actually."

Yvonne's eyes shone. She beckoned Vivian towards another painting, on the other side of the room. This one showed a kneeling woman in bloodied armor, head pulled back by the hand of an unseen figure, the sharp edge of a sword pressed against her exposed neck. The woman's hands, soaked in bright red blood up to the wrists, were outstretched in a gesture of supplication. A pool of blood had formed beneath her hands, a clear sign of how badly they were shaking. Tears streamed from her eyes, upturned to a hidden figure who stood before her. The woman's expression was one of pleading, but pleading half-heartedly, as though she knew she would be shown no mercy, and was resigned to the fact.

Very little of the person she looked up to, from whom she sought salvation, was visible. Only the tips of the armored feet, the edge of a ceremonial sword hanging from a sheath at their waist. What most fascinated Vivian was that the figure's face was not in the least visible. Were they stoic to the woman's begging? Sympathetic? Was the twist of their lips cruel, resigned, disgusted, grief-stricken? All this was left to the audience, but Vivian had long since decided on the story behind this painting.

When Yvonne asked her that very question in her smooth accent, the words came easily.

"The woman is a soldier," Vivian began confidently. "One of the most gifted in the entire army, trained to fight since she could walk."

"But..." Yvonne prompted, smiling.

"But she's insane. Her ancestor once badly offended a god, and one of his descendants was cursed to go mad and turn their sword against the wrong side. She," Vivian gestured to the kneeling woman in the center of the painting, "was just unlucky enough to be that descendant.

"The madness took her in the midst of battle, and she slaughtered everyone in her division, doing the enemy's job for them. The person to whom she looks up, who she begs for mercy, is her commander. Her commander who led her into every battle, who trained her for years, now must give the order for death, ending the curse of her line."

Vivian shifted her gaze from the painting to Yvonne. "Is that right?" she asked.

"There is no right or wrong in art," the woman mused, "as all art is subjective. But if you mean to ask if that's the interpretation I intended when I painted this, the answer would be yes and no."

Vivian frowned slightly. She had not expected this.

"You're close, though," Yvonne added. "You're only off by one thing. May I?"

She gestured to the notebook and pen still in Vivian's hands. Vivian handed them over readily, watching as the taller woman flipped to the back of the page full to the brim with half-finished stories about the paintings in the room.

After a few seconds, Yvonne handed the notebook back. Presumably, she had transcribed the true meaning behind the painting, that small that detail Vivian had missed.

Before Vivian could say anything in response, one of the Gallery's security guards entered the room and called Yvonne's name. She nodded to the guard and smiled that ridiculously attractive smile a final time as she stepped away from Vivian.

"Lovely talking to you," she said, by way of farewell. "I hope you beat your writer's block, if my paintings are the only thing that help you through it."

Vivian waved lamely as Yvonne disappeared through the room's arched doorway, following in the security guard's wake.

After that encounter, Vivian found herself completely having lost the ability to focus on the paintings. She stayed only a few minutes after Yvonne's departure before heading out to brave the January snow, taking the fastest route back to her apartment.

That evening, she wrote for hours, head stuffed full of stone princesses and bloody curses and selfish kings and ethereal women and every other element of Yvonne DeLac's paintings.

At last, after a full ten thousand words about every DeLac painting she could think of, Vivian reached the one she'd tactfully saved for last: the begging soldier, the ancestral curse.

She reached for the notebook where Yvonne had written the secret of the painting.

When she found the page at last, there was only this:

The commander is a woman The soldier and the commander were lovers 226-763-9980 Call me -Y

Vivian Sanders smiled up at her ceiling.

Why are you here? That’s what her eyes said. Her mouth was thin and looked as if it hadn’t opened in a hundred years. Marshmallow hair and a crepe paper mask of a face, the old lady was like a million years old. And she had a death grip on her door knob peeking out around the door chain. Travis imagined her mouth opening and a river of wasps pouring out. Bett chuckled. The battle axe slammed the door. “Shit.” Bett scrubbed her face. She walked closer to the old lady’s door and knocked. Her dad was going to kill her. Life was so unfair. So she tagged a couple of garage doors. Big deal, she had thought the row of garages were empty, abandoned commercial space, so she wrote her name and painted a bit. The space was actually cool now thank you very much. Sneaking back into her bedroom Bett had tripped over Mr. Puddles who caterwauled and she had literally been caught red handed. Bett examined her dark hands stained in vermilion. Her dad had reached out to the property owner and worked something out. Restitution, he called it when he dropped her off in front of the old lady’s porch. Without turning Bett could feel the weight of his stare from the car. She knocked again.
“Listen I’m sorry. I’m like really sorry. I can scrub the doors. Or paint them clean. I’m not a bad person or a criminal or something or okay so technically I’m a criminal but I’m not a satanist or something. The pentagrams were part of this name thing I’m working on. I want to explain—“ The door was flung open. “Tell me something I don’t know. The Church of Satan is serious respectable organization. Back in the day, I bummed around a cult or two, tried a handful of religions, read a bit on the history of faith, worked as a sideshow tarot readers, and let me tell you the Satanists are righteous dudes,” the old lady said picking up speed. Bett leaned back in surprise and looked back at her dad in his car. She wasn’t sure because he was driving away but she sworn her dad was laughing. “Traveling that’s what inspired my first set of books. Now I’m finishing up my latest manuscript and I admired your work. The central figure hemmed that in by all the words. It was … powerful.” Bett could just peek into the kaleidoscope of weird crap that was the old woman’s house. The teen girl’s mouth dropped. They both eyed each other. The old lady threw open her screen door. “Have you ever done work for cover art?” Closing her mouth Bett shook her head. Wearing a maroon kimono with a gold and silver sun and moon, she ushered Bett inside.

A story creating pictures Fairytales and happily ever afters Pictures creating a story Mediums like paint and plasters Black and white Imagination gone wild Bright and pastel The heart of a child Two creative minds Not so different than the rest And I think you’ll find They’re just the best of the best

Donald Clyde scrutinized my portfolio like a college professor. Eyes darting from left to right, up and down as he took in my drawings. His mouth moved rapidly as he whispered reserved thoughts for only himself. I sat at his dinner table; hands folded tightly between my violently shaking knees. I felt like I'd vibrate off the chair, fall to the tiles with a thud and start vomiting due to anxiety. Clyde turned the last page, the sound of the thick paper cutting through the silent kitchen like a splitting tree, his eyes scanned my drawing and I saw a faint smile cut at the corner of his mouth. He looked at me over the wire frames of his glasses, his cold yet inviting blue eyes sending a shiver down my spine.

"Arthur. These are exquisite," Clyde said.

A euphoric rush of ease rippled through my veins; my brain fired on all cylinders as it processed the most prestigious compliment I'd ever received.

"Thank you," I said with a shaky and flustered tone.

Clyde gave a hearty chuckle. "Relax Arthur, I wouldn't have contacted you if I didn't already appreciate and respect your work. Drink your wine, relax."

I nodded my head and reached a shaky hand towards the glass on the table. I commanded myself to calm down as I raised it to my mouth and took a sip. I didn't know what to think, I wasn't sure how to act. Donald Clyde, one of the most popular up-and-coming authors of my generation liked my artwork. I never got compliments for my work, not from friends or my parents. Hearing his words of praise was the greatest thing I'd ever heard.

"Tell me. What got you into drawing?" Clyde asked.

"Umm. When I was seven, my cousin had a birthday party. My aunt gave out little goodie bags at the end of the party and in it was a small notebook with a Stegosaurus on it."

We exchanged a smile, Clyde's thick eyebrows arching for me to continue. "I remember asking my Mom for a pen, or a pencil. She asked what for, and I said I wanted to draw the Stegosaurus on the cover."

A warm smile spread across Clyde's mouth, and wrinkles formed at the corners of his eyes, as genuine amusement radiated off him. He reminded me of Bryan Cranston, he had bushy gray hair and a beard that populated everything south of his nose, but it was his facial features that really drove the point home.

"Was there an artistic talent within your family?" Clyde questioned.

I reached for my glass of wine with a nod, "My Dad...and my Mom to a lesser extent. My Dad liked to draw dinosaurs."

Clyde smiled and leaned back in his chair, he crossed his legs and placed his hands on his elevated knee. "There was no one of artistic value in my family, not for drawing and certainly not for the literary arts. If there was, they kept it a secret which I believe is a crime."

He let out a light chuckle and placed his right hand on the bottom of his wine glass. He spun the liquids around, his eyes locked on the red wine as if mesmerized. Clyde let out a low sigh and returned his attention to me.

"Those are some beautiful tattoos on your arms," he said, eyes locked onto the ink throughout my arms.

"Oh yeah. I um...I drew these myself too."

Clyde's eyes shot up from my tattoos, ripples of fascination glistening in his pupils. "You did these yourself?"

I nodded my head, trying my best to hide my excitement.

"A story behind them?" Clyde asked.

"Well. I've always been a huge fan of Norse mythology; I think it's beyond fascinating. So, my right arm is dedicated to that."

Clyde gestured for me to show him my right arm and I did. I placed it on the table, rolling my sleeve up to reveal the mountain and river landscape on my forearm as well as the Viking wielding an ax on my bicep.

"Dear Lord, that's gorgeous. Absolutely ravishing, Arthur,” Clyde gently grasped my arm as he analyzed my tattoos. "And what about your left?"

"I’m also a space nut...I'm obsessed with it to be direct. My Mom said that when I was a kid my dream was to be an astronaut," the tattoo on my left arm was of a sprawling galaxy, full of planets, stars, and a few spaceships.

Clyde laughed and examined my left arm, "And you did both of these yourselves?"

“I did. I mean, I drew it out and brought it to a tattoo artist. Neither are complete and I’m aiming to add more.”

"That is just fascinating. I'm mind blown by the range of your work,” he paused. He placed his hands in his lap and looked at me with narrowed eyes. "How about I show you what I called you here for?"

"Absolutely Mr. Clyde," I responded as I took another sip of wine.

Clyde got up from his seat. "I've had this idea for a few months, maybe close to a year."

He exited the kitchen and made his way across the living room to his study. He came back holding a manilla folder.

"I just need the right artist to capture what I'm looking for, to embrace and show the heart. I think you're the right man for the job," Continued Clyde, as he returned to his seat.

"What kind of story is it? If you don't mind my asking."

Clyde shook his head, "Oh not at all."

He placed his hands on the manilla folder and thought about his next words, his eyes looking upwards in an almost flamboyant manner. "It's my take on Frankenstein...Bride of Frankenstein to be precise. A scientist has composed his work of art, one that he's brought back to life and he's doing his best to compose a suitable mate for her."

There was a sting to his stare, it was there and gone within a blink of an eye. The warmth I'd seen throughout the entire evening had vanished for that split second. I wasn't sure if I'd seen it, but something in the pit of my stomach told me that I did.

"It's a Love Story." He concluded.

Clyde pushed the folder in my direction, his eyes staring directly into mine as his eyebrows arched once more as if commanding me to open the folder. I managed a smile, picked the folder up with trembling hands, and opened it.

It was a picture of a naked woman, one who was artificially put together and chained to a wall. Her right arm was darker than her left arm, I could see the sloppy stitching along her shoulder blade. Her left ankle was a different shade than the rest of her body, I could see dried blood along the seams. Stitches lined her forehead from where a hair transplant had been performed. Her breasts were fake, I could see the crude markings below each of them. At first glance, she appeared to be dead, but I knew that wasn't true. Her cold and dead stare was the most honest thing about her.

"I can see the alarm in your face Arthur, and I assure you that it's fake. It's merely something I'd found while doing a deep dive on Reddit," Clyde remarked.

But that didn't feel right, this picture didn't look fake at all. The lighting was too raw, the environment was too grimy. It was a photo printed in a dark room, and it looked like a forensic photo. The girl in the picture was as real as the dinner table in front of me, and the empty wine glass that sat on top of it.

I felt a knot form at the center of my throat, as a chill surged through my veins, I could feel the hairs stand on the nape of my neck. I became very aware that I'd been spending the better part of an evening with a man I knew very little about. I knew of his work, I knew of the image that he had created through his writings but that was it. I was alone with him in his cabin, in the middle of the Shadowbrook Forest. I came to the realization that I'd been the only one to drink the wine, it dawned on me that Donald Clyde hadn't taken a single sip from his glass. I stared at the manilla folder in front of me, then gave a nervous glance at Mr. Clyde. His features were cold, his eyes were lifeless.

"Is there a problem Arthur?"

The air in the room became very thin. I blinked my eyes as Mr. Clyde's kitchen blurred around me. I tried to speak but I couldn't, it was as though my mouth had been coated with foam. I blinked my eyes rapidly, and through the blur, I could see Mr. Clyde get to his feet. He spoke, but I couldn't hear him. I fell from my chair and then my world cut to black.

It's the sound of a saw that brings me back to reality. The air around me feels cold and it reeks of sterile products. My eyes peel open slowly and my vision is like that of an underdeveloped photo. I blink my eyes a few times to clear my vision and that's when I see her. The woman from the picture. She stands but a few feet away from me, and she's much taller than she appeared in the picture, her head is about a foot away from the ceiling. There's a smile on her face. I try to scream, but I can't because my tongue isn't where it's supposed to be. I try to move my arms and legs, but they're also gone. I know this because I can see them hanging on the wall behind the woman.

The last thing I see is the Viking and the Stars.

Hello, my name is Mario. I have been looking into your work for years, but I didn't want to meet like this. Your craft is so intelligent. How you move and plan out everything so smoothly you don't leave any evidence behind from any seen except for this one; you got super sloppy on this one. I read all your books and even looked into all your case. Somehow, you were always ten steps ahead of the authorities to explain how you lost your confidence Dr.Martion. Why did you start to get sloppy with your work? You could have gotten away with it. Listen here, son, I know I could have gotten away with it. You don't understand; after doing all this for a while and years, you start gain feeling inside your body. It's called emotions Mario plus I was looking for more meaning to my life besides just killing after my last victim. I started to suffer from all this, losing the feeling of why I started all this in the first place just wanted to get back at people who looked at me like pitty, nothing less or nothing more, then began to realize, after all, I have accomplished in my past life I come nothing into something now to throw it all away look at the both of sitting here in the cell waiting to punish never thought I would come one of them, Mario.

Well, Dr.Martion, you know we chose are lifestyle, how it's going to end, and how it began. I started all of this because of my dad when he used to hit my mom and sister 24/7 when he was mad, sad, drunk even also glade. I don't know what made him start; I can't even tell I really think his job or he really started to lose hope into himself well, my dad was low life store owner he didn't know how to run a cloth store on my eyes I thought it be the easiest business around guess not huh maybe some people don’t have what it takes to be a business man you know well after i have gotten away i just started on a killing rampage also i thought to i would never be here myself until it finally caught up with me now i have become one of them myself

As she stepped off the bus, across the street she noticed a street artist painting portraits. She thought to herself although the media is different we’re both hard working artist id love to meet him and have a conversation maybe he can give me writing ideas based upon things he has seen while painting. The people hes painted may have given him some stories he can share, maybe his artwork has taken him to some amazing places. As she began to cross the street to meet the intriguing man a paying customer approached him for a portrait. She thought to herself I certainly cant bother him now. She finally crossed the street and walked right by him without saying a single word although they did lock eyes as she passed.

Rain pounded the large windows of the average sized loft apartment. Of course she should have been at work writing her next novel chapter. Yet here she was , snuggled up on her white leather couch, tablet and note books scattered on the floor. Swiping left or right on tinder. It had been ages since she’d sought out companionship from anyone. A handful of close friends had invited her out. Yet she wanted to just snuggle her flease blanket and sip hot coco and do nothing.

That is until a Comic-Con pic of a girl cosplaying “cat woman/ Selena Kyle ” caught her attention. Of course the outfit wasn’t to revealing but she was sure it had men and woman on the app drooling all the same. The tight suit looked almost painted onto her body how well it accented every curve. And oh joy did those curves work for her. Twenty eight years old, same city, blonde haired bombshell of a woman, who was probably straight. Noel sighed, tossing her phone down as it swiped right out of pure spite to her “no!” She gasped and quickly tried to undo it.

This girl would hardly even know she’d existed. Much like most of the girls she’d crushed on through college. This art girl wouldn’t be any different. So with a yawn she forgot about it. A message alert called her attention elsewhere. “Maggie bestieboo” shot across the screen.

“So change of plans, there’s a dress up cosplay party. Ryan just got invited to by a guy downtown. I think we should do that instead “ She read the message and quickly found herself even less prepared for the night.

“I don’t have anything to wear!” She sent a few angry faces emoji’s and two crying faces, just to send her point home. Quickly tossing her covers aside and heading for the bedroom closet.

“Wear nothing then. Your cute enough to pull it off” A winky face followed the text and Noel wanted to shoot her friend a glare of many daggers.

“Let’s add public nudity to my rap sheet” She tossed open the rolling door to the small walk in closet which had long been forgotten.

It had been ages since she wasn’t to busy working to “go out”. Let alone in a cosplay outfit. She’d thought that nerdy part of her life would be over. Yet Maggie and Ryan always seemed to pull her back in. Guess that’s what friends were for.

“Ping” Her newest generation iPhone screen lit up as she grabbed an old cosplay outfit of kurenai from Naruto.

To her own dismay a banner across the screen told her that the cosplay girl and her matched. “No shit” she thought to herself. Another flash.

“Hey cutie” It was to much for her to handle, so without clicking on the tinder message she tossed her phone to the bed. Ready to change.

Out in the rain she found herself wishing she’d picked a cosplay female who had wore pants. Instead of the skirt shorts modeled after her body wrappings. Yet still she loved how power she felt a few people looking as she stepped out of the Uber.

“No shit!” Maggie’s excited voice squealing from the side walk. Of course a groan from Noel made Maggie twist her face into a scowl. Of course her best friend still had her matching Karin cosplay costume.

Maggie’s ginger hair was a frizzy mess coming over her shoulders, a purple shirt revealing her pierced belly button a green gem on it matching a green belt around her stomach. Tight black legging shorts and boots that nearly reached the bottoms of the shorts. A pair of black glasses hung on her nose. Of course her body didn’t quite fit the character, which she’d explained two years ago but it hadn’t stopped anything.

Ryan of course had colored his normally blonde hair black for his character Sai. A character to this day he’d sworn was gay. A black half long sleeved crop top hung just above his abs. Which he’d only gone to the gym to watch the guys work out. A pair of black pants and black boots. He smiled and fixed his headband. “God they were nerds” she giggled internally.

“So y’all ready?” Maggie questioned turning without a word and heading toward the party’s address, a block away.

An hour has passed, Maggie was off with some other anime dude she’d started dancing with. Ryan hugged the wall with a few other guys talking about the possibilities of new bleach episodes. Noel was hanging out in the kitchen with a few of the small plates of random finger foods. Tacos that Noel had definitely eaten her fill, mozzarella sticks, nachos and other snack stuff.

That’s when she nearly dropped her drink and the mozzarella stick as a blonde girl stepped into the kitchen. Instantly she noticed who she was, a smile quickly diminished on her face. Noel instantly noticed the character she was cosplaying Ino.

She’d gone with a grown Ino from the shippuden. A sleeveless purple crop top a bit of cleavage showing, a skirt that matched in color cut so that the mesh legging shorts under showed through. Boots and her mesh elbow and knee sets. Golden blonde bangs hung left over her face and the rest was tied up in a big ponytail. Noel could tell she was blushing just looking at her tinder match.

“Baby” Another voice called and a pink haired girl stumbled into the kitchen. Dressed as Sakura of course, the blonde looked back at her with regret. Which sent a fit of rage washing over Noel. Yet she didn’t let it show, just kept munching as the girlfriend wobbled away.

“Can’t text back” She gave Noel a weary smile in response.

“You have a girlfriend “ Noel hissed, moving toward the kitchen exit. As the girl lightly grabbed her arm, stopping her in her tracks.

“Please don’t be like that. It’s not what you think I promise. Just let me explain “ The look in her eyes seemed to flash with hurt and anxiety.

“Thanks, but no thanks” She pulled her arm away and headed for her friends. Grabbing Ryan by the arm and dragging him away from the guys.

Slipping away from the party out onto the street, rain now pouring onto the streets. Maggie was already standing against the building next door lip locked with the black haired anime boy from earlier.

“So we’re leaving?” Ryan questioned but Noel ignored him, tapping Maggie on the shoulder.

“What?” Maggie pulled away from the anime boy a second, glaring at her friend.

“We are leaving “ She grumbled, puller her phone out and getting ready to fetch the Uber.

“Ok, text me when your home” Maggie said nothing else, just went back to smashing her face into the guys.

“So you gonna tell me-“ Ryan stopped asked the question as the girl dressed as Ino stepped out into the street. Eyes already meeting Noel’s, a loud sigh of annoyance escaping her lips. “Wow. Is that why we-“ Noel cut him short as the phone pinged to signal the driver was on its way.

“Running away?” The girl questioned, stepping over to them.

“You have a girl and you hit me up on tinder. Just bye” Noel went back to her phone ignoring the girls very existence.

“Your costume is really cute. Wish you would have texted me back. I was looking for someone to invite “ The girl met her eyes, a tad bit of hurt flashed over her eyes. “It could have been you. Writer and art student would have made a cute couple “

“How do you?” Noel questioned.

“It’s just your vibe. Your Uber is here so have a good night. Hopefully we meet again” The girl extended a very pretty manicured set of pink and black nails.

Noel didn’t even take her hand. Just nodded pulling Ryan off into the Uber mini van. Clutching him tightly once they got inside.

“She’s beautiful…” He questioned Noel looking at the girl out the window as they drove off. “Why didn’t you text back?”

“I can’t do it again” She sobbed into Ryan’s long sleeved arm, and he just held here there.

“I’m sure she’s nothing like Katie “ He brushed her hair with his hand. Trying to give her some comfort, remembering the last time she’d had anyone.

Eine Kellnerin in schwarzer Schürze stellte schwungvoll eine Tasse auf den Tresen. „Einmal schwarzer Kaffee für hier.“ Der Junge hinter der Theke bedankte sich und legte einen Schein vor sie. Bevor die Kellnerin ihm das Rückgeld rausgeben konnte, hatte er sich mit dem Kaffee an einen der Tische gesetzt und schlug ein Notizbuch auf. Dann fing er an in einer sehr krakeligen Schrift etwas zu notieren. Es war ein brühend heißer Tag und außer dem Jungen war kein Gast im Café, weswegen sich die Kellnerin ein Glas Wasser nahm und sich damit an den Tresen setzte. Verträumt schaute sie in die Luft und zählte die Zeit bis zum Ende ihrer Schicht. Sie konnte es kaum erwarten endlich nach Hause zu können, um zu duschen. Es kamen keine weiteren Kunden, allerdings bestellte der Junge noch zwei weitere schwarze Kaffees. Bei der dritten Bestellung konnte sich die Kellnerin die Frage nicht verkneifen: „Wie hältst du es eigentlich aus bei diesem Teufelswetter heißen Kaffee zu trinken? Du weißt, dass wir auch eisgekühlten verkaufen?“ Der Junge blickte überrascht von seiner Schreibarbeit auf und sah sie an. „Ich mag einfach heißen Kaffee. Ich brauche ihn. Stell dir vor ich bin ein Auto und heißer Kaffee ist mein Benzin. Ohne ihn springt mein Gehirn gar nicht erst an. Man könnte es eine Koffeinsucht nennen, aber das trifft es nicht vollkommen. Es tut nicht einfach jede Art von Koffein, es muss schon Kaffee sein. Und die Temperatur ist eben auch entscheidend.“ Das Mädchen lachte. Das schien ihr ein ziemlich komischer Junge zu sein, wie er in sein Notizbuch schrieb und heißen Kaffee im Sommer trank. Und dann sprach er auch noch in Rätseln. Interessant, aber seltsam. Zum Glück hatte sie heute keine anderen Kunden. Sie mochte interessante Menschen. „Was schreibst du da?“, fragte die Kellnerin. Der Junge zuckte mit den Schultern. „Ach, ich arbeite gerade an einem Roman. Aber ich komme kaum vorran. Bei diesem Wetter fehlt mir oft die Inspiration, ich schreibe am besten bei Regen. Aber diese Hitze macht mich schwerfällig und langsam im Denken.“ „Du bist Schriftsteller?“ Die Kellnerin war begeistert. Sie hatte noch nie einen echten Schriftsteller getroffen. In ihrer Vorstellung waren alle Autoren entweder steinalt oder tot, aber der Junge vor ihr war vielleicht ein-zwei Jahre jünger als sie selbst. „Naja, ich wäre gern einer. Ich habe noch nie etwas fertiges veröffentlicht…“, entgegnete er. „Das heißt nichts. Du schreibst also bist du Schriftsteller. Ich male, also bin ich Künstlerin, so einfach ist das mit der Kunst.“ „Also malst du?“ „Meistens zeichne ich, aber ich mag auch Acryl und Wasserfarben.“ Ein Lächeln schoss über ihre Lippen. „Ich arbeite hier, weil ich mir sonst die Utensilien nicht leisten könnte.“ „Aha, und was malst du alles?“ „Am liebsten Porträts. Ich finde Menschen einfach besonders interessant.“ „Ich auch.“, antwortete der Junge. Die Kellnerin verstand nicht wirklich, was er damit sagen wollte. Wie konnte man ein Porträt schreiben? Für sie hatten Bilder schon immer mehr ausgesagt als Worte. Zuhause fertigte sie eine Skizze von dem Jungen an, so wie er ihr im Gedächtnis geblieben war, der genaue Inhalt ihrer Unterhaltung verblasste mit der Zeit, sein Gesicht jedoch nicht. So kam es auch, dass sie ein paar Jahre später in einem Zeitschriftenladen wieder darauf stieß: Auf dem Titelblatt einer Tageszeitung prangte ein Bild von ihm. Er hatte ein Buch veröffentlicht. „Porträts von Fremden.“ Sie erinnerte sich zurück an diesen merkwürdigen Jungen und an seine Art übers Schreiben zu reden. Neugierig geworden suchte sie einen Buchladen und blätterte durch die Seiten. Gleich beim ersten Kapitel stockte sie und lächelte. Es hieß: „Ich male, also bin ich Künstlerin.- Porträt einer Kellnerin.“ Sie kaufte das Buch.