Stoies of the heart
May 3, 2010 1:56:54 GMT -5
Post by Breeze-Chan on May 3, 2010 1:56:54 GMT -5
I'm writing a small collection of one-shot romance and I wanted to ask for some opinions.
Chapter four: Muse
Nighttime. A writer’s best friend or most bitter enemy; a beautiful muse or a horrible fiend that steals ideas in their sleep.
For me, nighttime doesn’t matter. I can rarely get to sleep anyways, just little cat naps when needed. I was your average insomniac. I was also a writer looking for his muse; nothing more.
But you know what they say: “You always find something you’re not looking for.” I use to laugh at this. Never really thought it would apply to me. If it did, my muse would have been found while I was still in college. I never knew just how true that rang until one faithful day.
As a writer, I traveled a lot. I thought I would be able to milk some muse from all the sites in the world.
I learned all the Hindu gods; listened to Japanese legends; I saw the Great Pyramid of Giza; I seen the original Mona Lisa; I walked along the Roman Aqueducts; I been to the ancient Greek temples (Athena, in fact. I had hope to get something from the Goddess of Wisdom. No such luck.).
It was useless, finding a muse. I looked almost everywhere. I have written anything good to be published in months and my editor wasn’t happy about that. “How could you not have any muse?” She would yell at me. “You use to be bursting with ideas, each better then the last! You wrote award winning books, Marc! And you don’t have any damn muse?!”
I was sitting in a small café in Paris (Paris, France, not Paris, Texas.) when I saw her.
She could easily be described as more beautiful then Aphrodite, with her long golden hair that flowed in lose waves and those bright forest green eyes. She had an innocent, but not so innocent face. If that makes any sense. It looked like she had been though much, but still believed there was some good in people. I had given up on that hope of people being good in my senior year of high school. She was the same age as myself, which made me question why she was working at some corner café.
For some reason, some unexplainable reason, I could see her as a heroine of a novel set in medieval times, slashing down monsters, her slim hands handling a sword with ease. Some how I knew that I had to talk to her. At lease once.
I came back every day, just to watch her perfection. Her name was Samantha. She took care of her little siblings, she wanted to be a model but couldn’t leave Tally and Zane. She was single, waiting for the right person to come along and sweep her off her feet. I couldn’t talk to her yet. The time wasn’t right.
She was walking pass me on my, regrettably, last day in Paris. I would head back to New York, get my things from the apartment I had rented as a pit-stop during my travels, then go back to Chicago, to help my little sister with her new baby.
There was a small gasp, a small clatter, then my papers and I was drenched with ice tea and a few soft drinks.
“I’m so sorry,” Samantha said as she appeared in my vision with a rag. She sounded American. If he had to guess, he would say she came from Iowa.
“It’s ok,” I smile at her, accepting the rag. I tried to pat the last chapter of my new book dry, but it was no use. The words where to blurred and I would never be able to type them out.
Samantha apologize again. “I have to go, sir.” She said before quickly retreating.
It was closing time for the Café by the time I finished rewriting my destroyed chapter.
Samantha had been scolded for spilling a tray of drinks on me. She had been given a warning. “One more mistake, Hart, and you’re gone.” Of course, the warning had been in French, but that’s just a minor detail. It doesn’t change the fact I almost cost that poor, beautiful angel her job.
I was just leaving the Café, the person closing locking the door behind me, when I saw Samantha crossing the street to the beat-up car I assumed was hers.
She may have not noticed the truck barreling towards her, but I did. I couldn’t let her get hurt. She was to precious.
I darted forwards and yanked her out of the way as the truck shrieked pass. My papers scattered everywhere as we hit the hard asphalt.
When I looked into those green eyes that where shining with gratitude, I knew that I found more then just a poor girl struggling to keep her little siblings. I found not only a muse, but I found something I had tried to avoid like the plague before: Love.
And I wasn’t ready to give her up yet.
Chapter four: Muse
Nighttime. A writer’s best friend or most bitter enemy; a beautiful muse or a horrible fiend that steals ideas in their sleep.
For me, nighttime doesn’t matter. I can rarely get to sleep anyways, just little cat naps when needed. I was your average insomniac. I was also a writer looking for his muse; nothing more.
But you know what they say: “You always find something you’re not looking for.” I use to laugh at this. Never really thought it would apply to me. If it did, my muse would have been found while I was still in college. I never knew just how true that rang until one faithful day.
As a writer, I traveled a lot. I thought I would be able to milk some muse from all the sites in the world.
I learned all the Hindu gods; listened to Japanese legends; I saw the Great Pyramid of Giza; I seen the original Mona Lisa; I walked along the Roman Aqueducts; I been to the ancient Greek temples (Athena, in fact. I had hope to get something from the Goddess of Wisdom. No such luck.).
It was useless, finding a muse. I looked almost everywhere. I have written anything good to be published in months and my editor wasn’t happy about that. “How could you not have any muse?” She would yell at me. “You use to be bursting with ideas, each better then the last! You wrote award winning books, Marc! And you don’t have any damn muse?!”
I was sitting in a small café in Paris (Paris, France, not Paris, Texas.) when I saw her.
She could easily be described as more beautiful then Aphrodite, with her long golden hair that flowed in lose waves and those bright forest green eyes. She had an innocent, but not so innocent face. If that makes any sense. It looked like she had been though much, but still believed there was some good in people. I had given up on that hope of people being good in my senior year of high school. She was the same age as myself, which made me question why she was working at some corner café.
For some reason, some unexplainable reason, I could see her as a heroine of a novel set in medieval times, slashing down monsters, her slim hands handling a sword with ease. Some how I knew that I had to talk to her. At lease once.
I came back every day, just to watch her perfection. Her name was Samantha. She took care of her little siblings, she wanted to be a model but couldn’t leave Tally and Zane. She was single, waiting for the right person to come along and sweep her off her feet. I couldn’t talk to her yet. The time wasn’t right.
She was walking pass me on my, regrettably, last day in Paris. I would head back to New York, get my things from the apartment I had rented as a pit-stop during my travels, then go back to Chicago, to help my little sister with her new baby.
There was a small gasp, a small clatter, then my papers and I was drenched with ice tea and a few soft drinks.
“I’m so sorry,” Samantha said as she appeared in my vision with a rag. She sounded American. If he had to guess, he would say she came from Iowa.
“It’s ok,” I smile at her, accepting the rag. I tried to pat the last chapter of my new book dry, but it was no use. The words where to blurred and I would never be able to type them out.
Samantha apologize again. “I have to go, sir.” She said before quickly retreating.
It was closing time for the Café by the time I finished rewriting my destroyed chapter.
Samantha had been scolded for spilling a tray of drinks on me. She had been given a warning. “One more mistake, Hart, and you’re gone.” Of course, the warning had been in French, but that’s just a minor detail. It doesn’t change the fact I almost cost that poor, beautiful angel her job.
I was just leaving the Café, the person closing locking the door behind me, when I saw Samantha crossing the street to the beat-up car I assumed was hers.
She may have not noticed the truck barreling towards her, but I did. I couldn’t let her get hurt. She was to precious.
I darted forwards and yanked her out of the way as the truck shrieked pass. My papers scattered everywhere as we hit the hard asphalt.
When I looked into those green eyes that where shining with gratitude, I knew that I found more then just a poor girl struggling to keep her little siblings. I found not only a muse, but I found something I had tried to avoid like the plague before: Love.
And I wasn’t ready to give her up yet.
