Sooo I know it's really random for me to come up with this story idea, but bear with me. I was bored, and decided to edit a few pictures I have in my folder. Turns out, I killed about over an hour of my time and I still have to write this damn research paper part. So I hope that you all enjoy this just like I enjoyed it, and as a random thing I want to throw out there, every one of you guys should totally listen to Ellie Goulding! She's this British chick whom I'm not friends with, but think her music is amazing :) That about wraps that up, so here goes nothing! Yay random inspirations that come out of nowhere!
P.S. This story doesn't follow Cassandra Clare's story. It's not completely different, just imagine it starting over from the beginning…Okay I'm giving too much away, JUST READ and you'll see what I mean.
Clarissa Fray could never think back to a moment where she picked up a writing utensil and had nothing pouring out of it a second later. Drawing to her was like breathing and eating for someone else–completely essential for her sanity as well as her well-being. But this moment now, within the confines of her private study, was that one moment that started a series of frustrated moans as she ripped sheet after sheet of paper, disappointed in her ability–or lack therefore–to create a masterpiece that she dreamed would come to her when she needed it the most: for the National Artists Competition.
"No, no, no, no!" She tore the barely drawn on piece of paper off her sketchbook, crumpled it up until it was beyond recognition and hurled it across the room and didn't even feel a tad bit happy when it swished into the garbage bin. "This is all wrong!"
Clary lifted her head up from the drawing and felt tears well up when they found the threshold of her room. By now, her mother or Luke would've waltzed right into her room with a steaming cup of her favorite tea, sat down with her and would've tried–and failed–to help her out of her slump. That's what they always did whenever she was frustrated.
But not anymore.
Clary turned eighteen about a month ago, and the moment she did, she bought her very own brownstone in SoHo so that she was close to Tisch, a school in NYU that she had been accepted in. And while living on her own had its ups, there were also downsides–in this case, not having anyone to lean on in times of desperation.
Clary picked up her cellphone and turned it on, not surprised to see she had five missed calls from her best friend, Izzy. She contemplated calling her back, but decided against it, reasoning that Izzy probably wanted to hang out and she wasn't exactly "in the mood" for a big heaping of Izzy-time.
On a last minute whim, Clary picked up her messenger bag, threw in her planner, keys, sketchbook, pencils (of the graphite and colored variations) and stormed out of her brownstone, letting her feet wander wherever they pleased.
Not surprisingly, they wound up taking her to Fanelli Café, a cute cozy little place that served delicious food as well as coffee. It was funny how she wound up discovering this place a few blocks away from school; it had been the day of the big move, and it was pouring outside. She decided to stop by since it was raining cats and dogs outside and once inside, she filled her lungs with the scent of sweet coffee beans as she was doing at the moment.
"Hey Fray!" She pulled out from her reverie to spot a somewhat familiar head of black hair and beady brown eyes peering at her throw thick black-rimmed glasses. "Got your coffee for you."
"Hey," she smiled sheepishly. He must've been a boy from her class, but his name seemed to have escaped her. "Thanks so much."
"No problem, Fray," he beamed as he held out her coffee for her. However, her reflexes weren't in sync with his and he wound up dropping the Styrofoam cup on the glass counter, almost splashing it on Clary. "Aw crud!"
Clary stifled her laughter but couldn't hide her smile as the poor boy fumbled with a roll of paper towels to clean up the mess and wound up using all the napkins in a nearby napkin dispenser. "Shit, shit," the boy moaned. "My boss is going to murder me!"
"It's fine," Clary giggled. "Really. I wasn't looking for coffee anyway…just…a place to think."
"Oh," the boy looked disappointed at first and began to fiddle with his nametag. Clary made a mental note to remember his name: Simon. "Well, you should go to one of the outdoor tables. It's really nice out."
"Thanks," Clary smiled as she shuffled outside, weaving her way in between the winding line until she was half-shoved outside. Simon was right; it was gorgeous out, the skies so blue that Clary's fingers twitched, yearning to try to sketch the stark contrast between the concrete skyscrapers and the cerulean blue sky…
…If only there were a table available. Clary sighed as she hitched her bag higher, taking in the lack of availability as a sign that she didn't belong here. Great, she grumbled; just when I thought I was starting to fit in, too.
"Uh, excuse me?" Clary spun around on her heel, her eyes snapping to meet a pair of amber ones with golden swirls that danced around the borders of the irises–which would've been amazing to sketch if they weren't portraying a fixed look of irritation.
"What?" she stuttered, taking a step back so that a comfortable distance was between them.
"You're in my way," the golden boy–an apropos title due to his tan skin and blond hair–smirked. He lifted up a cardboard crate containing two cups of coffee and a bag in the other with a hefty-looking bag strapped over his shoulder.
"Oh. Right, okay," Clary stammered, taking another step back, causing her to stumble into a seated girl who shot her a dirty look. The boy didn't say anything as Clary continued to collide into several other people as she backpedaled enough for two giraffes to have a party in between the two.
"Now look what you made her do!" The girl Clary had collided with shrieked, jumping out of her seat to show everyone in the café that her blue blouse was now spoiled with coffee. The girl shot Clary a death look so frightening, she felt her inside slowly die organ-by-organ.
"Calm down," her boyfriend yelled at her, but it was too late. She was already storming down the block and making a turn, causing him to get up and chase her down.
"Aren't you resourceful?" the golden boy chuckled as he pushed the remains of the previous couple and sat down in the boyfriend's chair. Clary swallowed audibly and nodded once, not sure why she was agreeing with him. The boy began to sift through the bag and pulled out a sandwich, acting as if she weren't standing right in front of him, gawking at him. After taking a bite of his sandwich did he decide to acknowledge her. "What? Aren't you going to sit down?"
"I don't know who you are," Clary rasped, feeling even more out-of-place than usual.
He sucked on his thumb for a moment, reminding Clary of an innocent baby boy, before sticking out his hand for her. "The name's Jace. Now sit down, your coffee is getting cold."
"My what?"
"Your coffee," Jace enunciated 'coffee' in spite of her with a lopsided smile on his face. "I was on line behind you, saw that dorky new guy hitting on you and failing miserably, so I decided to order you a coffee since my stunning good looks don't render people brainless."
Clary pondered what he said for a moment as she sat down, not fully sure whether or not Jace was complimenting or insulting her. As she took a long sip of her coffee, she settled with both and neither at the same time.
"Thanks," she sighed, her energy back now that caffeine was being circulated inside her body. She opened up her bag and pulled out her sketchpad, hoping that now she had more energy, she could make herself draw something that would move her art teacher to tears.
"You're an artist?"
"Huh?" Clary looked up from her sketchbook, her thoughts interrupted. She had been unconsciously tracing her initials on the cover of the book. "Oh. Yeah, I study at Tisch. I want to become an artist."
"What kind?" Jace leaned in on his elbows, his full attention on her. Clary blushed, not used to this much attention before.
"The drawing kind?" She had attempted and failed at witticism when the joke flew over his head. "I don't know what my style is yet, so I hope that by the time I graduate, I master it–whatever 'it' may be."
Jace reclined in his chair and without taking his hawk eyes off Clary, took a sip of his coffee. Clary felt a shiver run down her spine and wasn't sure whether or not she enjoyed it. "I play guitar at Juilliard. I plan on making it big that way. I've been writing my own music since I was old enough to sing."
Clary nearly choked on her coffee and quickly picked up napkins to wipe her face with before speaking. Jace watched as she did this, an amused expression on his face. "You play at Juilliard? That's amazing!"
"You know what never ceases to amuse me?" he interrupted, leaning forward again, closer this time. "People and their reactions. You tell them one thing about yourself and regardless, they always act the same: 'Oh Juilliard? You must be talented!' I never said I was excelling, and yet, the name alone renders you speechless–or rather, unintelligent. But maybe that's just me."
Clary felt hurt, angry and embarrassed all at the same time–which, for her, was a novice and not something she was particularly excited about. Was her reaction really that common amongst people? Clary thought about all the times she'd told people what she aspired to be, about all the times she'd shown people her work and felt her cheeks burn when she realized that they all had said the same thing in only a few variations: "Oh wow, that's amazing!"
"Don't be sorry, though," he went on as if he could read her mind. "In a world full of over 6 billion people, it's hard to be 'unique'. The way I see it, if we all try to be 'unique', then we're all technically the same. We all might not actually be the same, but our motives are the same, and that's enough to be a textbook definition of the same. So I don't really get offended when people react the same because out of all the people in the world, what are the chances that there's someone out there not like 'the others'?"
Clary felt her mind spin like crazy with every word that Jace spewed and her fingers were twitching as if they were on fire. Suddenly inspired, she picked up a pencil and began to sketch. She was on such a roll that she didn't even pay any attention to how silent Jace was.
She started off with a circle, then a line, continued on an angle with another, shaded in certain regions until she forced herself to stop, slamming the pencil down so hard that her coffee cup almost spilled.
"Can I see?" Jace asked softly, his voice the loudest amongst the cacophony that was New York City.
Clary tore her eyes away from the sketchbook so that she wouldn't try to find any mistakes before handing it over and closed her eyes as Jace scrutinized her drawing. She tried to conjure the image up in her mind despite herself and was surprised to find that she had no imprint of it in her mind like most of her older drawings. It was as if her mind and fingers were on their own planet when they sketched it, without her help at all.
Jace let out a low whistle and let out a breathless "wow" and before she could stop herself, Clary reached out and snatched the sketch back. Her eyes scanned the picture for any flaws, but even she had to admit, it was good. No, beyond good. It was the piece she had been waiting for, the piece she knew in both her heart and mind that her teacher would love. And unlike most of her artwork, Clary had a feeling that she loved it as well.
So what do you guys think? Please rate and review and maybe I'll write more…if I'm up to it. But it all depends on whether or not you guys rate and review so make sure you get right to it!