Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach. I make no profit.
Theme: all
Warning: all
Chapter word count: 592
General summary: string of unrelated bittersweet short one-shots.
Chapter summary: look, listen and don't feel.
bittersweet
i
muse
…o0o…o0o…o0o…
Ichigo rarely goes out in daylight and hustle-bustle. Writers hate noise and disturbance. Rephrase. Some writers don't like loud people. And he is certainly one of them.
Good actors watch real people. He supposes the same thing could be said about writing. Usually, he only needs a spark, his imagination, then things would flow out naturally and he would be raking in creativity and ideas. But then, lately, things start to change, he couldn't think of anything. It's like a widespread headache –a blockage in a mental highway –he's out of inspiration.
He decides to chase that damn inspiration by coming out of his modest apartment to try and see the real world -unless he wants to be stuck writing some mainstream yet rehash plots like cheating husbands or revenge shit. In casual shorts, light blue shirt and glasses, he sets out to the outside world, the real world outside his red door –his conjured world. He let his techs stay in his room. He does not need any of them.
It's a warm midmorning in May. Pollens populate the warm air blowing in his face as he struggles to find a shaded area. Finally, he sits quietly in a bench across an open area –a garden coffee shop.
The sits occupants include a black haired short girl in a dress sitting alone, old couple, three men having an outdoor coffee meeting and a group of girl friends having lunch.
He observes the old couple. He could glean out their history, maybe. He could wonder endlessly about how they met, did their relationship survive some war?
He readies his notebook and pencil and within minutes, he was firing away with his observations and reality snapshots. But none hit his spark yet.
He only stops –ungratefully so- when he turns to look at the girl sitting alone. She's still there. It has been over two hours and she's still sitting alone. The sky signals a rain approaching and Ichigo wonders when will she leave.
He looks at her. The slight hue of blue and violet suits her yet it was somehow too big for her. Her hair is short, curling just below her chin and the way her palm rest beneath her chin or her fingers drum constantly tells him she's still patiently waiting for someone. Is it a friend? Or a family? Or a lover maybe? Can she tell a story?
Her eyes are the color of brightest violet he has ever seen. What's her story, he wonders.
Somehow, Ichigo stops writing and shifts in his bench to carefully observe her, his pencil beats on his journal paper; he is waiting for the right words. Yet he knows he shouldn't be waiting for it, he should be writing down everything his senses hit.
Another solid thirty minutes pass in silence and she's still alone, and so Ichigo decides to wait with her for another hour.
She stands, graceful and slow with her hand firmly pushing her off the table.
She stands, and Ichigo smirks openly at her diminutive height.
She stands, and Ichigo notices the ring on her finger and her small yet noticeable baby bump.
Finally, Ichigo sees another man approaching her with a bouquet of cliché red roses.
The man whispers Rukia, the man's voice is quiet but loud enough for Ichigo to hear. And the short pregnant woman –Rukia- looks at the roses disbelievingly, folds her arm across her chest then makes a choking noise.
Ichigo hears her say an almost condescending husky tone, 'really? After all these years? Still?'
Ichigo watches her carefully. She does not seem tired after all the waiting. On her face is a memorable smile.
That's it. Ichigo swallows hard, stands and walks away.
There's his muse.
…o0O0o…
the end
Author's note
thanks for reading
-appleschan