Falling Leaves by reggieman721
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Aster walked through a tunnel of interlacing tree boughs as he made his way down the sidewalk one afternoon. The late autumn colors blended above him as the brisk wind slithered across the park, stirring up the dry leaves that had already fallen to the grass and blowing them in spiral patterns before letting them flutter once more to the ground. The yellow Blumaroo clutched the neck of his brown jacket closer around him as he hurried down the path, his eyes squeezed tightly against the chill breeze. Aster was too busy thinking to enjoy the beautiful afternoon; his writing professor had instructed the class to brainstorm short story ideas over the weekend, but come Monday the Blumaroo had not captured a single bolt of inspiration. Instead, his mind merely suffered from a drizzle of weak ideas that evaporated as quickly as they arrived. Now, rushing to get to the brick building a short walk from his house, Aster had no time to admire the scenery. His brain was frantically formulating the tale of a knight who had to fight an evil warlord in order to rescue a fair maiden. Aster turned the corner of the sidewalk, sidestepping a small red Blumaroo who was drawing with chalk on the pavement. He crossed over to the brick building where his weekly writing class met each Monday and hurried inside.
“You may place your umbrellas over there in the corner,” said Professor Cartwright, gesturing to one end of the room. The trickle of Neopets that wandered in through the door each placed their coat on the rack and leaned their umbrella against the wall. As Aster removed his jacket, he cast a glance out the window and realized for the first time that the sky was a dark grey. He would get wet on the way home.
“Have a seat, everyone. Wherever you like, as usual,” said the old blue Gnorbu. He walked over to the chalkboard in the front of the classroom and underlined the day’s topic. “Inspiration,” he said aloud, tapping the board. “The first hurdle that trips many an aspiring author. We briefly touched on this last week, and I hope that you’ve been brainstorming over past few days, because I thought we could try giving some presentations today.” As Aster took a seat in one of the desks off to the side, a thunderclap echoed from outside. The last few latecomers hurried inside as raindrops began to tumble down from above, and Professor Cartwright let out a hearty chuckle. “How appropriate!” he said as everyone sat down at last. “A literal storm might inspire the ones inside your brains. Now, who will volunteer to go first? I want everyone to throw out some ideas.” A blue Ixi raised her hand. The Gnorbu nodded at her, and she stood up. “I was thinking of a short story with a tangible metaphor,” she said, turning to face the class. “Specifically, I thought it would be interesting to have a glass ornamental heart mirror the heart of the character.” “A fascinating concept!” cried Professor Cartwright, as Aster tried to understand what the Ixi had said. “Of course, you must be careful to make the metaphor realistic, yet not too blatant. It’s tricky work, to be sure. Who would like to go next?” A pink Lutari stood. “My idea was to express the thoughts and decisions of a character in just five minutes,” she said. “I wanted to show the darker side of celebrity, and I thought perhaps getting inside the mind of a famous Neopet for a few moments and seeing the pain that is really there would be an intriguing perspective.” “I see,” said the Gnorbu, nodding. “Our volunteers today certainly know how to begin a short story. I can see that you already know what you’re doing.” The professor smiled. “But what I want to see is the how the rest of you are handling this. Let’s hear from someone who hasn’t quite gotten their footing as an author yet. How about you?” Aster’s heart skipped a beat as the Gnorbu pointed at him. “Me?” he asked, looking around nervously at the rest of the class. “Yes,” smiled Professor Cartwright. “What ideas did you come up with for a short story?” Aster stood up slowly, his mind racing. Why couldn’t he have thought of a good idea? Everyone else seemed to have it so easy, so why was so hard for him to come up with anything decent? Feeling the eyes of the room staring at him patiently, Aster opened his mouth and said, “Well, I was thinking about writing the tale of a knight.” He paused. “And, this knight... he needs to battle a maniacal villain.” The Blumaroo swallowed, cursing his lack of creativity. “His quest is to save a fair maiden, and he must endure many hardships on his journey.” Aster knew that he looked like a complete fool, and he sunk back into his chair feeling utterly defeated. How could he be expected to think of a brilliant storyline all by himself? It was impossible. “That’s a brilliant idea,” said Professor Cartwright, drawing Aster from his bitter reverie. “In fact,” continued the Gnorbu, “it’s so brilliant that it has already been written about hundreds of times before.” Aster felt his cheeks burning, but no one laughed. “You see,” said Professor Cartwright, walking to the front of the room, “the key to a good story idea is not trying to pull a plot out of thin air. It’s not about trying to write an epic about heroic legends and valiant warriors. Leave that to the historians. Writing a short story is about life, and it’s just that simple.” Aster’s embarrassment faded as he watched the professor lean his hand against the wall. “True writing is emotion, especially in the short story. And if you want to write about emotion, you have to feel it. If you want to write about life, you have to live it.” The class watched in silence as the old Gnorbu walked down one of the rows of desks. “A story has to be your own. It has to bear your mark, and the only way it can do that is if it comes from the very depths of your soul. Now, that doesn’t mean that every story has to be full of emotion and conflict. All it means is that anything you write should be rooted in something you’ve done, something you’ve thought, or something you’ve felt. Only then can you truly inspire others. Only then can you truly write well.” Professor Cartwright had ended his journey right next to Aster’s desk. The yellow Blumaroo stared up into the Gnorbu’s weathered blue eyes. “This week, I’m not going to give you an assignment. I just want you to go out and live your lives, paying attention to everything that happens. Oftentimes the best stories will come from the most trivial experiences or ideas, and only a wise writer will recognize when these things occur. That’s all I ask: go learn, feel, taste, love, laugh, and live. Eventually, something will strike you as special, and that is when your story will be born.” * * * * *
The bright autumn colors were not lost on Aster as he walked slowly home down the sidewalk that afternoon. The light downpour had glued many of the leaves to the pavement, but the clouds above withheld their rain for a while as the yellow Blumaroo made his way through the park. His mind was clear at last, clear like the crispness of the air that stung his cheeks pleasantly as he moved along. For what seemed like the first time, Aster noticed the vibrant reds that dotted the trees, and the warm oranges that filled the canopy above him, and the humble yellows that drifted down from the sky to rest on the moist grass. Maybe he would write a story about the leaves. It was simple, yes, but the colors of autumn had so suddenly inspired Aster that he knew a story lay somewhere within them. He would write about the leaves, watching them as one by one they departed their high home and sailed down, falling gracefully through the air. Turning a corner, Aster’s gaze fell upon another splash of color. The young red Blumaroo who had been playing on the sidewalk earlier was standing beneath a tree, her hands pressed against the bark and her eyes peering up into the leaves above. Aster paused for a moment and watched her, but she didn’t notice. The young Neopet was in her own world, the world of the autumn leaves: hues of red and yellow and brown and orange all mixed together, reflected in her wide, curious eyes. Aster smiled and continued on his way, a story already brewing in his mind.
The End
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