I was writing something, and here it is.

Figured I'd write some "fiction", actually I do this "pretty often" but this time I figured I'd post it. I sort of like this one.

The sun was low and red as David left The Art School. The building stood partly silhouetted, its high towers looking especially ancient and imposing. David began down the path towards the parking lot, but on a whim he swerved onto the lawn, intending to get a better view of the sunset. He crossed the grassy hills, meticulously groomed by a drop out, or maybe a graduate, or maybe a failed admission. Poor people. He frowned again and hummed a few pitches. Not a whole lot to grasp at. He knew he did not have the talent, but he didn't believe himself. What he lacked, he felt, was inspiration - that would be the tipping point. The talent was already there.

He stopped and turned to the sun, now just beginning to be obscured by the central tower of The Art School. The sky above faded in a smooth gradient to a rich purple-gray, the colour of city night. He looked at the designer lawn, the leveled concrete parking lot, the building itself, the road that stretched back towards the city - all of this used to be trees, and the sky used to get real black. He tried to get his head around the concept, but he couldn't abandon the image before him, unnatural and brutally predictable. He opened his mouth, tried to sing. Nothing. Wrong medium. It was picturesque.

She thought so too, evidently. He had subconsciously noticed her when he was first looking around, but only after he began to head to the parking lot did he realize what else he had seen on that hill. He turned back, not quite expecting to actually see what he thought that he might, but there she was: sitting with legs out next to a box full of loose brushes and jars of paint, canvas on her lap. Picturesque. But was that just a nice word for cliche? He looked to the parking lot, no car yet. This was bad. He should talk to her, that much was obvious. It would not go well, that too seemed obvious. But this was a new day, wasn't it? Or the end of one at least. Inspired actions lead to inspiration. He walked over next to her.

She was staring intensely at the canvas. She made no movement as he approached and for the duration of the ten seconds he spent standing a few feet away from her, looking down at her blank canvas and waiting for her to say or do something. This was cruelty as far as he was concerned, and these ten billion nanoseconds were filled with such doubt and fear that David felt he was on the verge of fainting. He started: bent his knees and squatted next to her. Gestured at the canvas.

"What're you painting?"

Picturesque.

"The sunset."

Makes sense.

"Yeah, it's quite nice."

Silence. David began mentally kicking himself. More silence. Better take the initiative.

"I just started here today. Well, not really started, I guess. I'm in the new choir. Dr. Peterson's. Just had our first practice."

Silence. Except for the sound of his maddeningly fast heartbeat. Not really. In his head, a war was being fought. Small victories and losses opened and closed his mouth. Finally words came, an inoffensive question. Traditional question. Boring question.

"What classes are you taking?"

Silence again. Then, a sigh. "Art." she said. David had almost given up at this point. He wondered why he was even trying - was she that attractive? Was it the factor of mystery? The way in which he had so immediately equated this girl with "art student", a stereotype he longed to understand and possibly become? Probably that. She wasn't giving him any reason to change this opinion, either.

He turned back to the parking lot. His mother's car was waiting.

"Um, I have to go. But I'll be back here next week. For practice and such. Do you paint here often?" Shrug. "Well, maybe I'll be by later to see your progress." Shrug. He left discouraged and confused.

As he walked away, she dipped the paintbrush and painted a smooth, thin, continuous line roughly halfway up the canvas, dividing it horizontally. The stroke was orchestrated with a calculated, robot-like precision, her stiffened arm preventing any tremor. She stared at the line with much intensity, trying to allow her imagination to fill in the whiteness above and below it, willing the line to be a long cut which would bleed out the rest of the painting. Nothing bled.

She thought of creation myths. She had considered herself a Goddess creating ex nihilo, but now her single line revealed the true nature of the world in the canvas, for the canvas itself was the God, the world-God, Mother Earth. And she had made the first cut of distinction: her line was the horizon, establishing the kingdoms of the sky and the land. Where once there was all encompassing all, now there was two places, clearly defined. Such myths often begin with the separation of the sky and land, not for the mere fundamental nature of the two, but for the establishment of a hierarchy that follows. Unlike the ex nihilo where all comes from God, and God becomes all, her world was all intrinsic, and God was in the placement, in the judgment, and most importantly, in the moving from one to the other.

The painting then revealed itself to her with vague obligation: it contained everything in the world, placed above or below the line in accordance with the judgment she bestowed.

This was impossible. She decided to instead paint the sunset. Also impossible; the sun had set.

ANYWAYS that's just something, I dunno.

Maybe I'll write more of it, I certainly have ideas. Basically it would be them talking about things. She wants to make this painting, he wants confidence in his abilities to make a living through singing. PHILOSOPHY etc maybe. Not sure if this is any good. Maybe you could give me some FEEDBACK. "go back to talking about anime crap" is ACCEPTABLE FEEDBACK. might post this somewhere on reddit or something in the spirit of "why not" so if you're here from reddit, "hello".