I held the brush horizontally, a measure. Blue paint dripped from the bristles onto the sheet I had laid across the floor. Several stains of other colors decorated it. It was old, and I was too much of a pack-rat to rid myself of it. And it was the only sheet that had seen every painting I had ever done. Even the ones I threw away, which I was sure that was where my current project was going.

Inspiration had been scarce, and the prompts the art teachers had been giving gave me no mind to create magic neither on canvas nor out of clay. And it pissed me off.

Only a few strokes of watery blue colored the textured white canvas. Was it the sky or the sea which I had originally planned on painting? I couldn’t remember. I couldn’t remember what I was even aiming for. Dark, light, suggestive, innocent, maybe even abstract--so many questions and no deity that would answer me.

I looked around my studio (which was honestly only the living room in my apartment), at the canvases, sizes ranging from tiny to the big, and the several sculptures upon shelves, previous prompts that I had no trouble with. But this one prompt stumped me, left my breathless and in a vacuum. I felt my own pride in my work diminishing and wasting away just like the paint that was drying and soon to be useless.

Perhaps I was just worrying too much. I’d go out for a walk, clear my mind with the brisk winter air, and let my worries be taken by the wind. At least, I had hoped that was what would happen. I dropped my brush into the bowl of water and added a mental note to clean up when I got back to the cluttered dry-erase board that was my mind. One swipe of the eraser and I wouldn’t be so stressed, but I could only find that eraser at the end of the semesters, when the hot sun or brisk cold meant a long-needed break.

And a break was something that I needed desperately. I pulled my hoodie on, then my leather jacket. I surmised my baggy jeans would be warm enough before I pulled on my boots (untied, the laces jammed under my feet). I didn’t bring my cell phone, I was tired of the damn thing ringing everytime a thought entered my head. With my trusty black-rimmed glasses perched lightly on my nose and my apartment locked up, a left for my journey to the outside the world, which was probably only a walk around the block.

The cold air attacked my lungs. It would’ve been better if there was a drop of moisture in the atmosphere, but it was drier than the desert. Street lights gave off a moldy glow and gave me enough light to let me see my way. I walked for a long time, probably an hour, probably more. I soon found myself walking along a street that was small, but cars zoomed along smoothly. There were only two street lights in the span of a mile. There were no sidewalks, but that was just fine. It had warmed up a couple days previous and no snow remained. The mud was too cold to be bothersome.

Part of me wondered if a walk like this could have anything to do with the prompt, the other part told me that it had nothing to do with it. But who was I to know? I’d never known anything about romance and the such, my only love was of art, but that told me nothing that could help me. I needed something that had to do with the feeling of love towards a special person, but my heart never really had that feeling as an option. Sure, I loved my family, but I pushed myself so far away from them since the age of thirteen that it would be hard, and I would have to dig up memories of them, which I didn’t really want to do.

A car rushed past me. The wind almost caught my glasses, but my hand flew to stop it. My fingers protested against the chill and I stuffed them back into my pockets. I should’ve started back home, but I didn’t feel like turning around to walk the other way. My head told me inspiration was just around the corner, and despite being skeptical, I couldn’t help but hope. Maybe some good inspiration would help clear that annoying dry-erase board. Of course, it wasn’t something to be sure of, but if you’re short on hope, you have to find a way to make more. I liked to pride myself with the fact I could make more. Not many people knew how.

It started to rain. But, at the temperature it was that night, the raindrops where more like ice drops. I still didn’t feel like turning back, though. I told myself I’d go to the nearest convenience store, grab a coffee, and then walk back home. It was getting late and I had to get up at seven for my first art class. It disappointed me that I didn’t find at least something that inspired me.

I nearly jumped when a horn blared and a car pulled over onto the side of the road in front of me. It was a banged up Cadillac SLS (’97 or ’98, I couldn’t tell in the light), and I felt like it was a bit familiar. The driver’s door opened and a guy hauled himself from the seat. I tilted my head.

“Mr. Stevens?” I called out to the man. He reminded me of my fundamental arts teacher, and I wondered why the hell he stopped for me.

“Hey! Logan!” It was Mr. Stevens, “Why are you hanging around here at night? It’s pretty dangerous in these parts.” Mr. Stevens—his first name was William—was a tall man, and wasn’t as old as my other teachers. He couldn’t have been over twenty-eight, an art teacher fresh out of college. Of course, he didn’t look like my other teachers either. He was a bit of a flake. He often forgot to shave (probably because he was always late), and always wore wrinkled clothes. “Need a ride home? It’s getting slippery out.”

“Oh, thanks.” I looked over my shoulder. Where was I? He climbed back into his car and reached over to push the passenger door open. I trudged over and got in. I could smell oil paint and the back of the car was filled with all kinds of art supplies and a couple newspaper-covered canvases. “Your car looks like your classroom.” I commented absently, but he must’ve found it funny because he laughed.

Mr. Stevens shut the driver’s door after I shut mine. He pulled back onto the road. I looked at him from the corner of my eye. His black hair was tied back but several strands fell over his face. I noticed he had worry lines beginning to appear on the sides of his eyes and pulling at his lips. Scruffy, of course, but he must have trimmed it, since it was neat and orderly. I looked away when his gold eyes shifted to glance at me.

“How’s your piece coming along for class?” He smiled. “I hope it’s coming along nicely, I always look forward to seeing your pieces.”

I adjusted my glasses. “The prompt is giving me trouble, I don’t understand it.” I was honest. The prompt made me wish I was in a RPG and I was a warrior so I could fight my way through the prompt with some ultimate weapon. My sword is only a brush though, and paint isn’t realistic bad guy blood.

When we stopped at a red light, Mr. Stevens turned and looked at me, “Really? You don’t understand love? It’s actually a very simple subject for those who understand it.” He gasped when someone honked at him and laughed nervously as he sped across the intersection. “I should pay more attention.” He scratched the back of his neck as he drove. I didn’t reply to his earlier comment. It was true, I didn’t understand love. I gave him the directions to my apartment (I didn’t know I walked so far, I was about five miles from home), and waited for me to get up to my apartment. I saw him sitting in the parking lot through the window in the hall as I searched through my pockets for my keys.

“Huh.” I tried all my pockets, but I couldn’t find my keys. Not in my pants, not in my leather jacket, not in my hoodie. I looked around frantically. Mr. Stevens must’ve noticed I was panicking because he turned his car off and walked into the apartment building. “I don’t have my keys.” I walked over to the staircase he was climbing. I pulled at the hair on the back of my head nervously. And of course! I didn’t bring my cell phone, so I had no way to contact any of my friends for a place to stay the night. The landlord was probably asleep, so I didn’t have a way into my apartment. I groaned.

“Do you need a place to stay? I live alone, but I have a pull-out couch.” He offered me a smile and I nodded sheepishly. Damn, I hate being so socially retarded. It would be awkward, staying the night at my teacher’s house, but at that point I had no choice. My artistic part thought that I might get inspiration, which made me feel even more awkward. “Alright, I’ll bring you back tomorrow. You can get another key, right?”

“Yeah, if my asshole for a landlord gets up before my classes start. I might not have any supplies for class tomorrow.” I swallowed any doubt I had. I had to be confident, it was just like staying at a cousin’s house. Yeah, just like that. But sometimes cousins like-- Oh god! I shoved my hands into my pockets so I wouldn’t start pulling at my hair. Mr. Stevens watched me pass him and walk down the steps, then he followed silently. I bit the inside of my cheeks and tried not to blush.

---

Mr. Steven’s--he told me to call him Will or William so it wouldn’t be so awkward sounding--apartment was even messier than his own classroom. I had to step carefully through the living room and almost fell four times. I sat down on the couch which smelled of oil paint. Will (god that’s weird) didn’t even look at his feet as he stepped through the living room.

He started pushing back all the art crap strewn across the floor to a corner then pulled the large tool boxes, filled with supplies, to the side of the couch. “Get up, I’ll pull the bed out for you. Go to my room,” he pointed with his eyes to a door to the left, “and get some pillows and blankets.” I looked at the door for a second, scared at to what was behind it, but got up and walked over to it. The couch cushions were tucked against the couch and I heard creaking. I pushed the door open and peered into the art-choked room. With my eyebrow raised in mild interest, I walked in. My hand groped the wall for a light switch. The bulb in the middle of the ceiling came to life and the white of all the paper was almost blinding. I pulled two pillows and blankets from a chair and left the room before my vision got worse.

“Your room scares me,” I commented absently and laid my finds on the sheet-covered couch bed. Wasn’t much, but it had to be more comfortable than laying outside of my apartment door.

Will laughed and kicked his shoes off so they landed by the front door. “Keeps me from getting robbed.” His coat was thrown onto a lone recliner and he yawned loudly. He pulled the hair tie out and brushed his hair with his fingers. “Well, you and me should go to bed, it’s late.”

“Yeah. Good night.” I pulled my hoodie off and laid it on top of Will’s coat. After Will said good night too and disappeared into his room, I arranged my bed for the night to my liking. My shoes and socks were kicked off onto the floor and I laid uncovered in a collarless black shirt and black pants an inch of bagginess away from being emo-tight. My glasses laid on an end table. I pulled the hospital-like blankets up around me. They smelled like burning paper and markers. I sighed and closed my eyes.

How easily and greatly I slept that night scared me. How was a crappy couch bed more comfortable than my own? I woke up in a great mood. That never happened back home, I’d wake up pissed at the world until I ingested some form of caffeine.

In fact, I was so happy that morning, I almost got out of bed to make breakfast. That was, of course, when I remembered where I was and that urge stayed like that. Since no light peered through the curtains, I figured it was before seven. I could hear Will mumbling in his sleep in the other room. No wonder the art teacher hated having an early class, he enjoyed sleep far too much. I yawned and decided I’d just let Will wake me up later. I closed my eyes, and I didn’t even notice that during the night I hadn’t moved from the position I was in when my head touched pillow.

Will treated me to breakfast. Of course, it was only McDonald’s, but it was the first time I’d even eaten breakfast in a long time. My landlord--I expected it--wasn’t awake, so my chances of getting my art supplies were slim. Though, I doubt breaking into your own house is a felony. But, Will told me not to worry, that we weren’t doing anything in class that day other than have work time. He said I could work in the back room on something else, if I wanted.

We drove to campus and I walked with him to class. I was surprised when none of the other class mates noticed us arriving together (and me being in the same clothes as the day before). They probably figured we met coincidently and I had merely had another all nighter. They were frequent, and my sleeping pattern suffered because of it, but my grade loved it.

I sat at my regular place. Near the back, right beside most of the art supplies Mr. Stevens (had to call him that during class because I’m paranoid someone will think there’s something between us, which there isn’t) set out for us to use if we wished.

“Alright, class, I know you’re having so much fun with your prompt for the week, but today I just want you to experiment a bit. Draw something you think Dues Ex Machina is about. You have the whole class period.” Will smiled and sat at his easel, which was turned so no one could see it, and he started sketching as well. It’s what he did most periods. No one else knew what he did, but they never noticed his eyes flicker away from the paper then back. He drew his students all the time.

I stared at the white paper on my stand. I doubted I’d draw anything on it. People wandered around the room before sitting back down with their supplies and ideas. My mind was quiet as I stared blankly at the white abyss. No inspiration had come to me, no ideas, no nothing! I felt like…a normal person. A person who doesn’t rush home to draw or write after seeing some miniscule event. Like I was waiting for some masterpiece to just appear on the paper.

An hour passed. A third of the class was over, everyone had something on their papers and some--which included Will--even had to get new sheets of paper. Mine stayed blank. My eyes even started to hurt after staring at it for so long. Class ended before I ever got enough nerve to pick up a piece of charcoal or a pastel. I left my paper for the next person who would sit there, since it wasn’t of any use to me.

I said thank you to Mr. Stevens and left. I took a bus over to my apartment building and got a spare key so I could unlock my door. I didn’t have another class for a couple hours (so I could sleep during the day) but I wasn’t tired. I stared blankly at the huge pad of Bristol from the door. I shut it and threw my shoes off, and picked the pad up. I hadn’t drawn anything in it yet, so I folded back the cardboard cover and set it on a stand by the balcony doors. Outside it was raining. It made me remember that I had been forgetting to water my outside plants, but thankfully the clouds did it for me. I was much too caught up in my thoughts, like a hurricane, destroying any other priority that may of gotten in the way. I grabbed color after color from my many sets of colored pencils, not being as articulate as I usually was because I had no idea in my head that I was going to pour onto the page. At first, there were only swipes of colors, but soon details started to form, and I was lost in the process. Never had I felt an inspiration so strong. I finished a couple minutes before I had to leave to go to my class--five hours passed by so quickly, were my clocks wrong?--and I rushed out the door after telling it not to go anywhere.

The rest of my classes that I had that day passed before I knew it, and I was home again. I changed into new clothes and took a shower before sitting in front of my stand and not getting back up until the next day, which was Saturday. I stared at the drawing. I didn’t understand it, didn’t understand any meaning behind it. It made me feel so sour towards a creation I had once felt so overjoyed about.

I yelled in annoyance and dropped heavily onto my couch. I wanted to rip the paper up and throw it into the garbage, where it could no longer bother me, but I didn’t feel like pulling myself from the couch. It bothered me how proud I was of the page, but how much I didn’t understand it, which made me hate it.

How dare he.

I jumped when there was a knock on the door. With a groan I got up, unlocked the several locks (they were there when I moved in) and pulled the heavy door open. I glanced up at Will and a ‘oh god’ stuck in my throat. He waved meekly.

“Just wanted to check that you got home and could get in. You left class really quickly.” His eyes slid past me and he inspected as much of my apartment as he could. He chuckled when he saw how messy it was. “Been working…?” He strained his eyes and looked at the pad of Bristol on my stand. Colored pencils littered the floor. “Whoa.” He let himself into my apartment and I shut the door bitterly. Will was big, and pushing him out was impossible. Especially when he saw something he was interested in. My drawing was something that he just had to be interested in.

The drawing was of a person sitting on a cliff, with a firefly resting on their nose. It was a night setting, which killed my dark colored pencils. Will stood in front of it with his mouth hanging open, like the paper had hypnotized him.

“When did you draw this?” He leaned in close and inspected the details.

I shrugged and leaned against the door. “Today.”

He looked at me then at the drawing again. “It’s amazing. You should use it for the prompt.” He grinned. “It fits perfectly.”

“What?” I scowled. “The prompt is love, not a night scene. There’s nothing about love in this, I’m not even sure what it’s about.” Will laughed.

“Of course it is!” He smirked. “For someone with glasses you’re very blind. Love is a feeling, not a physical picture. You can’t paint love, but you can put the feeling into it.” He shrugged and a tiny smile played on his lips. His hands were shoved into his coat’s pockets. “The person obviously loves the place he’s at, and enjoys the fireflies. You didn’t get that feeling from it?”

“No.” I scowled deeper. He made the feeling sound so simple, but I knew all too well that it wasn’t. It was difficult and always ended badly. Of course, I only knew that by past experience. I was a bit hypocritical because I had never been in love before, at least that’s what I thought.

“Shame.” He kept smiling. “You know, those who haven’t experienced certain feelings often don’t understand them.”

My throat felt like it closed and the blood under my cheeks heated up. Was it obvious? “That’s not true, I understand love.” I blurted. I didn’t want anyone to know my weaknesses, especially Will, since it seemed he could figure me so easily. He just kept smiling. I turned my gaze from him to the drawing. I hated it even more then, I felt like it betrayed me, like it was a door that allowed Will into my mind. I hated inspiration so much then.