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((This topic is open to anyone interested. My character seems Seme, so I guess I'm looking for an Uke to supply inspiration ^^))

It seemed he had sat there for hours. Hours doing nothing but stare at the stark white canvas, brush poised in his hand above the dots of color. He was ready, should something strike him he could put it onto that canvas in a matter of seconds. That moment's worth of work would earn him enough money to pay his overdue rent, and the overdue bills, and the restaurant tabs, and the loan sharks. In the blink of an eye he would be set for the next few months at least.

The only problem was that nothing struck him. The worse problem, was that nothing had struck him for months.

Every day he would sit in front of the easle and try, beg, pray, for inspiration. Something, anything that could be translated into the swirl of colors that was his world. All day, taking breaks only to eat and sleep, sometimes not even that. Yet, no matter how long he stared, thought, or prayed, nothing ever came. He had fallen asleep in front of the canvas before; woke to find himself covered in paint, but without any more inspiration than when he had fallen uncontious. To pay that months rent he had sold his paint covered shirt to the gallery down the street, claiming modern impressionism. To this day he didn't think anyone believed him.

His reputation was rapidly swirling down the drain. His name would soon fall out of the news, and he would become no more than a struggling artist again. It was frustrating, angering. He had worked too hard to get to where he was now; renouned through the country for his art. They called him a genious.

Soon they would be calling him a fluke.

Years of fabulous paintings, and now this? He had been broke for weeks, his savings having long run out. He couldn't pay his rent, so he moved out of his posh flat and into a cheaper appartment. He didn't care. He couldn't pay his bills, so his heating and electricity had been cut off. He didn't care. He couldn't pay for food, so he had a running tab at the grocery down the street. He didn't care.

He didn't care because he knew that someday he would find his inspiration again. Someday he would see the world as he had seen it before. Someday he would sell a painting that measured up to his others. But today was not 'someday'. Today was the day he would have to sell his sofa in order to pay the rent. Tonight he would sleep on the floor because he'd sold all but his art supplies, the curtains and a table. Last night he had ripped the curtains down because he had sold his last blanket to the family next door.

Tonight it would snow. Tonight he had no heating, no blankets, and no place to sleep but the floor. Tomorrow he might not have a roof over his head. The day after that, he might have to sell his canvases, his brushes, his paints. The day after that, he would get a job at a fast food restaurant and try to earn back enough money to buy new canvases and paints. Then, maybe, he would think of something to create.

(A picture of my character, if you want: Karl Taylor, and another picture, and another)

Time to start the long walk to School. Everyday it was the same. Up 64th street, and then down that dark allywayfor about 10 minets. he would then get to walk through the posh part of town. this was the best part of his journy. He always hoped that somone would see him, and take him in, but it never happend. Not to be expected realy, but what could he do. He was an artist, who was destined to fail even before he had started. Form the posh part, he would turn to walk down 7th street, and then make a left, up 12th street for a bit and then he would be there. the journy took about 45 mins all together, so he had a lot of time to think. Sometimes too much. He didn't like walking home alone, but there where none of his friends that lived down his end of town. Especialy now he had less friends than usual, after that incidnt. He knwe that it was a bad idea comming out to all of his friends. They wouldn't understand. How could they? They aren't what he is. They are normal. he finaly got to his school. although he was very tired from then night before, as he didn't get much sleep. he walked through the front door. Aparantly he was late, but he didn't know what time it was since his dad took his watch. Either he was early or late, and it didn't look very much like he was early.
He dragged his feet to his first class, English. he hated english. He had a horrific teacher, and she didn't like him. He wasn't a very good speller, so she picked on him at every opertunaty she got. One of these days she would get what was comming to her, one of these day he would get suspeneded, maby expelled. It all depended on what she said to him on that faithfull day.
He walked into the clasroom looking haggerd. His hair was messy, and his clothes where coverd in mud.
"What have you been doing?" Said the demon women "Playing in the mud with oyu pig friends? Sit down your late, and if your ever late to my lesson again, as this is the 5th time, you will not be late to a lesson here again." That was ambiguos, it could mean that she was going to kill him though, that would give him a good reson to report her. He sat down on the chair and took out his books. He then slumped on the desk and closed his eyes. The demon teacher looked at him, tuted, and turned away to face the bord with a look that would kill an honest man.

Tristian was at the end of his day at school. It was another boring day, he got pushed arround some by people he didn't know, or care to know. He ate his lunch alone, as his friedns where all doing someting else in the music theater, rehersls or somthing. and then he had lessons in which he had to sit next to the boy who made his lif hell in school. He had to work toninght. He didn't like it where he worked (the local supermarket) but his mum and dad made him work there so that he would be brining in some more money to ht ehose. If they where so despreate then why didn't his dad earn some money? well there was nothing he could say, unless he wanted to kicked out of his house.

Tristian sat down at his desk after work, to try and finnish off his work. He was writing a letter to Carl, trying to get him to see Trist.

Dear Karl Talor.
Hello, my name is Tristian Pool, and I have been a fan of your work for a long time. At the moment I dooing a project for my school on your work. As a party of this project I need to talk to the artist about his work. My teacher did not like the idea of me doing my project on your work, as hse feard that I would not be able to do this part of the project. I have managed to compleat every other part of the project, including some pictures in you style (which I have included). I also hope that you can find the time in your busy schedual to fit me in, so that I am able to compleat my project. That you vary much for your time,
Tristian Pool.

he hoped that this would work, and that he could complane about the lack of work that was comming from his idol at the moment, and the poor qualty of the past ferw works.

A few days passed, and Trist didn't realy expect to recive anything back, especialy in the first couple of days. But to his supprise on the third day, he recived a letter back from Karl. He quickly took it up to his room and opend it in a hurry. As he was looking at the letter a broad smile was appering on his face. Just then his mum wealked in.
"Hay Trist, did i get any mail?" She said pushing the door open.
"Na, there was some junk mail about credit cards that I thought I should get rid of befre you got to see them. Only joking"
"So what did I getthen" She said whils walking in and sitting down on his bed "Trist, you need to change your sheets, and get rid of some of the porn"
"Whatever mum!" He said knwing that she was only joking. She had a very strange sence of humor "You got a letter form that bank again. Thay say that if you don't pay the bills this month, that are going to start to take our stuff. Have you got your pay sorted out with the people?"
"No, Jasmin is beeing a bit stupid at the moment, and she dosn't want to go outside."
"Do you want to call the trainers? they will be able to help her again, and they won't charge."
"That sounds like a good idea, can you get the phone for me?"
"What did you do with your stick?"
"I put it down, and now I can't find it."
"I'll get it for you, and the phone, don't worrie" He walked otu of the room, and down the staris to where the phone was kept. He then took it out of the wall and walked upstairs. he took a left at the top of the staris, and walked into his muum and dads room. There was a thin stick with a small boble on one end lieing on the floor, just a bit away from the bed. it had just fallen over. Trist shook his head and picked it up.he then walked back into his room. "Your stick was on the floor, it must have just fallen off the end of the bed. I supprised that dad din't notice." he preceded to plug the phone into the wall and type in the number, he then handed it too his mum. The number on the scrren on the phone flashed up Guid Dog Assosiation.

When his mumu had finsihed obn the phone, he ushered her out of the room. It seem a bit harsh that he always just pushed gher out, and then left her to do whatever she wanted by hersalf, but she had to learn self control. He paused for a few moments looking at the phone, and at the letter. Eventualy he picked up the phone, and slowly started to type the number into the phone. There was a rining on the other end, he was getteing more and more nervous as the phone was rining. He could feel his stomac trying to get rid of his well prepared dinner, but he kept it in. The other side picked up
"Hello?"
Trist just looked at the mouthpice of his phone, he said nothing.

Trist was in a state of panic. What now, he wasn't speaking, he couldn't speak. He swallowed, and got him never, and finaly managed to utter the words
"Hello. This is Tristian Pool, I'm the boy that wrote to you, and you said that I should phone you." He sounded extreamly nervous.