She never knew what hit her. It was like a moth to a flame. The tinted glass, the smooth exterior, the glistening enamel. And there were those baby blues. Who could resist such poetry? Add to that the quadruple dimples, and it was no wonder she felt the way she did.

Her mind reeled back, as if in shock. She was too scared to think, too scared to feel, and definitely too scared to act. Her hands shook. She blinked, wondering if she was in a dream.

Then, he decided to say Hello.

And she was gone for good.

I’ve been thinking of stories lately. Almost everywhere I look these days, I see some sort of inspiration. The hazy fog, the four stray kittens in our neighborhood, the occasional odd couple, the screams of two year old toddlers — these are little sparks that go off in my head, telling me that there’s a story in any one of these things. It’s simply a matter of planting these seeds of stories in fertile soil, watering them, tending to them with care, so that I’ll be able to watch them flourish. But handling a story seems so daunting somehow. The many plots and characters seem to overcrowd my imagination. Which is why I still often shy away from telling stories — I’m still not confident enough to face such a challenge. But seeds. I can handle seeds. They’re small enough for me to hold in my hand.

A few days ago, I saw a rather tall, lumbering, red-faced man, walking next to a short, bespectacled Asian girl, with long black hair. She seemed meek next to him, and seemed to just nod and smile at his every word. The red-faced man seemed quite jovial and talkative, happily chatting away with his new-found conversation partner. I wasn’t close enough to hear their voices, but their mannerisms and body language gave me a sense of what was going on. At this point, I was going by stereotypes and assumptions. We were near the university, so this girl is possibly a foreign student, and is not from around here. Maybe the man was giving her some “valuable cultural tips” to “educate” her of our Western Ways. Maybe he was a student himself, as he was carrying a backpack. He seemed a little older than the average college student, but he could be one of those late-bloomers that never got around to a college education until later in life. Or maybe, the girl was from around here, but was just raised in a somewhat conservative Asian environment. Maybe the man was just talking a lot because he felt insecure. Maybe he was lonely. Maybe she was lonely. Maybe they were somehow forming an odd bond at that very moment, as she listened patiently to him ramble, and as he rambled on hoping that she was listening. Maybe her smiling gives assurance to him. Maybe she’s just tolerating him. Maybe they’ll end up getting on the same bus, and getting off at the same stop. Maybe they somehow keep on meeting at this place, over and over again, and unknowingly, the bond grows deeper. Maybe they’ll end up depending on the other person showing up at that bus stop, so that they won’t feel so lonely on the ride home. Maybe something happens one day, and the other person doesn’t show up. And the remaining person will just ride home alone, thinking that he or she should’ve done something to show how much that other person mattered. Maybe they go home every night dreaming of things that they wish the other person would never know about. Or maybe they do wish the other person would know about their dreams. Because, maybe the dreams are of togetherness. And that would be better than their loneliness.

Then a bus came rumbling by, and both of them got on it. They both stood at the back of the bus, holding the railing. He was still talking. She was still listening. The bus then drove away.

And I’m left with seeds.

Yeah, another cartoon/comic drawing of me; this time with the paintbrush tool. I’m sorta training myself to have some kind of consistency. Maybe I’ll draw an actual story some day, eh?
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I drew the picture to the left using Brandon’s Wacom tablet, and I gotta say it looks pretty decent. It’s not entirely accurate (I’m not nearly as skinny), but it’s a decent first effort I think. I gotta say that using the Wacom tablet is a lot easier than drawing with a mouse.

Actually, I could either call it a sketch of me, or a sketch of nearly any Asian girl who wears glasses. You know, ’cause we all look the same anyway.