artyom gallery's little idea

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A short tale about a man who decides to write about how he comes up with ideas. It's definitely not meta at all. Doubles as a musing about how I feel of certain qualities both of the SCP wiki and of life as well.

The author label quote is from TWRP's //All Night Forever//.
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|name=7eventy7evenfold]]
//I've been searchin' for you,//
//Every night, and day too,//
//Soon you'll be before me;//
//I give you my soul freely,//
//Laws of nature bendin',//
//Our love never-endin',//
//Ancient love, long ago,//
//I lose all control//

[https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/7eventy7evenfold If Cain shall be avenged sevenfold...]
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The man sat at his little desk, unsure of what to do. His pencil was rested against the sheet of paper that he was going to stain, but it had not yet been done. He took it off and gently set the pencil on the desk, allowing himself to take in the atmosphere of the room, in search for ideas.

It was mind-numbingly brown. The dust in the air was illuminated by his lamp and the little bit of moonlight he could see peering through his blinds. Sometimes, since his childhood, he'd try to grab the dust with his hand, and then look at it. He knew it was a futile battle, but it was entertaining to watch it flee from the giant.

He let the little particles float away like microscopic birds in the stale, lukewarm air.

A calendar sat on the wall, to his right, flapping slightly every time his little desk fan would face it, and then falling back down to static when it faced him again. It was dated to 1999-- but it was 2005. He didn't bother ever changing that calendar, it was some old gift from a market he had grown attached to. He looked back to his desk, fanning his pencil away and looking through it.

It was made of the type of wood that felt hollow to knock on, despite not being. But if one were to hit it, hardly, it would still hurt. In a weird sort of way. He looked at its contents next, not just its outward appearance:

Little trinkets were smeared about the desk, the type of stuff you'd see from a collector. But he was no collector. Sometimes, he was the recipient of a gift, sometimes he just wanted to care for himself. But he didn't bother with actually collecting these things. If someone gifted him one of those somewhat new Funko toys -- the type that would be antique and sought after one day -- he'd open the box carelessly, and set the figure on his desk, to admire every day, freely. It was now his, after all.

He looked to his left. There was a little box TV. Just earlier, he had been in front of it, watching a DVD of //House//, a new medical drama that had piqued his interest, indeed. He loved that little show, just too much. He couldn't wait to see how the second season ended.

Not wanting to borrow off of his old ideas, and afraid of facing failure, he refrained from peeking at his other stories for inspiration. Whatever story he wanted to write wasn't going to be a series, supplement, or anything like that. Gods, no. It was a standalone tale about whatever he wanted. It was //his// story anyways. Who'd care?

He thought of an invitation he had gotten the other day; a flyer from some little group calling themselves //Are We Cool Yet?// He wasn't too interested. He had been selected and asked because //somebody// had shown interest in his writing, but they seemed like the childish type, and didn't focus on writing as much as they did petty vandalism. The type to call themselves The Next Banksy without actually painting anything meaningful.

It didn't interest him. Besides, they looked to punish failure too harshly. He did not mind failure, it was important. He had called back when he got it, simply saying he'd think about it, and since then, the fate of that flyer was collecting those microscopic birds on his desk. He stopped thinking about the flyer and went back to ideas for his story.

He's had stupid ideas before, right? Come on, surely he could think of something. Then, just like //that!//, he had a breakthrough; he had thought about thought itself. It was a technological innovation far beyond his time! A discovery that solves the pyramids! It was the truth about aliens!

He used his newfound power to think all the way back to the pencil on the paper, and the dust in the room. The way they floated, his memory with them. Then, that old calendar, and the woman who had gifted it to her in a Mac's Fresh Market during a Louisiana trip. A random act of kindness that he still sees today.

Then, he thought about the desk, its material. He knocked on it, twice. It echoed inside. It stood out as so //strange// to him. He knocked again, just for fun. It was such a simple delight. So boyish, so gleeful.

He picked up one of the action figures on the desk. It was a G.I. Joe limited thing, something from '85. A fanatic would crucify him and scream //"Why did you take it out of the package?"// but he cared not. What good's a gift if you can't see it for what it is? Why keep it in tip-top shape if it won't even be viewed through the naked eye, but through plastic? Snake Eyes was always his favorite character.

He looked at that box TV again. House's struggle with relationships, his friendship and reason itself was something he related to every day. He found himself inspired, and once more he wished for season two to finish tomorrow.

He looked back at the flyer he had been given by someone in that //AWCY?// group. He thought about it. Someone had looked at a group that celebrates art, thought of him, and gotten it to him. //What good's a gift if you can't see it for what it is?// He respected that. He was going to be sure to call back later.

He had something. He picked up his pencil and slipped it away into his desk, pulling out his pen and ink. //Failure's fine,// he thought to himself. He titled the page a simple "a little idea," and just started writing whatever he saw fit.

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artyom gallery's little idea

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