Chapter Five: Aurora abandons sleep to write. What would you do to develop your passion? What would you sacrifice? What would you endure?
Callie
Chapter Six
Authoring a steady stream of stories was a dream come true. But at such an expense. It had been too long since I'd had a good night's sleep. I had very little energy to do anything but write. If I didn't find a job soon I'd starve. I was forced to take a cold hard look at things and when I did I came to a difficult conclusion. I had to give the necklace back.
But... If only... Maybe... I made one last desperate attempt to get Callie to listen to reason. "I’m exhausted," I told her, "I need to sleep.”
She kept me up all night long--telling one story after another. I had to take the necklace back. Thankfully the bookstore’s address was listed at the top of the sales receipt.
Receipt in hand, I walked the streets of my neighbour. I went to the correct address but the store had vanished. In its place, a colourful abstract mural pulled me off the street and into a restaurant—The Starving Artist. Inside was just as vibrant as the mural with pottery and sculptures displayed on shelves and paintings on walls.
I stood captivated just inside the door. I stood there long enough for a server to notice me.
“Right this way,” she told me.
“No, I...” I couldn’t afford to eat there. If I didn’t find a job soon the only place I’d be finding my food would be in the nearest dumpster.
“Oh, you’re here about the job.”
Job? “Yes, the job.”
I caught the words “Fifteen dollars an hour plus—.” and quickly replied, “I can start immediately.”
"The restaurant is run by an artist collective." We stopped in front of a painting of a cityscape done in abstract—blocks of white represented skyscrapers, black dots for people, and vehicles with red dot headlights. "This is one of mine."
“I really like it.”
“Thanks. What do you do?”
Had I had more than a blink of sleep I’m sure I would have been able to come up with something better to say than, “I write.”
“Open mic night’s the last Friday of every month,” she told me.
Are you following me?
'We clang pots and pans, honk car horns, hoot and holler, to make as much noise
as we can to let people know that we are here, that we exist, no matter where we are.'
Ah, the irrepressible Acadian spirit.
