Stories of Our Life [Volume 1]

48: Inspiration

Tak!

Newt groaned and threw his head back in frustration. He closed his eyes and let out a deep breath. This is the fifth time his pencil broke—the fifth time in the past ten minutes of doing nothing else but sitting on a bench in Central Park in New York with a sketchbook on his lap and a pencil in his right hand.

"Why isn't anything coming into my mind?" he growled under his breath while smacking his forehead with his hand holding the broken pencil.

Newt loved to draw. Ever since he can hold a pencil, all he did was draw. Every birthday, he would ask for either a new set of crayons, paintbrushes, or pencils or a new sketchbook since the last one he had was full of his drawings.

But, this time, a miracle perhaps...

He was out of ideas.

And that's why he's sitting on a bench in Central Park.

Newt groaned again. Why, why, why, why...he thought. Why can't I think of something to draw?

"Hey," a voice called from above him, jolting him back to his surroundings. He opened his eyes to see his younger and only sister staring him down.

She seemed rather annoyed.

"Oh...hello..." he grimaced at her.

Primrose (or Prim) rolled her eyes and sat down beside him. Newt sat up properly and saw that she had two cones of ice cream with her. Prim pushed the one in her left hand to him as she began licking hers.

"Here," she offered. Newt simply stared at the ice cream. Prim groaned, "Well? Are you just going to stare at it till it melts?"

Newt shook his head and set aside his sketchbook and pencil to receive the ice cream, which was beginning to melt.

"You better eat that quick. With this heat, that ice cream of yours will turn into cold soup in a matter of seconds," Prim told him. She was already halfway done with hers, which was no surprise to Newt. This girl loved ice cream, especially cookies and cream.

Newt nodded and began eating his ice cream. The two siblings sat there in silence as they ate their ice cream.

The silence that didn't last long, though, because Prim ate the last of her cone and decided to pester him again.

"So," she began, "how's your drawing going?"

The question itself made Newt groan for the nth time that day. "Don't ask," he replied.

Prim stared at her older-by-a-literal-twelve-years (yes, that's what she called him) brother in surprise. "Huh? Why?" she asked. When he didn't say a word, Prim smirked.

"No...don't tell me you're out of ideas?" No answer. Prim laughed, "Oh my goodness, what a miracle! The art prodigy, Newton Artemis Fido Scamander, is out of ideas!"

"Don't shout it out!" Newt scolded, shooting her a glare. "And I am not out of ideas. Just..."

Prim raised a brow. "Just what?"

"I just...well...I..." Newt stammered, his eyes darting everywhere but the annoying brat in front of him.

"Oh, c'mon, Newt. Don't be shy. Just admit that you're having one of these—what's it called? Something like Writer's Block, but for artists like you."

"I told you, I am not having a block. I just that can't think straight in this heat, that's all."

"Liar. I already gave you ice cream, so that should've helped."