September 13, 2026: Long time no see. I have something to tell you!

It has been a while! Honestly, after my last post about alllll those books, I got caught up with everything I had missed while reading said books ^^ and lost motivation to write. After that summer happened, which is a situation in itself, so I was enjoying time away from using my brain for anything other than making plans and having drinks!

Before I went on my hiatus (I guess), I started writing a short story! The thing with me is though, I love making up these elaborate worlds and characters, but am so bad at thinking of even mildly interesting plots. A year back, I had this entire world thought up, including a map and history, with wars and treaties between nations, just to not know what to do with the current timeline, and I kinda gave up on it. This short story went the same way; a town that I could visualize so clearly, but nothing really happening in it. I guess the point of writing a story is to get your point across, ain't it? Maybe I should look for some deep rooted issue in my own life, and try to resolve it by writing. Well, I haven’t got a clue, but here is what I had written for the short story, maybe you reading this can come up with a solid idea for an event to occur.

 After an unfruitful and long winter, spring brought with her not only unbearable heat, but also numerous market vendors with overflowing stalls to fill the city square. In the cooler months, traveling from farmhouses outside town each week to sell the little crop or produce that was not needed to feed their families was not profitable, and often made the vendors lose precious time that could be used tending the farm. It was common practice to only come into town once every moon cycle, or less. Some would not even bother with the trip, but rather have peddlers take their goods into town and have him keep a cut of what was made, and leave the rest with a trusted banker until the trees turned green again.
 During these prosperous months, colorful stalls filled the city centre from the entrance to Mr. Harley’s inn all the way to the other side of the square where the outdated city hall stood not tall, but proudly, built before terraced houses became popular to keep up with the growing population. Before the great fountain in the middle, musicians and entertainers performed their hearts out for Harley’s customers, starting at dawn to accompany their oats and ale, until long after the sun set, the melodies being sung becoming more outlandish the higher the moon crept, the brighter the stars shone.
 It was obvious that the lively square was the most profitable spot to sell goods, but the actual market sprawled into neighbouring streets and alleys. Children would wander here and lift their noses at the odors of the tannery and pack animal dung replacing the comforting smells of freshly baked bread and stewing meat. One could make strange purchases in these parts. Mrs. Harley once told me in a very hurried and low voice that she had served a customer that supposedly bought a scale from a merpersons tail from one of these stalls, “peculiar fellow, that was, you could tell it was just a chipped rock that was worked and dyed to resemble the shine of a fish’s scale from all the way over at Manny’s farm.” Manny’s residence was often mentioned in an exclamation such as this one, for Manny was also a peculiar fellow who lived up in the mountains without a wife or kids, tending to just his dogs and sheep and trees.
 “Perhaps he was blind. Did he look blind?” I said after some contemplation.
 Mrs. Harley looked me up and down and then snorted, “he sure acted so,” and went back to serving.
 I had not known her long at the time of this interaction, and later learned that she liked her gossip to be filled with gaps.
 Besides market stalls, there were of course regular shopfronts that lined the perimeter of the square. Right next to the Harley Inn, there was the weaver’s guildhall that reserved a space to sell the member’s craft during market days, and to host lavish feasts otherwise. Next to the guildhall were the bakery and a fruit stand, with a small shop wedged between the two where the eldest children sold fresh pies and jam-filled pastries. There were also more taverns and inns, some of which had high tables out the front for customers to drink at, and each seemed to have a more colorful facade than the last, but none were as impressive as Harley’s.
 On the corner of where a narrow street met the square, there stood a very tall and very slender building that was painted a deep green. Behind the thin windows, there was an extravagant display of hats in all shapes and colors, with feathers of all sizes. The shopkeeper was a young woman called Lady Pine, who always looked as if she knew more than you about any given topic. Her appearance showed she wasn’t from here, her skin was too light and her eyes set too far apart. It was rumored that her father was a traveling merchant who left town before her mother found out she was with child, which will stay merely a rumor, for the mother died during childbirth, and Pine was raised in an orphanage until she began her apprenticeship with the old hatter. Her name was not given by her mother, nor the master at the orphanage. When the old hatter fell ill and passed, she took it upon herself to paint the shopfront, and when she started gaining customers with her fine skill, people began calling her ‘Lady Pine’ for lack of a better name.
 Lady Pine had an outstanding eye for style. One day you would pass her newly arranged shopwindow thinking, “what a crooked hat,” or, “who would wear such dark colors in summertime?” And the next day, you would find yourself looking at other ladies and gentlemen with jealousy over their new, crooked and dark hats. She later branded out to gloves, and then to coats.
 The head of the broad street next to the city hall marked the entrance to the richer part of town, beginning with the residence of Mayor Owen. Thom Owen was a fine man, if not very honest. You couldn’t make it onto the city council being an honest man, let alone become mayor. But, he knew his job and he did it well.
 The rest of the council consisted of similar men in their middle years, some born into the job, others sons of great tradesmen.
 Some nights, after long council sittings, they would come down and gather at a table in the corner of the common room for a few drinks away from more serious matters. The second time I saw this happen, I foolishly tried to listen in on their conversation by pretending to clean a table adjacent to theirs. They seemed to be discussing some bizarre cases, and so I returned to the kitchen grinning like a boy, for I knew something I wasn’t supposed to. Macey, one of the other servers, swiftly pushed the heavy swinging doors closed behind me. I turned to her, and she rebuked me. “Do you have any idea what would happen to you if they found you listening in on their private conversation?”
 I was truly baffled! Not once had I heard Macey talk with such hostility. Her voice was always laced with a flirty tone. That was what made her a good serving maid.
 “No,” was all I could master.
 “They’ll have you locked up, at least. For everyone to see. They’ll make a show of letting people throw rotten fruit and–”
 “That’s quite enough.” Cook said. “Get back to work.”
 Macey stifled a laugh and thinned her eyes at Cook, who did not pay her any mind, before shuffling away.
 I felt scolded

I think I could never become a great writer. Maybe I shouldn’t say never, let’s utter ‘probably never’ then. In any case, the reason for this is my dislike for Stuff happening and my attraction to the mundane. Besides, I drag out sentences, like, wayyyy too long. In my head it sounds like an elaborate story being told, or maybe rambled, and everyone who knows me knows any story I tell is elaborate, even if it isn’t in nature. Well anyway, so far for my story.