Nest of Scattered Words

“The light filtered through the window like fresh morning coffee, a slow drip of liquid gold-- ... No, that won’t work.”

Salvatore sighed as he practically ripped the sheet of paper from the typewriter. He crumbled it into a ball, tossing it over his shoulder to the ever-growing pile behind him. This had to have been at least the fiftieth draft of incomprehensible drivel that he had produced, and not a single finished paragraph to show for it. 

Salvatore thought initially that the change to a typewriter might help get his mind back into the great flow of writing, to ease himself into the effervescent nature of just letting words fall out of the mind to form sentences, but all that had gotten him at this point was a lot of wasted paper and a small army of empty bottles scattered across his writing desk. It was pathetic, really. 

He dragged a hoof down his face, sinking down further into his chair to avoid the way that his typewriter was staring back at him and mocking his failure. It was an older machine, relying on ink and stamps and imperfect lettering that shifted ever so slightly with every stroke. But even outdated compared to the shiny BunBook 14 that Salvatore had tucked away for regular use, it was charming. And during some of Salvatore’s most fruitless writing endeavors it was there to help him clear his mind in the sound of tapping keys to work through the block that left his thoughts barren. 

Not today, however.

Salvatore’s great old friend had abandoned him too, then. Like his creativity and his passion for the craft he had been honing for years. Maybe it was time to give up. Or more likely that was the cheap wine talking.

Nonetheless, the words would not form, and fifty times was not the charm. With a defeated humph Salvatore slid the rest of the way out of his chair, plopping to the floor and shuffling away from his writing desk, resigning that at least for now the writing would remain unfinished. He sauntered to the kitchen, grabbing another bottle of wine from where it was already aerating out on the counter. This time Salvatore didn’t even bother with the glass, just tipping the bottle directly into his mouth and eliciting a furrowed brow at the taste. Maybe if he got his royalties check this week he could splurge on something better, a wine that didn’t taste of D-grade grapes and sadness.

Well, the taste of wine could be improved but the sadness would likely still persist. After all, Salvatore still felt in the middle of rock bottom, sitting in the deepest pit that Burrogatory had to offer with a shovel so he could keep digging. No new writing, no new hobbies, no new relationships…

Salvatore gave pause as he looked over to his calendar hanging in his kitchen. The red X’s were a few days behind but the month was still the same. Full into Breeding Season. It was Breeding Season again and Salvatore was spending it without the joy of another bun’s company (or the company of a few). He couldn’t even claim to be spending the time on something more productive instead, nor could he say he spent it relaxing and recooperating. It was just more and more stress and weight of ineptitude without anything to show for it.

He practically dragged himself over to his failure of the day, the horrifically wasteful pile of paper that would make a Cherubun practically reel in horror and scold him for littering if they saw it. It made Salvatore cringe and feel antsy, and after another sip of wine directly from the bottle he picked up a random wad of wasted words and squished it in his hoof for a bit. The paper might not have been the best material for a nest, but it was still flexible and soft enough that it would probably make due.

The wine was left on the desk to join with its companion bottles while Salvatore set to work, taking the time to rip each failed start of writing into long strips of paper. The words became letters that became just dots of ink on the frayed edge of each piece as he meticulously made sure nothing intelligible was left for him to read or dwell on. When he had finally gotten through the pile of discarded trash, hours had past and the pull of sleep was tugging at his crystal heart to bring him home. Salvatore gathered up the paper, armful by armful, and laid it down in his bed, taking care to arrange the sheets around it to truly nestle it in so it wouldn’t just fly off. And when he patted the last of the bedding into place, Salvatore took a step back to admire his handiwork. 

Maybe writing wasn’t in the cards for this bun. At least not on this day. But it was best to leave trash as trash, and to make something useful out of its remains to at least bring a small comfort back to him in the form of a nest and something nice to lay into that he had taken the time to prepare with his own two hooves. It was at least something to appreciate. Salvatore gave a little nod before crawling into his nest, letting the gentle hellfire from his chest warm the bed as he pulled a blanket over himself and settled in to rest.

Tomorrow was another day.