The sky is clear today, and I hear the chirping of birds as I take a peek outside my ivory painted window. The sidewalk is empty except for Mrs. Jenkins, the woman who lives across from my apartment; I watch her as she over waters her plants once again. I give it a few seconds before I decide that’s enough for today—time to get back to work.
Soon enough I’m squinting to concentrate, the grip on my brush gets tighter by the second, I’m painting a skyline, I’m painting the streets of Manchester, I’m painting to clear my head, I watch as all the thoughts that were bound in the back of brain move on to the color-filled canvas before me. I watch as my mind no longer controls the movements that my hand makes as it shifts back and forth doing what it does best, painting.
After about an hour I’m pretty happy with my work, but it’s the same thing that bothers me, in the center, right in the middle of my painting where the colors are supposed to collide, there is a boy, dressed in black, his head hung low, everything all the colors the beauty, the birds the sky, the clouds everything revolves around him, but even then, he doesn’t look up it is almost as if he is afraid.
He’s afraid if he looks up, there might just be a black cloud hanging above his head, and the sun could just have been his imagination all along, he fears, but he will never show that he does, that’s just how he is. A warrior on the outside, bleeding on the inside. I wonder how he holds himself together as he goes on with his life.
Daniel Redding’s, he’s a blogger, a writer, I’ve been reading his blog for the past few years, and his words have had me mesmerized every single time. People say I’m an artist; I’m barely a neophyte, a beginner.
He’s the reason I started painting again, he’s the reason I picked up a paintbrush after almost two years of no contact with the colors on my palette, I read, and God was he in pain, word after word my heart ached for him, I wanted to meet him, I was so close, I even know what he looks like, and I could have met him, hugged him, and told him I read everything he ever posted on that blog, but one day he just disappeared, he vanished, and it’s been six months he hasn’t posted, I’ve painted him, I’ve painted his words, I’ve painted his heartbreak, I don’t want to just paint anymore, I want to hold him close to me and ask him why, why he never believed in himself and why he quit?
I want him to tell me his story in person, and when it is all said and done I hope for nothing more but to tell him mine too. ~ Kylie RiversThe Tale of Two - Romantic - Fiction - Sample