|
Amyler
|
 |
« Reply #2 on: December 25, 2007, 07:05:07 pm » |
|
Yup. :p Well, here is another old gift to a friend, this one I feel is MUCH better. Well, in my opinion, which is of course blatantly biased. XD
A fine slash of color was slotted into the already vibrant collage, fitting in perfectly with the already beautiful dance of color and shape. “It is complete!” Announced Lauren, dramatically and extravagantly bowing towards the filled canvas, and spreading her arms wide. “Well, it IS impressive.” Said Alex, appraising the painting, taking it all in. “But, in truth, I don’t see the point for using so many different colors. Less would surely work just as well, wouldn’t it?” Lauren playfully whacked Alex with a paintbrush across the head, which stealthily deposited a line of blue across his hair. “Because, Leonardo, less color means less to work with. Less to work with means less work done. And less work done …” “means less work rewarded.” Alex finished, playfully sighing and laughing with her. Lauren took a moment to properly look at her finished masterpiece. The vibrant scene was that of a living lake, water gushing down at obvious high speed, and with a calm vibe and a strong look, the picture would seem a photo if not for the clear time spent creating such a beautiful moment, and for the fantastical creature, with muddy, dirty matted fur, a large body and clumsy appearance, but a shine in its eyes, and a gentle posture, holding down a bird to drink from the calmer section of the water. Hidden in the corner, half under a single leaf, the letters LA blended in with a natural yellowed color. “Always wondered why you put my name in there.” Alex said quietly. “I hold the paintbrush by the soft end.” A content smile rested on Laurens face as she rested her check against Alex’s shoulder. “Because.” she replied. “In your eyes is where I first see my paintings.
The event had been so sudden, so painful, and utterly heart wrenching. Alex stood sobbing quietly, looking down at the slab of concrete at his feet. Completely grey, no life or love in it. Or memories. Just a name, two dates, and a little dash between them. All that signified where Lauren was going to rest forever. Tears shone in Alex’s eyes as he kicked it. A howl escaped him as he did again. He collapsed, sobbing. It would be so much easier if he had someone to blame. But no, there was no ones feet at which to put the bill. The fire was accidental, the pain not his alone. All the people living in that flat were out of home, and 7 dead. A figure, a number, trying to convey a message no human could comprehend. Trying to say that 7 collective groups of love, pain, happiness and emotion were all gone forever. Alex howled louder, and the mourners around him seemed to scream with and against him.
“Why, god? Why is SHE dead? You know I would take a thousand years of pain, a million years of torture, if it kept her alive. And you took her, in one of the few moment I was not there to help her. Are you even there? … I thought as much.” Alex broke off, a desolate sob cracking his resolve again, opening the floodgates, and he cried. The priest stood watching him, alone but for the sad boy he had never seen here before, and couldn’t help. Alex stood up, his cheeks wet but his eyes solid. Lauren deserved a better god then this, he thought, storming out of the church.
Laurens paintings, sold. Alex was both overjoyed and tortured at the idea. He could buy them. Not many people would want this girls paintings. So few people had seen them, no one would know their value. So he had thought. The government officials had walked out grinning, and Alex sobbing yet again, clutching three crumpled $20 notes, and watching as Alex’s half a million dollar paintings were inspected by the new owners. “My names there, too.” You yelled to them. None gave him notice.
Alex sat bolt upright in bed, panting. He knew what to do now. What Lauren needed. And he wouldn’t wait for it. Kicking himself out of bed, he hurriedly gathered some of Laurens spare painting materials, things she had given to Alex for safekeeping long ago. Not bothering to change or put on shoes, Alex ran out, clutching the materials. Ten minutes later, still running hard, he reached his destination. The gates were shut firmly. There was an old man inside the booth though, eyeing him suspiciously. “Please!” Alex shouted, obvious to the cold and the time. “Please! I need to get in there!” The old man spat, the glob hitting the wall of the booth and sliding down. “It ain’t right, disrespecting the dead, boy. Go home to your parents now, before I call the cops.” “Alex leant forwards, his head against the bars and said quietly, sadly “Mister, I’m not going to disrespect her. I couldn’t if I tried. But please, please, I must do this now.” The old man studied the boy before him. He looked nice enough, but what did any kid in their right mind plan to do at a cemetery late at night with so many little buckets of paint and a brush? But the old man was moved, and got his keys. “Come on, lad.” He said. We’ll need to get you back in bed after this.
Alex sat down, staring at the slab of granite. It was the same one he had kicked, tried to bring down. Now, he was building it up. The old man behind him held a torch, letting its light hit the gravestone. Silently, Alex opened one of the paint jars, and another, and another. He mixed them all separately, running the brush through the damp grass each time. Then, carefully, laboriously, he painted. What he made was nothing real or substantial; mere slashes of color running around the stone, entwining and dancing about, bringing life. The old man said not a word, merely giving light where needed, until hours later the sun rose, and the torch shone no more. Still Alex worked, as others came to question him, and were quietly ushered away by the man. For near 12 hours Alex worked, not stopping, until he stood up. “Lauren … it is finished.” He whispered.
Row by row, line by line, the grey slabs were sad and pained. By wait! Look there! A kaleidoscope of color and love, crafted from the heart. Laurens painted gravestone was the epitome of life and death for all who came and saw it; they knew just what it meant, if not the story behind it. Alex never went there again consciously. And when he was made the journey, his spot was ready, next to a colored stone.
|
