One Slice Fixes All

“先生？” somebody said, he didn’t know who. Might have been Aida, maybe Takei. It didn’t seem to matter. Too enrapt was he in ripened Cerulean Blue. Medicinal Gesso. India ink left out to dry. He could even hear the easel breathing aged wood.

“大丈夫ですか？”

Somehow he answered, but he didn’t know how. Again, it didn’t seem matter. Did anybody care?

“You’ve been standing there since before class started and haven’t said a word.” Once more he heard them. A voice, but not one of his. “Is this another lesson for us to figure out?”

Somebody laughed. Maybe more. To him the noise complimented the sound of the empty canvas before him stretching itself used to nails.

…like when screams become song and you start to scream along.

“Paint with a brush too large, lose your perspective of detail.”

Class was finally over when he realized he was the only one left.

Posted by Mr. Eyes in: Stories   Comments Off   25 February, 2010  

Speak Syllable Slow

He feels disconnected. Distracted. Disassociated…with himself. He has to be reminded who he is, is trying to be – is supposed to be. Or thought he could be.

Déjà vu back into limbo all over again. He almost remembers he once was never here.

Time travels slowly during moments like this, so rot about in silence for a spell.

Last night at the studio, painting until the vodka began to decide his brushstrokes – and the light became intolerable to bear. Not since before October, and the sudden realization made him feel very, very disappointed with himself.

“Yes, I know the sadness that all is fleeting, but I did not mean that you should hear my sighs.”

Say as much with as little as you can.

Only then will it matter if they’re listening.

Posted by Mr. Eyes in: Stories   Comments Off   23 December, 2009  

« Previous Entries