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Rated: E · Short Story · Other · #1689705
A man stuck in a room, has the ability to create life, but never enough to make him happy.
    Woeful, is the wind that first sounds the horns of fall’s arrival. The landscape is harsh: hilly and densely forested; so devoid of any sign of civilization, one might wonder if man had ever set foot in it. The terrain matters not to the wind, who changes its run to a crawl with a fluid ease that never skips a beat. Leaves cling to the wind – hitching a ride for a short while – before departing to the forest floor. The wind somberly goes about its way, until it finally bursts out of the forest into a clearing.
    Standing in the middle of the field, a hill abruptly rises from the earth; a white cube rests on the top of the mound, its shadow never reaching the tree line. The wind quickens its pace, racing now towards the box with no openings to be seen. Upon contact, the wind spirals up the cube, circling the structure twice before reaching the top. Slowly running its fingers along the flat roof, the wind says its farewell, and shoots back down the hill. Solemn, is the wind that never looks back.

    Weary, is the hand scratching heavy lines into the paper. Sitting back, the man stares at his drawing for a moment before looking around his room. Walls, ceiling and floor are all white, with no sign of entry or exit to be seen. His protection from the outside world. A single wall is marked by a picture covered with a piece of cloth. A small desk, a rocking chair, and a stack of papers are the only other objects to be seen inside. Turning back to his picture, the man slowly moves closer and sketches tiny hearts onto the bodies of the people he has drawn.
    Suddenly, the pictures begin to move with life. Flexing fingers incredulously, and then throwing out cheers, the figures joyfully start to march around their new world. A father, drawn in the artists liking, a gorgeous wife, and a handsome son hug each other, and head into a house drawn for them to start their lives together. The man stares at his work fondly, and smiles for awhile. Hours pass, but eventually his bold grin starts to melt from his face. Sighing, he flips his pencil around, and begins to erase them; his ears deaf to their tiny screams and pleads.
    Wiping away the sullied flakes of eraser, the man walks over to the hanging painting, and gingerly removes the sheet covering it. The painting shows him painted in perfect detail, with his right arm wrapped around the most beautiful woman in the world, and his left placed firmly on a boys shoulder. Unlike the stagnant white of the room, the white of their smiles seemed to dull the rest in comparison. His wife, and his son stood in a painting with him; his smile announced to the world that he wasn't afraid to tell it that he was happy – to tell the world that things were perfect. Resting his eyes, the artist leans back in his chair, and starts to regain his smile.
    The man starts to think about his family, until like the vehicle that night, his thought process goes off course. Throwing himself from his rocking chair, he can still see the bright headlights of the semi leaving blurry blue spheres in his vision. Tears jump down his face as he leaps forward towards the portrait, with his pencil in hand. Furiously, the man scribbles hearts onto the chests of the characters. Faded sections of the canvas tell us that this isn't the first time he has tried. He stands on his knees, begging the people in the portrait to return to him, but as always, they just stare right past him. Falling, is the man who can never forget.
© Copyright 2010 Marek Morello (blackenedwings at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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