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| The Paintbrush |
This story was written as an excersie given at my "home" site. Nothing further has been done with it. |
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She found Angela slumped over the table with her face buried in a platter of
tossed salad. Marison pulled her out of the mess, pieces of lettuce sticking
to her face and dressing rolling down her cheeks. "What are you doing?"
she asked Angela’s slowly. "Cooking," came the reply. A few pieces of lettuce slopped off her face. Marison put her mother’s face back in the bowl. "Jason! come here and get your wife and put her in the tub! She's stoned again." The tall built man came out of the kitchen holding a teapot and wearing a pink ruffled apron around his waist. He tapped Marison roughly on the cheek a few times before setting the teapot down and picking up Angela and carrying her up the stairs. “Call me Dad,” he called back to her. As soon as he left her sight, Marison jumped up and poured the contents of the teapot down the sink. The golden brown liquid made a chugging sound as it gurgled down the drain. A few seconds later, a skinny man with came out of Jason's room. He tripped down the stairs, his black unkempt hair falling all over his face. He recovered himself with grace. "Hey there, good lookin’," he said, stumbling over to Marison. She reeled back at the smell of booze on his breath. “Wan' t' come ov' t' my hou' for a drin'?” In an instant Marison had a knife pointed at him. "Go home," she said. He left in a hurry, tripping over the threshold as he went. A black raven floated down onto the windowsill. She smiled and said to it sadly, "Nevermore." Nevermore could she live here. She looked out into the dreary afternoon. It looked like a bad painting to her-- like her life. Nothing made sense anymore, not even something simple like a bowl of salad or a teapot. Someone else was painting her life, and she didn’t like it. All the colors were mixed together and she couldn’t tell what the person who painted intended for it or for her. Marison sighed and looked around. Taking a deep breath, she picked up the her book bag. She was going to paint herself a new life. |
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[Annie Codwell,] |