1. Short Story - Lavender painting
First Short Story Challenge. I really did need to hurry in the end because…I was very lazy and thought it was easy. My corrections might not be perfect but I at least hope there aren’t too many mistakes anymore. - would be embarassing.
{ The points for the challenge were:
- two characters
- no direct speech between the two
- main focus on colours }
I will start the next one on monday because I am not home over the weekend! Leave a comment when you like the story, it always encourages me ~
I wish a lot of fun with reading!
Trees with fruits in the colours of olives, tender and vibrant to the time of the year that seemed the longest. The warmth of the sun a shiny, vivid orange and yellow gracing along the horizon. The brush touched the empty marble-coloured canvas with its bushy peak where no oil paint was yet to see. Pastel blue eyes concentrated on the white surface. Finally, a grace of tender, cold colour became visible on the canvas. A lock of dark brown hair that was like a root in a forest fell on the side of the man’s face. And even when drawing seemed something beautiful, gentle thing to do, there was no smile appearing on the man’s lips in their pale rosé taint. Stroke after stroke and dot after dot, the picture slowly found its way on the canvas. The artist, tucking away a strand of his dark brown locks, did not show a smile or sign of happiness when painting. There was an expression of unsatisfaction gracing his oval face with the dark, unshaved beard. Dissatisfaction was a pastel yellow, ugly feeling. Even the smell of peaches and Lavender with a fresh, summer breeze could not change that.
The feeling that the young man felt over his works were always the same and he knew, with all the blue in his face, that his talent was lacking something.
Another stroke with a steely, cold oil paint finished the landscape canvas. A pastel blue house, with watery green trees that lost the colour in winter. A painting of the French Provence, right where he was sitting on a wooden stool in front of the painted canvas. The violet smell of lavender tickled his nose together with a peach-coloured aroma. The artist put away the brush, to the side on the gray-brown gravel way.
The baby blue eyes of the man found its way over to the women, collecting the olives and peaches with her petite, bright figure. His orbs fixated on her for a while, his painting drying with the warming summer breeze. Her pale skin was shining from the sun like it was reflecting. Her cheeks were sun-kissed with freckles of light tortilla brown. The hair as red as burned bricks without one fading speck, and waved, stuck up into a loose bun it hung from her little goblin-like head. From the distance, the artist could not recognize the colour of her orbs in her eyes.
The fall was warm in colours and chilly was the wind. Lavender losing the fair vibrant violet, gaining a boring grey like the pale, green leaves. And the artist once more sat in the same spot, on the silver gravel way in the late evening where ice particles already pecked the ground in a cool colour. And even when olives, peaches and Lavender had gone numb in their colours, and the fruits were all collected, the women with the burned brick-red wavy hair would come to clean the leaves that fell from each of the trees to the frozen ground, onto the dark, vibrant grass. Today the artist once more tried a painting with the oil paint.
Again his expression ended into a dissatisfied grace. The colours of fall were warm, but chilly, red, brown, yellow and specks of orange in one. But the painting of the artist was white, as white as the winter snow and the frozen ground, with specks that seemed like marble. This time the women with the brick-red hair came back from the work earlier, wiping away sweat from her free, pale forehead. A moment they stared at each other, her eyes were like burning sulphur, dark yellow with a perfect onyx in the middle. A smile appeared on her wine red, painted lips and her thoughtful glimpse fell on his painting. No words fell and yet the artist desired to hear the voice, imagining that the sound must be like the colour of the peaches. Her sulphur orbs were concentrating further on the painting in its marble colours. Then she looked back to the landscape he had painted and her eyes narrowed in disbelieve. The house had a bald, orange colour on the walls and harmonized with the late autumn colours that painted the landscape. Brown, pecan trees and bushes with the last yellow, with cedar speckled leaves clung on the boughs.
The disbelieve lingered in the expression of the women, but after a short time she seemed to brush it off and continued her way along the steely gravel path, with slow, little steps.
The man took one of his root coloured strands and stared in the landscape behind the canvas. There was always an expression of dissatisfaction on his visage.
The Gallery was empty, and yet full of canvases. The windows let in the bit of dim, orange light of the evening which fell on the paintings with their white colours. The room seemed boring and empty even when he was filled with this cold coloured pictures. It was a prison to the mind when it wished for colours and creativity. The artist was…lost. Lost in a world full of garish colours while he had no colours himself.
A fluffy jacket was around the man’s shoulders, getting in his way of work. The colour was washed-out olive green with emerald green buttons as fair little decor. His baby-blue eyes were concentrated on the painting where this time, not the usual, marble-coloured landscape was appearing with oil colours. A face with delicate, womanly features found its way on the white surface slowly and with thoughtful moves of the brush. The oil paint was more colourful, a mix of warm colours from red to yellow and brown. It was something totally different. The sulphur yellow shone in the iris of the portray and the colour of a dark fire was a framing the gnome-like face with sweet, peach-pink, small lips and a round, little nose. The tanned hand of the artist seemed to take forever for each stroke with the brush. The concentration was somewhere else, off in the distance where the snow lingered above the hills and mountains like crowns. White powder crowns of grey, empty and bold mountains of the Provence. A landscape that was cold and yet unforgettable. The artist took another colour and finished the last part of the drawing with the dark, Onyx pupils of the women he saw at this place the whole year, except for winter.
The desire in his eyes was pale, grey and without lust. But from the dissatisfaction that had signed his face so many times before, when the colourless drawings appeared from his mind on the canvas, was nowhere seen in his expression. A smile of contentedness on his blue of cold coloured lips was lighting the old visage while his eyes were concentrating on the satisfying work.
Quickly, he turned to meet the glimpse of the women that was just pictured in the painting. Her features exactly the same and with a surprised, fortunate expression. The man blinked, rubbing his eyes with his cold hands before realizing she was not the imagination of his art. Her green leather back was searched by her gloved, delicate hand quickly. The artist still thought a ghost of colour stood before him that was just the picture of his mind, but her touch was real. In her hand she held a glass of peach compote, it was closed but he could smell the sweetness that tickled his nostrils. The bearded man tucked away a bark coloured lock and took the glass carefully into his frozen cold, yet strong hands. The little gift was making him smile, his heart beating stronger when her lips curled up into a smirk.
The women, with the name Anneliese, asked for the portrait of her and the artist, that didn’t get to introduce himself to his muse, said goodbye to the painting with an orange, warm feeling over flooding his chest. There she went, with her small stature she walked away, holding the painting so it wouldn’t get stained by the falling snow. There was no sign of the grey gravel way anymore, only a shining white blanket of frozen powder water.
Watching her go, felt like a good bye. The painting he was satisfied with for the first time went on its way with the one and only women that had inspired him in his deepest mind. The brunette man opened the glass of compote on its red-blue checkered cap. Like he thought, it smelled sweet and tickled his nostrils wildly.The smell was like a mixture of pink and orange with a faint touch of light blue. And it tasted just as sweet, as he could tell there was no sugar in it and only a god peachy juice with the pink and orange peaches swimming in it. The artist knew that he never before had as much energy to fill a canvas with paint and colour as now.
The touch of spring was painting the grass new and the leaves too. Bright colours were setting colours back in the world after the winter took the most of them. The feeling of warmth was returning back to the artist either. Now that the spring was back and the colours were taking over frozen ground and snow, the clouds lingered in the sky, threatening to rain down any minute of the long lasting day. The tree that had new leaves was coloured in emerald, fields of lavender slowly blooming in their grey, blue and violet colour. Hope was rising again, people filled the streets and started to work. Together on fields and farms. The peach trees were taken care of by Anneliese, who now depended on more and more time around the hills with nature and peaches even though it wasn’t time. Many of the trees were not surviving in the cold and the artist could watch her every day, returning from the hard work with stains of dark dirt and light sand. On rainy days, he rested in his gallery, watching the colourless canvas’ that were lingering around the dark and, barely lit room. The pictures made of oil paints were hanging on every all and yet he showed now thanking sign for them, neither satisfaction. But there was only one picture, graced with more coloured than white and marble. A field of crocuses with little spring flowers in between had several, miscellaneously colours all over the canvas. The stroke signs of the old, rusty brushes had engraved into the surface and into the painting. And with every work, the artist seemed to be getting more and more satisfied and happy with the talent he had and spend time with. And yet he wished to spend even more time with the muse that gave him this satisfaction. The glass of peach compote was the best he had eaten in his whole life, giving him the energy he needed to live and paint on. And she brought more with her when she spotted him painting on the side of the silver gravel way.
The same compote given to the artist that sat there painting with a little bit of a smile. But the compote had lavender swimming on top of the sweet juice. A peach-lavender compote in faint yellow, orange, pink and the purple spots made a new aroma. An appreciating nod from the artist with a more than happy smile appeared towards the maker of the compote and Anneliese could return home.
The sun had raised and the women with the sulphur yellow eyes was calmly sitting on the rim of the meadow. Pale olive trees grew and bright peach trees bloomed. Lavender weighed against the breeze, touching the summer green grass with sweet, purple little blossoms. The blossom of the peaches that grew in spring was covering the ground in their light pink colour, like a warming blanket in winter. The fruits would grow greatly this year. But Anneliese simply sat on the rim of the summer green grass and watched the breeze go over the hills and mountains. Her visage was saying goodbye to the landscape, flowers and the hills she knew so well like the artist knew his colours.
The stay at this place seemed to take her life away and the wish of leaving was in her bright eyes, showing where she wanted to travel and what she wanted to see in the world too. Her fingers fiddled nervously with a little bit of dark green grass as she watched the burning horizon. Sun slowly coming up and the clouds in a beautiful colour set of orange, yellow, purple and pink. The bold, with a blanket of forest green trees shone in front of the burning flames of the morning. Fiery red, orange and yellow followed the sun, mixing majestically to a fine purple, pink and slowly into a light morning blue. The clouds weren’t white like the wool of the sheep that rested on the fields this early. The clouds had the colour of the sky with a harmonizing glance with the sun’s rays. A picture the women wished to see somewhere else than the French Provence, even when it was a picture unforgettable. The places she wanted to go were just as beautiful as the place she was at. But she never felt complete even then. The green forests of Germany, or the high mountains of Norway with crowns of snow on them or the endless fields and meadows that reached the horizon and hills in Scotland. Colourful dreams were crossing the women#s mind.
The artist dreamed away, delicately touching the canvas with the tip of his brush. The women with the sulphur eyes had burned her picture in garishly blue flames into his mind. A portray of her and lavender and peach blossom in colours that had he never used before. Colours that were mixed, cold and warm, yet harmonizing. A white silk behind the gnome like the head of Anneliese, Lavender and lavender coloured silk ribbons braided into her fiery red hair as a sweet decor. Every stroke of the brush left a mark, a trail of colour. The artist had a completely new style, a new muse and motivation that gave him the true idea of art and imagination.
The gallery seemed just as empty as before even when the canvases on the walls were painted. Slowly, the artist tucked away strands of his hair, cleaning the walls from all paintings that had no colour to it. There was space suddenly. White, empty space all over the room that didn’t nearly looked like a gallery anymore. The artist smiled at the art that would soon fill this room, gaining his happiness and satisfaction. The colours from deep lavender to a glowing sulphur and baby blue flames. Landscape in all colour variations without a touch of white that wasn’t needed.
The man tucked away a strand of his root coloured hair, watching Anneliese with baby blue orbs that shone in happiness. The burning red waves of hair were bound into a strong bun on her petite head, bouncing every time she lifted one of the heavy boxes into a big truck with a silver-reddish colour. Watching her was bringing a kind hearted smile to the artists face. The breeze was still, chilly and yet warm, shaking on the olive and peach trees. Sulfur and baby blue orbs met and the tanned artist promptly stood up from his usual painting spot where he had watched the women for such a long time. Anneliese brushed over her arm and approached him waryly, stepping over the grey gravel. Like before she searched in her leather bag quickly, pulling out a glass of good smelling peach compote, holding it out to the artist in her pale, delicate hands. Carefully his strong hands took the gift and they both smiled whole heartedly. That was the moment the Artist realised this was the last time they would meet. This was the last time he would see the burning red hair, the sulphur yellow eyes and the pale skin on her gnome like face. She was leaving to see the world that she longed for in her dreams of purple lavender, peach coloured trees and the smell of olives. The artist felt the pinch in his heart, all colours dropping around him. The lavender was only a bit of grey, his expression of delight and satisfaction dropped from his masquerade. The glass of peach compote almost dropped to the floor. He could still have a grip on it as he saw the truck driving off the gravel way into the town. The wind was cold. Everything seemed to be marble and white coloured again like it was before and no picture gained the satisfaction of the artist.
He stood alone again, without a use and without the colourful world he tried to see and love.
dededos
stormborns
annaxmalina
snowghoul
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origamiaround
