Moments

by Anna Nabutovsky
excerpt from final project for EWC4U, The Writer’s Craft

Tears:

And I wept. The tears fell onto the canvas one by one, creating puddles on the bright display. And I hoped they would wash away the paint, leaving the canvas blank, fresh, clean, and ready to begin anew. And I wept, watching the tears fall onto the canvas not clearing a thing away but rather smudging the paint, leaving it a blurry, murky mess. And I sighed, knowing that tears would do me no good. So I took out my finest brush and my darkest shade of red, and painted over the canvas, covering the shameful blur with a powerful, deep, seeping, all consuming red.

Emptiness:

In the iridescent glow of the moonlight
In the outline of a palm on the glass
In the flickering of lights
In the moment of passion
There was beauty

In the fantasies you had
In the dreams that were not realized
In the sleepless nights
In what could have been
There was hope

In the days spent without care
In the sound of your laughter
In the lecherous thoughts
In the treacherous moments
There was desire

But when the flame burns out
When reality collides with vision
When you stand before me as you are
And I stand before you as I am
Nothing left unseen
And nothing left unspoken
There is emptiness.

Anger:

The moment was red. Thrashing wildly against the restraints of reason, tugging at the chains of social order, and entirely rid of the emotional consciousness which plagues day to day interactions. From tense voices to piercing screams in an instant. The shatter of wedding china, ceramics shredding into fine pieces, impossible to fix, broken apart for good. And then silence, the red fades to white. White hot rage, broken away from passion, fading to indifference.

Betrayal:

The beginning of a day
The coy playfulness of a wink
The excitement of risk
The treacherous sound of your heart beating

A moment of desire
A ballet of silhouettes
A soft whisper
A silky strand of hair

The movement of one hand
The cry of pain
The sound of water running
The ending of a story which never began.

Loneliness:

Four borders, fading at the edges. I look down. She sits alone on a rocking chair draped with a wool blanket. The room is small, poorly lit, with only a faint glow which casts menacing shadows. She is old, but more frail than befits her age, so frail in fact, that she blends seamlessly into her surroundings, becoming one with the battered, dusty furniture. A Persian rug is strewn across the floor, not exactly carelessly, just haphazardly. She looks up suddenly from her trembling hands, and we see her eyes. Vividly expressive. Now watery, but once a bright blue, filled with a zest for life. The room grows darker, as the wax drips from the lone candle in the corner. She looks down, with a half defeated sorrowful glance, and begins to rock in the chair. The candle in the corner drips again, creating a stain on the rustic wooden table, which shakes slightly. She looks up again, her thin lips twist into a half scowl which evokes more pity than fear. Her bony fingers reach for her cane, she trembles slightly, unable to grasp it, and gives up with a defeated sigh. Her eyes fall onto a photograph which hangs above the torn sofa. It is a mustard yellow colour from age, but that gives it a quaint sort of charm. It depicts a smiling young woman. Bright blue eyes. Her hair waves in the wind in an elaborate adage. There is much innocence in her gaze, a smirk plays on her lips, which shows that she has not yet shed all the layers of youthful conceit. Yet, she is a worldly sort of beauty. A becoming young man stands in a wool coat by her side. His blonde hair is covered with snow. He looks at her, not at the camera. She lowers her gaze from the photo. A single tear slides down her face. Not just nostalgia: regret. She shifts her gaze again, and looks out the lone window. It is already April, yet winter refuses to leave. There is something beautiful about the plush white carpet and black still night. They call forth memories of laugher, and fireplaces. It is too late for that now. It is springtime. Yet the snow persists, refusing to leave the past and make room for the future. The moonlight gives the still landscape an ethereal glow. She sees two men pass by, both wearing large spectacles and wool coats. They pass with a sense of impending purpose, yet simultaneously a cavalier air follows them. They don’t seem to notice the stars or the moonlight. She is glad when they pass, their briefcases sully the beauty of the night. I hold her gaze for a second longer. She is fading away at the edges. The picture crumples, and falls to the ground.

Belonging:

I dip my brush into the paint, watching each stroke find a home nestled amongst the others. The paint dries quickly in the blazing heat. I wipe my brow to stop the sweat from dripping into my eye. Alongside me the others work chirping away in a flurry of merriment. The giddiness twirls around me, engulfing me into its welcoming embrace, begging me to join if only for a second. Yet, for some reason I resist the temptation preferring sulky isolation to the surrounding joy. I frown, immersing my paint brush into the can and stroking the walls of the decaying tunnel with the familiar rhythm. Sounds of laughter echo around me again. Talk about pathetic fallacy, I think to myself bitterly. The high pitched squeals of delight go hand in hand with the admittedly glorious weather and vivid colours. I shake my hand, everything is almost offensively bright. Like a scene plucked from a children’s book, designed to fool the naive and innocent into believing in the lightness of momentary paradise. Their joy rains onto my parade. It is ironic considering I am the sole dark blemish on the purity and sunniness of our surroundings. Somehow that makes me feel worse. I dip my brush into the darkest colour available, a glaring anime purple, and shudder. I watch the young girl next to me spread the yellow paint generously over the walls. She has a butterfly tattoo on her ankle. I think its shamefully typical, but maybe she has it all figured out. Pink butterflies, ankle tattoos, silky blonde hair, and an infectious smile. I look up at the previously grim tunnel now painted to resemble a rainbow. Glitter, unicorns, butterflies, rainbows, and me, I think to myself. Name the thing the does not belong. I smirk and start to think about rainbows, the irony of sunshine and rain working together. I look to the herd of giggling girls next to me. Sunshine, I think to myself. Suddenly, I stop, feeling a genuine smile creeping onto my lips for the first time today. This rainbow wouldn’t exist without rain. I am grim, dark, and hopelessly past naiveté, yet I can’t help but giggle, and for one moment I feel as though I truly belong.

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