Nova Luna

Three - Moirae

"Don't step on a crack, or you'll break your mother's back," I whispered to myself, as I was trying to avoid stepping in one. Then, a sudden cold wind blew through my whole body, and carried an empty plastic cup to my path.

"These people," I sighed. I picked up the empty plastic cup, and searched for a place where I could dispose of the trash. There was one across the street, and I threw the empty cup where it belonged. Then, as I lifted my head up, a sign board from the next building caught my curiosity.

"Art Gallery," I read, and again, I had nothing else better to do, so I went in to check it out. There were no entrance fees or anything, anyways.

I entered the building, and went straight to the reception area. I was informed that it was close to closing time, but they still let me in. Few people were left, and in corners there were janitors starting to clean up. I got a bit shy; both my shoes and the bottom hem of my pants were still slightly wet and I was about to mess up the floor. 

The whole hall was cold and quiet, and the white walls were covered by colorful paintings of different artists.

They were all for sale, and every piece was expensive as hell. I saw one which was pretty colorful; I could see each individual brush stroke. I couldn't imagine what the artist must've been thinking about each time he waved his paintbrush. It cost twice more than my monthly bills. Heck, I could live for three months if I sold one of these.

I continued to wander around, until I caught myself staring at this particular art piece for a little while, with my jaw slacked.

It had a purple-ish background that faded into a light blue on its horizon, which represented the sky. It had a bright twinkling white dot. It could be Venus, a star, or whatever it represents; I was unsure. But what I was sure of was that it was as pretty as the real thing.

The image of the calm sea made me feel the sea breeze, even though I was standing in the hall of an art gallery show. I guess my wet socks helped a little bit. The horizon was filled with traces of a forest, and had two big mountains. And at its center was the Moon. She wasn't full, but you could see the rest of her with shadowy grey parts that faded into the sky. It looked like she was there to smile at you.

"A Peace of Dusk." This art felt like it was alive. The nameplate said it was made by Thomas Gandia. I didn't know him, but his name was familiar.

I was so caught in the painting, I never noticed that an old man, who looked like he was in his sixties, approached me.

"Is she pretty?" The old man smiled.

"I have been staring at her for a while now," I replied.

"What do you feel about the painting?" He asked me. I quickly told him the first name that came into my mind. Even though her name meant new moon, it was always her that I could think of.

Technically, it's still her, going through the phases.

"Interesting. That's a pretty name," the old guy replied.

"It's the same feeling I get when I'm around her. Home," I told him.

"Why don't you take her home then?" he said, referring to the painting before us.

"I can't afford these paintings sir," I chuckled.

"Consider it a gift," he smiled. I got a little bit confused. "I have been painting for a very long time now, and it still surprises me that my works can be interpreted differently by different audiences. When I was making this one, I was thinking about running away from everything. To look for peace. In this case, the dusk's silence and serenity. Never thought that it would still be home for someone else. But I guess, wherever there's peace, there's home."

"Y-You're Thomas Gandia?" I was surprised. He just smiled at me, and asked for my name.

"Nice to meet you, Elios. Now, let's get this painting wrapped up for you to take her home." He called a gallery staff to assist us.

We went to the gallery office to process some papers and the packaging of the painting. I kept on repeating my gratitude; I couldn't thank him enough for letting me keep his precious painting for free.

As Thomas Gandia was busy talking to some of the gallery staff, and while I was waiting for the art piece to be ready, I wandered around a little more, until I discovered a stock room filled with easels, dirty canvases, empty acrylic containers, dirty wood paint palettes, and used paint brushes. Then at the corner of the room, a small, about 12x12 inch, clean canvas.

"Why not, Elios?" I said to myself, grabbed a paintbrush, a lightly-used paint palette, and acrylic paints of black, red, yellow, and white.

The room was pretty quiet, and poorly lit. I could hear the clock ticking. Mr. Thomas said he was trying to look for peace when he painted "A Peace of Dusk" so I tried to visualize the exact opposite.

I let the paintbrush do everything, let it guide my hand. At first, I wasn't so sure what the hell I was doing, but every time the clock ticked, some distorted image formed. When I was about to finish up, a warm hand held my right shoulder. It was Mr. Thomas, asking me how long I was painting.

"This is my first time, sir," I said. He was surprised. He praised my work, and though it was flattering, it felt awkward to be praised by someone who had been doing these paintings for years.

"It's beautiful as it is, Elios. But it lacks something. The distorted image looks good, but it lacks emphasis on the main object," he said, while bringing out a small angled paintbrush and dipping it in black paint that was spread on my dirty palette.

I snorted a little bit, and tried to joke around. I grabbed his paintbrush, and drew an outline of random circles to add a little detail on the distorted images.

"Wow, never thought of that, but it works." Mr. Thomas laughed with me. To be honest, I never expected to have his approval on my final touches.

"Have you thought of a name for this painting?" The old man asked.

"Not yet sir, and I can't think of anything," I replied.

"That's easy enough. Now, listen carefully...

I see faces of black and red
coming straight, from the land of the dead
I see soulless, deep, and dark eyes,
surely, they lived in a world of despise.

And their big and dark mouth screams,
cries “help!” From what it seems.
The fire of hate that burned them,
A punishment, they were all condemned.

A hellish feast;
lead them into the mouth of a beast.
who swallowed them whole,
Hell’s deepest, and darkest hole.

"Tell me, Elios. What word were you thinking of?"

"Limbo."