I shake the large bottle of paint, trying to use physics to bring the remaining lemon yellow paint to join the lovely Prussian blue paint already on my pallet.
It splatters out and small droplets hit the carpet, adding to the many other similar incidents. Careful not to spill any paint, I mix the paint together thoroughly using my paintbrush as a spatula. My hands tremble as I bring my brush closer to the canvas, the lively green paint staining the tip. As my pinky gently comes into contact with it the shaking ceases and my paintbrush glides over the canvas in confident, smooth strokes.
I lose pieces of myself to the painting, willingly giving them up in hopes to please someone in the future. I think to my brother's painting but quickly shake off the thought, not wanting to remember the person who had abandoned my family for another 'better' one. Paint diffuses out into the water as I clean my brush and I hear the quiet tinkling of the wood and metal against the glass jar.
A pleased sigh squeezes it's way out of me as I take in the sight of what I have created. My eyes then venture to the faded olive green curtains behind the easel.
The afternoon sun casting on the easel at the perfect angle with just the right amount of light. The slight breeze that travels through the window nearby. The faintly sweet scent of the acrylic paints wafting as it travels on that very breeze. The dark wooden chair that holds all of my art supplies. The beautifully varnished guitar that sits in the corner, the equally beautiful music still drifting in my mind.
This is my favourite room in the house.
From here I can hear snippets of the video that my mom is watching on the couch near me. I can smell the chilli and garlic from the Thai food my mom is cooking in the kitchen. Can feel the warmth of it in my mouth.
It's mostly quiet in this neighbourhood, save for the few passing cars and the chirping of birds which can escalate to screaming (pukekos are especially good at screaming like dying children at random times of the day around my otherwise peaceful home). The whirring of the fan at the other end of the small lounge area is a constant hum that is drowned out by ideas and thoughts.
This is my calm place. This is where I live most of my life.
I feel comfortably alone and yet within reach of human contact.
This is home.
-------
A/N
We (my classmates and I) were given 5 minutes to write whatever we could think of with the word 'home'. This is what I thought of and managed to write.
I live in New Zealand and my house at the time kept getting bombarded by pukekos for a few months straight.
What are your hobbies or interests and what do you think of when you hear home?
YOU ARE READING
Short Stories
AlteleA compilation of short stories. Some may be made into proper stories later on separately.
