2023 Story Collection

Painter of Worlds

Aurora had awaken on the floor of her studio. She looked around confused, sleep still unwilling to let her free from it's comforting embrace.

She looks around the dark room, lit only but moonlight and filled with the cool night air.

She rolled over her back touching the cool tile of the floor. She looks up to high dome ceiling that sits above her and smiles at the paintings that cover it.

She'd always loved to paint. She'd never understood why her parents discouraged her from pursuing art as a career. They were otherwise extremely supportive. But she'd done it anyway and they'd accepted it.

Everything was fine, until she told her grandmother. She had begged and pleaded for her to stop painting, talking of consequences and other realities.

Her grandmother had dementia and so she knew she wasn't quite in her right mind but her words had still brought a shiver down her spine.

"You have the magic of the old witches in you. You have no idea what your paintings could become." She'd warned her. It had rang true. So much so that she'd talked to her mother about it. But her mother dismissed her concerns.

"Oh, that old crone." Her mother had joked. "You don't actually believe her do you?" She'd laughed and it had set the Auroras mind at ease a bit, but not completely.

"You know as well as anyone that odd things happen to us-" her mother had said and it was true, the family was strange. There was no denying it. Only one child was born every generation to a woman of 35 and it was always female. They all looked almost identical, not taking many similar features from the fathers. They also all lived to be 111 and died the day after that birthday. There intuition unmatched, some would call them psychic. "-but there is nothing to worry about, sweetheart"

Her mother's hand, thin and boney reached up to Auroras face. Her mother smiles at her as if saying everything will be okay, before going back to cutting up the vegetables for dinner.

The young painter was about to leave when her mothers words stopped her.

"But it doesn't hurt to be careful. You know, avoid painting on full and moons and when emotions run high." Her mother's voice was light and joking but the warning was unmistakable.

Ever since then Aurora had done as she'd been told, avoided painting on full and new moons and when emotional. It was hard because that's when the pull to create becomes stronger. Sometimes unbearable to resist. But she'd resisted.

Now she stands, feet on the cool tile in a room filled with the things she loves, paintings, anatomy charts, pictures of her favorite places and books of techniques, diagrams and references.

In the light of the moon the dried paint on her arms catches her eye. She smiles to herself. The light silk pajamas showing all her skin. The thin shoulder straps showed off the black paint she'd managed to drip on her right shoulder and the deep v-neck showed of the red that had fallen onto her chest. The short pajama shorts she wore showed her legs, which are a pallette for when her wooden one was filled with color. She was a very messy painter.

She stands admiring her mess. Some might be embarrassed but to her it was evidence of the dream she chased. She lived well and felt at home covered in paint. She felt it accentuated her body. She wasn't thin but wasn't overweight. She was healthy. She was average, the paint made her stand out. The paint made her an artist.

And this artist was finally going to make her debut. It wasn't big but it was a start. Her smile widens, "I'm finally going to get to show off my art!" She claps her hand together in excitement.

Her friend Fran had offered her an opportunity to display her paintings in the small gallery connected to Fran's bakery. She'd been grateful for Fran, she'd been one of the few people to support Auroras dreams.

That was why Aurora had been up so till late or early? She wasn't sure. She was working on paintings to put in the gallery and had lost track of time, maybe even days. She had taken naps on the tile floor a few times. Maybe she should get a couch, if she could find the room.

Her eyes glide over all her work leaned up against the walls, the piles of books her and there and the rolled up posters of attomy leaning in the corners. There were boxes of photos she'd taken and people had given her. She had only her chair and isle as furniture and it was perfect. Her eyes stop on her isle. The painting she'd finished before curling up on the floor for sleep sit on it. It was her best yet.

It was rare for an artist to like something they make so much so that they feel it to be done and for them to be proud of it. She never thought she'd have such a feeling and yet looking at the portrait before her she can't help but feel pride.

She didn't paint them often, portraits, but she loved them. They always felt so intriguing, raw and in a way glamorous. Well, not always. This one wasn't beautiful in the way her others had been. No, this one felt like a real person. Samuel, she'd named him. She could recite his whole life, she knew him so well and yet he was but paint on a canvas.

He was thin from a life of poverty but wore a nice suit though he never quite figured out how to gain that weight he'd lost. He was a shorter man his height stunted. He seemed weak but his bones were strong from repeated small fractures and though he didn't have much meat on his bones, it was all muscle. He was strong, could lift two to three times his weight and he was constantly underestimated. Which he'd enjoyed.

His face was thin and shaved smooth. His skin tanned from all the manual labor in the hot summers. His right eye almost glowed blue. His left eye had a scar over it, he'd gone blind in the eye, making it a pale grey. His long black hair slicked back under his hat. He wore a suit at all times. After spending all the young years of his life without even a single shirt on his back, he'd refused-once he'd made a comfortable living-to not dress proper.

He was a man who had seems horrors, who'd been through unimaginable pain and suffering and yet had come out of that hell not only alive but better than he went in. He was a true man, one that stood tall and confident and made the world better all around him. However, he was not an easy man. No, he was fair, hardworking and caring but not one to mess around with.

He is handsome. She'd thought.

In that moment the wind blew hard through the open door that led out to the balcony. A chill ran down her spine. A storm is coming.

She makes her way through the mess of books and paintings stacked around her room and to the door. She begins to close the door but stops.

Aurora slowly looks up at the full moon. No wonder it was so bright, she thinks. Her mother's words come to her mind and her eyes widened she'd gotten so lost in painting that she'd lost track of days, it was a full moon. She groaned.

"Mom, I hope you were joking." The temperature seems to drop again and the memory of her grandmothers warning echos through her head, a chill runs from her feet her head and back. She shivers.

She quickly closes the door but not before a huge gust of wind makes it through. She flinches at the sound of something falling. Please let it not be anything irreplaceable.

She turns to access the damage. Only the portrait fell, thank God. She walks over to pick it up but without the moonlight to guide her way she trips on a book.

She falls straight towards the painting of the man. She braces for a fall but when it doesn't come she opens her eyes.

She blinks rapidly, trying to adjust to the change in light. When they do finally adjust she is met with face of the man she had been painting that night.

"Samuel," she says in disbelief.

To be continued...

December 14, 2023