Fracture

A story is disconnected from our world; it offers us escape, in that regard. But a painting reveals the beauty of this world we need to escape from. If we can learn to see this world as lovely, then why must we escape from it? I wonder this, but I also wonder why it's stories that make us confront reality once they're finished, whereas paintings make us see things that don't truly exist.

"Ms. Roku?" said Rosey, snapping Miha out of her daydream. "What classes did you intend on taking?"

"Just one. I thought a creative writing course would be a good place to start. I've already gone through the financial aid form," she added, and handed Rosey the paperwork. Despite this, a somber expression rested on her face.

"There probably won't be much aid for the time being, since you're only taking one class."

"I told the person who was here last week that I'd only be taking one class and they said to complete it . . ."

"If you opt for another, that could open more scholarship opportunities."

"Maybe another semester," Miha lied. "I'm too busy with work right now." That was true enough, though.

"In that case, Mrs. Myers still has a few seats open for her creative writing class. I'll add you to the waitlist. Hopefully, on Saturday, you should be sent an email asking you to attend. Which is--" she scratched her head" --How many days is that from now?"

"It's tomorrow," Miha replied.

"Oh, is that so. I'm not used to being here so late on Fridays: before fall started, we would close at two on these days. I'm excited for my weekend, though." Rosey laughed, but the words floated over Miha's head. She tossed out a nervous and breathy laugh to not disappoint Rosey.

"I'll refresh my email often. Thanks," Miha said quietly, and took a few awkward steps backward, but was unsure if their interaction had meant to end yet. Only when Rosey focused back on her computer, did Miha turn and leave through the doors she came from, which separated the front desk she'd talk to Rosey at, and the classrooms outside. She nudged past a stairwell, placed in the center of the room and supported on steel braces. The way it was sculpted, it looked like it was floating.

Her class would be up those stairs—she had to become comfortable with the place; it'd be her home away from home for the next several months--but she sighed in disdain. A rotten taste sat in her mouth: she wasn't sure she'd pass any class she took, but in the least, she might have a chance to share her writing.

She trembled at the thought. In all likelihood, people either wouldn't care—or worse—they'd pretend to and kill the enthusiasm she had for her own stories.

Before she left out into the school's yard, she browsed the walls curiously. She only scanned them briefly, skipping over fliers and announcements, until her focus centered on a collection of miniature canvas paintings on the bottom right of the board. She'd seen many of the styles before: Figure drawings made with curved lines stacked atop one another—portraying their 3d volume clearly and effortlessly.

They were nice. Certainly art; but Miha thought no more of it.

There were others around it. Notably, a portrait of a young womans face—which Miha assumed was a portrait of the artist—with its colors greatly exaggerated. Blues, reds, and yellows pooped out like a rainbow which lacked transparency. Beside it, was a Picasso-like painting, showcasing a couple walking down an avenue in between houses. It followed a style much similar to cubism, however, each line was much more rounded and flowed into the next line.

Miha began moving on, but then stopped and thought for a moment. "What am I really going to do once I'm home, in my room."

Ending here! I'll try to continue tomorrow (,: - Miha <3

"Do I truly expect myself to continue the short story I started? When have I ever shown myself to be prolific before?"

She stared at the wall one last time, but her vision was impaired by the thoughts she was trapped in; until, something seemed to reach through her eyes and pull her out of her analytical mind.

There was a painting of a tree at the bottom-right corner of it all. Its trunk was wrapped in the blackness of its environment, but a strong blue poured down upon its leaves, and only its leaves.

"Wow," said Miha quietly. "If only there were a tree like this in real life."

For the time being, her loop of thoughts had hit a roadblock. She turned back and continued walking out the exit doors. When she walked onto the pavement, she looked over to the grass. She hadn't realized it—perhaps due to the angle she'd walked in from—but there was the tree in the painting she'd admired. It looked at her, noticeably old, but proud--the small canvas it was painted on had done well to portray that. As she walked nearer, Miha felt welcomed beneath the tree's shade.

This tree, she thought, was beautiful.