Vincent Albright was at the top of his game. He had achieved fame, fortune, and the love and adoration of thousands through his artwork. After a falling out, however, he sought haven on Charlie's Isle, a small, low populated island off the coast of...
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I always kept a mirror in front of me while I painted. Just beyond the canvas. It kept me balanced. Level headed. Glancing in it every now and then kept me on planet Earth and not drifting through space like I so often liked to do when I had a brush in my hand.
Today was no different. I had woken up at 4:00 a.m. for the third time this week with a vision of the future that I had to put on canvas to preserve and possibly interpret. Unfortunately, hours of painting weren't paying off. The fourth painting this week still gave no clear indication of what could soon happen, though who would expect an abstract mural to give a clear anything?
When I was very young my parents discovered my affinity for depicting future events through art. It was subtle at first, only a childish doodle with Crayolas here and there of rain and it would rain the following day, or a poor depiction of a stranger I'd soon meet.
Red. Black. Splatter. Green? Eh, why not, I think to myself as my fingers run through still wet paint.
I step back to look at the canvas. It's a mess of Jackson Pollack-inspired splattered lines, most of which are black and red. I pull it from the easel and place it with the three from the previous night.
"They're obviously connected..." I think to myself as I rearrange them into different orders, "But how?"
The pattern finally fell into place, but was still impossible to interpret. The first, from four nights prior, still focused mainly on black splatters, but lacked the red the other canvases had. It also had white swirls in the top. The second, a larger canvas, began introducing tiny spots of red here and there, as well as hints of green which I found very unusual in a color scheme this dark. The last incorporated more red than I'd probably ever used. It was majority red splatter, with still-wet black swirls throughout. There was virtually no white but hints of orange and green.
"A bit darker than usual." I jumped at the sound of the creaky old voice. I had gotten so focused on trying to find a meaning behind the series that I hadn't even heard the door open or seen the old woman who now stood beside me approach.
Ethel Shaw could hands down be the oldest woman on Charlie's Isle. Possibly the Earth. For what she lacked in height she made up for in an attitude a bull couldn't compare to. Her once brown hair now glistened white with the tiniest tint of blue and her skin resembled a Walmart bag: gray and crinkled. Nevertheless, her blue eyes reflected her keen mind that had stopped aging around 45.
"Yeah, well... It's a work in progress." I said absentmindedly
"I'm glad you're up," she croaked, "I was going to wake you to make me a cup of coffee."
"Mary's been up since five. I'm sure she would've done it."
"True, but not like you do. I'm old and I hate a lot of things, but your coffee is not one of them." Ethel probably expected me to argue saying she wasn't old and didn't hate a lot of things, but she also hated liars.
I turned from my work area and happened a glance into my mirror. My milky eyes had deep violet bags under them larger than some that Ethel carried, and my auburn hair was disheveled. I had a horrible case of perpetual bed head.
"Did you not shift last night?" Ethel asked as I escorted her from my bedroom/art studio. She must have noticed my pajamas and lack of a fur coat.
"I haven't in the past four nights." I responded.
"You're an idiot."
"Thanks."
"I mean it, Vincent." Oh, boy. Here we go... "I may be human, but I understand pain. I birthed five children, you know. Five. After Oscar's brother died he went a month without shifting. I watched him switch forms one night and that pain beats out any child I'd ever birthed..."
The spiel went on as we walked arm in arm down the flight of stairs (which, mind you, was a slow descend), through the hall and into the tavern.
"Morning, Vinny." I heard Mary's kind voice call when we rounded the corner. I got Ethel situated at a table and joined Mary behind the bar.
"Morning." I responded as I heated up the coffee machine.
"Ivy called this morning. She was wondering where you were last night." I could hear the concern in Mary's voice. I escaped one lecture only to be thrust into another. Not responding only added layers, "I know I'm only human, but this artistic vision needs to be soothed. You haven't slept in days, let alone shifted... Where have you been getting human blood from?"
I had a connection at our local hospital. If I give a pint of Werecat blood to be used in emergencies, they give me a pint of human blood to use when I need to stay human at night. By drinking human blood, it soothes the panther within for a night and I can stay human to paint.
"You don't wanna know."
I just let these speeches go on. Interjections only cause panic. It was easier to listen to it rather than try to explain what Mary referred to as the 'artistic vision.' Trying to explain the unquenchable desire to paint, needing it like oxygen, hitting at absolutely any time is hard enough, but adding the layer that I paint the future is even more of a challenge. 'Tis the cross to bear.
"...Promise me you'll shift tonight." Mary said. I turn to face her, a steaming mug in each hand. I'm a solid foot taller than her, I can't say no. Her brown puppy eyes combined with short brown hair gives her that perfect 'I know what's best for you' look.
"I promise." I said, smiling to ease the tension as I pass her one mug.
From the other side of the empty tavern Ethel shouted, "Vincent! Don't be tampering with that coffee! Black! You hear me? Plain coffee."
I rolled my eyes and chuckle to myself, Still beats New York.
