float ✍ z.m.

float - a short story

zm au | one shot

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book the second.

copyright 2014.

[ hey kiddos just me with a psa... you definitely don't have to read the first book to understand what's going down in this one, but you might find it beneficial in the long run! omg I made a rhyme how poetic am I on a scale from Melville to Frost wow ok ill shut my stupid fat pretentious mouth and let you read for real now bye ]

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Paint is magical.

Why is paint magical? I think about it a lot, actually.

Paint is magical because smearing the stuff onto a canvas in a shape vaguely representing a flower can increase your worth by millions of dollars.

As children, we learn how to finger paint before we are able to hold a pencil.

Paint is everywhere. No matter where you are, there's probably paint within twenty feet of you. It covers our walls and doors and lamps and cars and even our shoes.

A fresh coat of paint is by far the most incredible form of change. It can make something look a hell of a lot better, or it can make it look like it just got run over by a hearse and the whole funeral precession. But, no matter what, there is always the possibility- and sometimes the guarantee- of another, better coat looming in the future.

So there you have it. Paint is indeed magical.

Today's sun has set long ago, and tomorrow's will surely rise soon. I have no clock to tell me the definite hour, so I here I am, sitting in the basement, trapped somewhere in between today and tomorrow with a few bags of paint.

The canvas beneath my bare feet is both expansive and expensive. I may have stolen it, but that's not important. It spans half the width of my family's basement, and has been cut by yours truly into a perfect square. Rectangles just don't do it for me. Squares, in my humble opinion, are the best shapes, hands down.

The ceiling lights are blindingly bright, just the way I like them. I smile as I tape down the final edge and leap away from the gigantic, thick cloth.

I next select a bag of lavender paint and climb on top of an old barstool. Plastic bags and barstools are my best friends and weapons of choice; they never let me down. After taking one last survey of the room to be sure nothing is in the danger zone, I am ready to begin. There is no feeling that compares to the feeling of verging on a new idea, a new canvas accepting its new decoration. I lift the lavender bag above my head and chuck it down with all of the force in my body.

The bag makes a gross noise, and paint splays out across the off-white background, creating splatters and washing randomly over the emptiness.

It's the best feeling in the world, to me. I have a slight obsession with destruction that results in beauty. Exploding carefully chosen bags of paint against canvas has actually earned me a few spots in local art shows, and some money for my bank account as well.

I keep working on this one, choosing a mix between bright pastels and deep autumn shades. I'm hoping to sell this one off. Maybe it'll end up at the local music conservatory, or at a school. The habit of imagining my art hanging in various places is not one that I plan on giving up soon. It's what motivates me to keep painting. I play pretend at being a real artist, and all I can do is hope that someone falls for the trick and views me as a real one.

My focus is sharp, and is only interrupted by the ringing phone.

Knowing that my parents aren't home and none of my currently present siblings will answer, I bound across the room to fetch it.