By Yours Truly, Ice Prince: The Story Collection

The Fallen Star on Christmas Eve

There once lived a child, whose heart is full of vivid colors. He loves to paint, but his parents prohibited him to do so. He secretly hid his art materials in his room. They were hidden under his bed. They’re strongly against his passion for art, for they think it’s just a nuisance and waste of time.

Lawrence tricked his parents that he was going to his friend’s house. It was the day before Christmas, December 24th. He escaped to join an art contest.

Lawrence walked through the narrow alleys of the street to the park where the contest was held. His heart was racing. He’s about to do something he shouldn’t. Disobeying his parents.

He cruised down the lane of the park through the made up stage in front of the lake. A sea of busybodies met his gaze, he made his way to the stage, and the crisp snowflakes fell down the ground like wary ballerinas. He reached the stage alas.

He registered for the event and looked for a place for him to paint. He found a spot under an old oak tree. He took a big white canvass from his bag, laid a blanket on the ground and took his materials one by one. A set of brushes and some paint.

Lawrence remembered the time when the vast sky was black. Scattered dots were seen above. The lonely bright moon sat at the center as the stars crashed down the earth’s surface one by one. Lawrence remembered the other time he escaped from their house. It was that time. It’s the time when the stars died on the Earth’s layer. He escaped and ran to the woods. Unto the lake at its heart. He remembers the cold breeze of the wind and the mirror that lay before him. He lay down the lake and watched the dying stars. No words can bear what he saw, it was unfathomable.

He remembers going back at their house, dazed from the sensation of the grand event. He remembers being lulled to sleep by the music it enchanted. He remembers waking up still wearing the same old cold robes he has. He remembers the scene that no man can ever fathom. Dying stars. For a star is an image of the past of a dying star. Stars are the only embodiments that have a beautiful way of dying, he thought.

He painted himself lying on the cold lucid water. Lying on an image of the stars above. Lying on an image of dead stars.

Every stroke takes confidence. And every splatter of paint is undeniable. He made the little white splatters as stars. And smeared a big crescent on the center as the lone moon. Alas, the end arrives. He signed the painting with his signature on the far right down corner of the canvass. He gave it to one of the coordinators. Everything goes smoothly as planned. He waited for night to come like a lone lover on the morose rails beside the lake. He envied the lovers who walked side by side on the park. He saw parents with their children joyously singing Christmas carols. It’s the 24th, a few minutes before Christmas. 10 minutes, he thought. His parents never called as he swiped the screen of his phone. It was 11: 50. He swiped it again. He called their telephone, they’re not home.

“I hope you can appreciate the painting I made. Come to the exhibit tomorrow morning. It was called The Fallen Star on Christmas Eve.”

He ended the call and paced towards the big clock tower. He reached the top of the tower and heard the loud tick tock as it reached midnight. He opened the little door on the clock’s face. Fireworks lighted the sky as people rejoiced the birth of the Christ.

He let his body fall and let the space engulf him.

“Laissez-moi peindre une toile une dernière fois mon seigneur,” he muttered. He asked for a canvass. And the Good Lord heard his plea. The sky rained with stars.

It crashed on the roof of a car. People heard the loud thud and directed to the direction of the sound. A young lad, covered with blood was on the sight. People were astounded. His face was peaceful. He was smiling.

The sky rained with stars, as if crying. People were engrossed by the sight. And as easily time passed, they forgot what happened.

As morning came, news came like an unwanted visitor. Their son died of suicide.

His painting was displayed at the park. People crowded as a masterpiece lay before them. A painting of a child lying on a sea of stars. They didn’t know it’s the reflection of the stars from the lake. They didn’t know that the painter died like the stars on his work, an image of history. A fallen star on Christmas Eve.

A/N: Thank you very much  meylkeo for making the cover of the book. I really love it mate.