Collection of Short Stories

Abstract Art

Saying he was different is a nice way of putting it. His personality was such a tough lock to break that even the top agents in the FBI would not be able to crack him. He was just another stranger on the street, but from afar there was nothing odd about him in my observation. The closer you got to him, the more you noticed the odd little twitches he made with his face or the way his eyes would stare right past you as if he ignored the fact that you even existed.

His posture was perfect; not once had I ever seen him slouch. He had a way about him that caused people to back away if they got too close. It was almost as if he was full of negative energy that pushed people away, which in a way is ironic if you consider what he did for a living. Not once had I ever seen him smile; his lips always stayed in a tight line.

The Museum of Modern Art was his place of employment. He could talk for hours about all the amazing pieces displayed in this museum. You could see the pride on his face as he walked, keeping his back straight, his head held high, and his chest pressed out displaying his very sleek black nametag. In shining gold letters, it read Wallace Wellington. Even though he never smiled, you could tell he was happy because every time someone would call out his name for a question, his left eyebrow raised up several centimeters.

His at work persona was drastically different from his on the street persona. It felt as though he was a piece of abstract art, but instead of hanging on a wall, he was a living subject. You could not know his past, present, and future by just looking at him. You had to look behind all the layers of different colored paint to uncover the true meaning to the masterpiece that was Wallace Wellington. 

Underneath all that pigment was once a blank canvas that was excited about the world and wanted to enjoy every second of it. All that changed as time took its toll on the canvas and slowly added more and more layers of paint to it until it became a different piece altogether. The brush strokes or choices that had been made changed that little blank canvas into something greater, something anyone would be proud to call family.

Wallace Wellington was an experience in himself, from his dark brown hair all the way down to his polished black shoes. He was different and, until today, I never had a chance to see a different side to him. He was always described to me as a puzzle that could never be solved or a code that could never be broken, even by the smartest hacker. He always walked in a straight line and took the same route home every day. 

Not once was he adventurous. Not once did he decide to go the long way around. Not once did he take a left turn on Tomb street instead of a right. I often wondered what would have happened if he had. Would he still have worn a white button-up shirt with a black vest, black slacks, and a blue bow tie to work every day? Would he still have stared right past me, ignoring I even existed? Would he still have pushed people away with the negative force he always showed people who got a little too close?

One afternoon when the birds were singing, I was sitting on a bench right across from Tomb Street. The wind was blowing in my hair and I was wearing my favorite white lace dress. There he was on the other side, standing tall and waiting for the light to turn green. I admired the fact that he didn't reach up to brush away his hair that fell into his eyes. 

Slowly he walked across the street, just like he always did at that time of day. He wasn't the kind of person that liked surprises. I had watched him switch in a new coffee shop every week when the past one wouldn't serve his order directly at 7:56 am. If it was served before, he would finish the coffee before he got to work and if it was served after, well he never stayed long enough for me to find out.

There he was standing tall and walking in a straight line like he always did when all of a sudden, a bird pooped on his shoulder. You could tell he was discussed by the way his nose twitched to the right. He walked right up to me and grabbed the tissue I had been holding out for him. That was the first and last time I ever had the chance to meet him. Never again did I see him walking this way home. Never again did he take a right turn on Tomb street. Never again did I get the chance to watch the canvas grow into something more than he already was.