Roadtrip Oneshots

Jandy, Painter

Jack

My hands were perpetually stained a variety of colours, either from splashes of paint, or from the pencils, the pens, the spray paint... I guess you could say I was a very artsy person.

My room was covered in paintings, in drawings, and I had even created my art all over my wooden floor. I lived alone, so I didn't have to ask anyone for permission.

I spend hours every day working on a new part, working so that they eventually join together. I had worked on the walls too, and I wanted my whole flat to be one massive drawing.

Within a year, I had finally finished. My flat covered in drawings that somehow interlinked together, creating a kind of swooping image that rushed up and down the hallway.

The colours blended together in such a way that the colours glowed and meshed into one. Even I couldn't tell where one colour started and finished. It was a timeline of my thoughts, of my emotions, and of my life, so to speak.

It was obvious which part I had painted when my mother had died, when my father had moved away, when my niece was born, when I got divorced... every major (or minor) life event I had experienced had been transferred to the walls or the floor of my flat, communicating my own thoughts of the matter.

It was far too complicated to even begin, but that was basically my life's work. An hour or two, or three, every day when I got home from work, constantly pencilling outlines, filling shapes, blending colours... the wall was my palate.

And thus began my Saturday openings. I'd advertised it online, saying that it was free to come and view, just to get some opinions.

No-one turned up that first time, but I didn't let that bother me.

A guy turned up the second time. Short, blonde hair, and a young face. He looked kind enough. Official, if I could use that word to describe him. Jacket, ripped jeans. Official, but simple.

"Hi Jack! My name's Andy... I'm a journalist, so I was wondering if you would give me permission to write a column about, this."

He spread his arms wide as I let him in, taking in the sight. I saw the camera around his neck, coming to the conclusion that he took his own photos too. Free lancer?

"Go for it... knock yourself out mate." I replied with a smile.

I told Andy to not bother taking his shoes off; the way I saw it, any marks added character to the are already on the floor. And plus, I could always paint over a particularly one, so it didn't exactly matter.

"So, talk me through it." He asked, tracing shapes with his fingers, and his eyes. They were wide in awe.

"Basically, it's my thoughts. Just in art. Colours. Shapes. Every emotion I've ever felt is somewhere in this house."

I watched as this Andy fellow traced a black and white spiral on by my bedroom door, and encased within each swirl was purple and grey semitones... I was rather fond of that piece.

Even if I couldn't quite remember what had inspired it.

"It's amazing." Andy said quietly, his eyes constantly looking all around. "Do you mind if I take any pictures?" He asked.

I picked up the first brush I could find, squirting some paint on my hands, smearing it over one of the blanker spots (if there were any), and getting to work absentmindedly.

"Take as many as you'd like. Don't mind me, I'm just going to crack on while you're doing that." I said over my shoulder.

"No, no of course... It'd be good if I could get some shots of you at work too."

I laughed. "Whatever you need."

The sound of clicking and the shutter going off filled my flat, a new sound, but one that linked to my art, in a weird way. Photo's were still art, just a different variety.

"I take it you live alone here?" Andy conversed lightly, and another sound filled the usually quiet flat.
The sound of pen to paper. I turned around, sliding the brush behind my ear.

"How could you guess?" I joked.

I'd gotten over the divorce months ago, really. The art I submerged myself in filled the gap of another human, the colours being my company. My niece loved following the colours around the flat; she even had her own section in the spare room.

"But yes, I live alone." I answered.

"How long did this take to finish?" He asked curiously.

"A year or so? I don't really remember." I replied, heading over to another blanker spot, picking up a pencil and doodling random shapes. "I spend all of my downtime adding to it, so I guess the hours all add up."

"This is honestly amazing Jack." He said.

He was still in awe of the place, and I couldn't stop the flush of pride that shot through me.

"It's kind of a project, but not. Like, my whole life has been communicated through the colours, and everything on the walls, the floor... even the ceiling."

My flat was a vortex of colours, of stories, myriad of emotions.

"That doesn't make it any less incredible."

I let Andy wonder throughout my flat, trusting him enough to not steal anything. My doodles began to get bigger, spiralling outwards, and I was satisfied with the way they added another layer.

"How do you do that so perfectly?"

"It's not perfect, it never is. But it takes a lot of practise. And I have a lot of trust in myself, not to sound big-headed or anything." I added as an afterthought.

"Not at all... I still can't get over how amazing this place is. The detail is incredible."

Andy left and hour or so later, telling me to buy the newspaper on Monday. I agreed, after I we exchanged numbers; partly because we got on well, and also so he could ask me questions.

The week went by slowly after that, but I occupied my evenings with more drawing, colouring, painting.

On Monday, for the first time in years, I bought a copy of the local paper.

And what do you know? I was on the front page, Andy's article taking up the whole thing, and carrying on further inside the paper. I fired off a text.

Jack: A bit much, don't you think?

Andy: You're welcome

Jack: :)

From then on, the number of visitors I got every Saturday increased, and increased, to the point where people began to leave donations.

I left a pot by the front door, and it seemed to fill itself up every week. I then opened my flat for viewings on Wednesdays too, just as an experiment. Even more people arrived.

I saw my flat as a museum of my thoughts and emotions, and it was cool that people seemed to enjoy the story I had told.

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Bit weird, but... 😂

Thanks to warmwyatt, Pheenixjackson, roaddancetv, eleftheria2004, annajie03, loveaby, jackdiffsduck and alicsissyruby2011 for voting!❤️

"You can speak your mind and not get scared..."

Love WolfGirl.❤️

Yo, so on a side note, how would you guys feel if I created a poetry book, or a short story book on Wattpad? Would any of you be interested in reading it? Because I've got a few things put together already... 😊