moledro
feeling of resonant connection with an author or artist you will never meet
imagine; you're in an art gallery. you feel lost. you're standing in front of a painting with a gold frame. artist: unknown. ignoring the rope, you reach forward to touch the surface of the art. as your finger makes contact, you're in the painting. the world smells of grass and oil paint. about fifteen feet to your left, it ends. the world, that is. it's gold like the frame, and it feels under your hand like how an imaginary wall would feel if it existed. your shoes are shiny and you realise that the grass leaves oily residue when touched. you walk along the imaginary wall until you find a clearing in the trees. there's a single sunflower in the clearing. it appears to be marking a grave, though you're not sure how you know. when you touch the flower you accidentally rub a petal off. you use the paint consisting of your yellow shirt to replace it. you suddenly know that this is the grave of the artist. you bend to the base of the huge sunflower, and start digging in the dirt. the trees around the clearing move. they attempt to twist towards you. you feel such resonant connection to this unnamed artist's grave in a clearing behind the scenes of their own painting. the trees start crying, or rather they have been, but only now can you hear them. the oily dirt piles at your feet. your fingertips hit wood and the wood whispers a name and the trees are silent. it's a calm sort of silence. you close your eyes and you're in an art gallery in front of the painting with the gold frame. you're in a studio with a paintbrush behind your ear and a sunflower in your hand. you're in a store at midnight and you're holding the perfect gold frame. when your eyes open the dirt is smooth and untouched and the trees whisper and giggle. you turn and walk the way you came, to the edge of the world. you are followed by a trail of green oil paint footprints. when you get home that evening, you prop a sunflower next to a canvas and you pick up a brush. you have a name. you wish you could be introduced to the person who gave it to you.
YOU ARE READING
short stories by snowman
Short Storyit feels so familiar, like someone you loved and whose face you have forgotten. somewhere in your body, somewhere that doesn't exist starts to ache. it aches for the singing of the stars. you just want to go home, don't you? if only you knew where t...
