The Easel

Brunners Lane of Delight

Oh, Nicholas could imagine every detail of his hometown in Germany like still lived there. The town on the brink of becoming a city, the twisted, winding stone brick roads weaved between every building like a silver serpent in the grass. Although, now that he came to think of it, Brunners Lane never did grow grass...

The town was so simultaneously wealthy and poor at the same time, the ladies would pitter their way to the boutiques as they tried not to make eye contact with the groups of homeless sitting by their feet. Few gentlemen would dare stop and give to them, let alone help them to their feet as they were pushed down by the wealthy or by grumpy policemen.

In the midst of all this, there Sat a single orphanage, stating itself politely from the outside walls of brick and light wood. The door was a humble slab of wood, painted a dark, unatractive green. Three steps led to the door, and as its bronze door handle turned, an old, aging frau presented herself, waving at whomever we're to pass by. She looked up at the sky; a few snowflakes began to fall gracefully from the clouds that hovered over the sun. She scowled quietly, she would much rather live someplace exotic, like Italy, even though most Germans wouldn't agree.

What was her name again? Ah yes, fruau Angeline. A beautiful name, but it seemed that her outward looks deceived most of who she really was.underneath a gracefully painted face was a crabby old frau of the block. Frau saw the seamstress, frauline Winter, stride by with her hair styled with curls but in a bun, and a light blue gown with a white bow on the back. Winter gave a thoughtful smile before returning to her workplace.

'She'll get it someday' frau thought to herself, 'that little Angel will grow and feel exactly like me. It's what she gets for that dreadful dress she loaned to me.'

Frau raised her chin and made her way down the steep steps, being careful not to take an embarrassing tumble.

...and for the inside of the orphanage, well, there wasn't much to it. The walls were plain, unpolished wood panels, accompanied by small bunk beds and a fireplace which doubled as a stove. The floors creaked softly every few panels, and during the day, the orphanage remained empty, most children, boys and girls alike, played football on the streets.

Except for one boy, only thirteen years of age.

His name was Nicholas, a tall, gangly boy with dark hair, cut low on his head. He would never find himself dead with the other children who would pass him occasionally, holding their footballs underneath their arms. Nicholas sat on one of the crates that held canvasses and charcoal and oil pastels for the flea market across the road. Every artist from every age in Brunners Lane would gather there to show and sell their masterpieces amoung the passerbyers. One wide mouthed auctioneer would sell the art to the highest bidder.

Nicholas could only dream to step into the territory of the market, with all its fancy art brands lined up for sale to the experienced and well known painters, sketchists, and sculpters of Brunners. He looked down at his sketchbook (which took a bad experience to aquire) with the beginning sketch sprawled out on it. A 40 year old woman standing by one of the tables, browsing pastels as she pushed her neatly curled hair out of her face, showing her high cheekbones and grand eyes. Nicholas began to bring the woman to life from his paper, trying to depict her from across the street.

Nicholas had almost finished his sketch completely, he was proud of his work, his proportions seemed very straight and was pleasing to the eye. He wondered if the clouds were coming in, his light seemed blocked.

It was frankly hilarious how long it took Nicholas to realize that the sky was clear, and that a shadow blocked his light, not the clouds. Nicholas jumped when he saw a lady standing with upright posture, cutting her eyes down at him, or more likely his sketch.

The lady gave an impatient breath, "what is this?"

Nicholas' face turned red with fear and embarrassment, he was so dumbfounded he hardly knew how to speak. "A sketch" he muttered, loooking down at it to avoid her gaze.

"Well," she sighed, "it needs work. Leave, boy."

Nicholas remained frozen.

"You heard me, leave." She rose her voice, and Nicholas grabbed his charcoal and sketchbook, scurrying away to behind a building. The lady proceeded and walked gracefully from the market, with a basket of pastels held in her arms.

But Nicholas surely didn't leave to go to the orphanage.