Status: Completed.
My Broccoli on Your Canvas
You Drew Me By The Tree
The first day of the second week of the third month of the year was beginning just then, and Frank was already getting up from the fourth night without sleeping. No nightmares had haunted him, but no sleep had soothed him either; he had only stared at the ceiling of his bedroom in silence, waiting for that dawn moment to come.
Frank didn’t jump in surprise when he peeked outside through his recently opened window and still saw the standing figure on the other side of the street, leaning against the oldest tree Frank had ever heard about. That phantom was a regular one in that spot, and the young farmer boy was already used to see it there every hour of his mornings, and to sense it there every minute of his afternoons, and to think of it still there every second of his nights. That was the reason behind his lack of sleep; every night, he would refuse to close his eyes, in fear of a reminiscence of what had happened not too much time before.
Truth was, when he closed his eyes, Frank saw shades of green.
And red on the canvas.
***
Gerard was definitely infatuated with the way the kid’s hands worked charmingly when he was watching him. His pencil was completely obsessed with capturing those movements on the canvas, but they both knew it was impossible even for the most creative and talented of artists, so Gerard felt happy every time he could simply sit by the Old Tree and draw the kid. He was a muse, Gerard’s favorite muse, and the artist had to paint him every day. The Farmer Kid.
Gerard watched him from the other side of the road, on his favorite spot under the tree shadows from the natural sun, and drew as much as he could of the boy for the day before the kid had to go back home, when his duties were complete. Gerard knew he never abandoned the fields unless everything was perfect and in sync with his own demands; no grass should be seen, and nothing could be left without enough water, and everything should be taken care of very subtly and with a love Gerard couldn’t understand. And he never tried to, because his only sense of duty was to watch and adore the image, passing it through the brushes, pens and pencils to the surface he drew on.
He hadn’t talked to the kid, as he felt he couldn’t interrupt the work, not in fear of being taken aback by sudden grasps of rude or annoyed words, but in fear of disrespecting the kid’s daily routine. So Gerard only watched and drew, and watched and drew, day after day, until the first rays of the night came and the kid went home. Gerard went home too, and in the next day, a new routine would be executed by the Old Tree.
***
Frank had no idea of when it had all started, but he remembered the first “Why do you sit here all day” question he had directed to the sitting figure by the Old Tree. Now, as he sat himself on the spot where Frank had seen him every day, from the mornings until the first hours of the evening, Frank remembered the twilight hour that had been enough to make him feed his curiosity.
He remembered crossing the street and finding the boy sitting there with a canvas on his lap and a pencil on his hand, and only one thing could be possible in Frank’s mind to answer to his own question, so the “I like to draw you” words weren’t any novelty for Frank; only a surprise. He had never imagined being observed by others, serving them as inspiration or whatever made the other boy sit there and draw, but Frank had recognized his own silhouette on the now-not-completely-blank surface.
He remembered smiling at the Drawing Boy every day and becoming his best friend at some point, and he remembered how, during the season of planting broccoli, they had kissed for the first time, after the sunset and after Frank had sneaked out of his house, through his bedroom window where he could barely fit. And he remembered how funny it had been to find secret drawings of himself and broccoli every time they celebrated one more week after the said kiss.
The two boys never grew up to boyfriends, or to introduce the other to the family, and they became a secret to the Old Tree and the fields of Frank’s family, to every corn culture during the summer and every snowfall during the winter. Frank remembered how the boy had drawn him in each one of the mentioned sceneries, plus while watering the flowers during the spring and while cleaning the falling leaves during the autumn. It didn’t feel strange, and when the Drawing Boy didn’t come to the Old Tree, Frank knew he could only be running errands for his mother.
Two days went by, though, and Frank hadn’t seen him yet; he remembered how it had been difficult to not know where the boy was, or what he was doing, or if he was thinking of Frank. And the third, the fourth and the fifth day followed, but none of them brought the sitting figure on the other side of the road, or the fugitive kisses during the night, or the blank canvas on the boy’s lap.
Only the second week brought a novelty, when Frank was already telling himself that the Drawing Boy had grown tired of just watching the days go by, and the plants growing on their own, but Frank not going anywhere with him. Frank thought the boy had just grown tired of waiting for something Frank couldn’t promise him, so he had given up on finding the shape ever again. But it came.
For the whole morning, Frank carried a weightless smile over his face, and words echoed beneath his hat as he sang along to a song he had once heard the Drawing Boy humming on Frank’s ear after an especially long kiss. And for the whole afternoon, Frank carried a bulky frown on his forehead because he could see the figure by the Old Tree, even if it had never been there at that hour. And then the evening came, as he worked on the fields with one eye on his tasks and the other on the shape on the other side of the road. It hadn’t move a single inch and Frank didn’t know what to think.
That night, though, he knew what to do; he sneaked out of the house through his bedroom window and trotted as silently as he could to the tree where he had furtively met the Drawing Boy for countless times until that night. The sun was still visible on the horizon, but Frank immediately wished it hadn’t been there at all. The sight was too excruciating to understand.
***
You keep distracting him.
Those were the words on repeat mode inside Gerard’s head every morning he walked closer to the Farmer Kid’s house. They had come from an unknown source, but he could almost tell who had put them into paper and brought it to the same spot he sat on every day to draw the kid.
When the boy came outside, though, there was nothing in Gerard’s mind except for his pencil and the favorite scene he had gotten obsessed with; he would always remember the first kiss, during the season of planting broccoli, he had given to and received from the kid. Therefore, he wanted to plaster that moment on History books and he kept drawing it over and over and over again. There were always exceptions, depending on his mood, and muse, and daylight, but Gerard mainly drew his Farmer Kid and broccoli.
“Get out of here.”
It all happened while also those words hammered inside Gerard’s head, tiring his brain cells out and removing all odds of inspiration, because they only came when the kid was out of sight. They were the reason why Gerard tried to stay away from the kid for some days, but after a week of suffered separation, he had to go back to the Old Tree.
“He’s a farmer, not your freak peep show.”
He had to go back to the messages.
Those particular words hurt him like millions of knives shredding his skin, flesh and bones to bits, but he could never ignore them. They were part of the reason why he wanted the Farmer-Boy-and-broccoli images constantly on his canvas; there were no ideas in Gerard’s head of abandoning the boy, his favorite muse, solely to his farmer duties, but there were slight chances of it being a danger for him.
And sooner than Gerard expected, they became real.
***
Frank trotted as silently as he could to the other side of the road, to the spot under the Old Tree where he knew he would find his Drawing Boy, but there was an incredible shot of surprise when the sunlight still allowed his eyes to see it.
There was the boy.
There was the canvas.
There were still the strokes forming his silhouette.
There were still the shades of green from the broccoli.
And there was blood.
Frank didn’t jump in surprise when he peeked outside through his recently opened window and still saw the standing figure on the other side of the street, leaning against the oldest tree Frank had ever heard about. That phantom was a regular one in that spot, and the young farmer boy was already used to see it there every hour of his mornings, and to sense it there every minute of his afternoons, and to think of it still there every second of his nights. That was the reason behind his lack of sleep; every night, he would refuse to close his eyes, in fear of a reminiscence of what had happened not too much time before.
Truth was, when he closed his eyes, Frank saw shades of green.
And red on the canvas.
***
Gerard was definitely infatuated with the way the kid’s hands worked charmingly when he was watching him. His pencil was completely obsessed with capturing those movements on the canvas, but they both knew it was impossible even for the most creative and talented of artists, so Gerard felt happy every time he could simply sit by the Old Tree and draw the kid. He was a muse, Gerard’s favorite muse, and the artist had to paint him every day. The Farmer Kid.
Gerard watched him from the other side of the road, on his favorite spot under the tree shadows from the natural sun, and drew as much as he could of the boy for the day before the kid had to go back home, when his duties were complete. Gerard knew he never abandoned the fields unless everything was perfect and in sync with his own demands; no grass should be seen, and nothing could be left without enough water, and everything should be taken care of very subtly and with a love Gerard couldn’t understand. And he never tried to, because his only sense of duty was to watch and adore the image, passing it through the brushes, pens and pencils to the surface he drew on.
He hadn’t talked to the kid, as he felt he couldn’t interrupt the work, not in fear of being taken aback by sudden grasps of rude or annoyed words, but in fear of disrespecting the kid’s daily routine. So Gerard only watched and drew, and watched and drew, day after day, until the first rays of the night came and the kid went home. Gerard went home too, and in the next day, a new routine would be executed by the Old Tree.
***
Frank had no idea of when it had all started, but he remembered the first “Why do you sit here all day” question he had directed to the sitting figure by the Old Tree. Now, as he sat himself on the spot where Frank had seen him every day, from the mornings until the first hours of the evening, Frank remembered the twilight hour that had been enough to make him feed his curiosity.
He remembered crossing the street and finding the boy sitting there with a canvas on his lap and a pencil on his hand, and only one thing could be possible in Frank’s mind to answer to his own question, so the “I like to draw you” words weren’t any novelty for Frank; only a surprise. He had never imagined being observed by others, serving them as inspiration or whatever made the other boy sit there and draw, but Frank had recognized his own silhouette on the now-not-completely-blank surface.
He remembered smiling at the Drawing Boy every day and becoming his best friend at some point, and he remembered how, during the season of planting broccoli, they had kissed for the first time, after the sunset and after Frank had sneaked out of his house, through his bedroom window where he could barely fit. And he remembered how funny it had been to find secret drawings of himself and broccoli every time they celebrated one more week after the said kiss.
The two boys never grew up to boyfriends, or to introduce the other to the family, and they became a secret to the Old Tree and the fields of Frank’s family, to every corn culture during the summer and every snowfall during the winter. Frank remembered how the boy had drawn him in each one of the mentioned sceneries, plus while watering the flowers during the spring and while cleaning the falling leaves during the autumn. It didn’t feel strange, and when the Drawing Boy didn’t come to the Old Tree, Frank knew he could only be running errands for his mother.
Two days went by, though, and Frank hadn’t seen him yet; he remembered how it had been difficult to not know where the boy was, or what he was doing, or if he was thinking of Frank. And the third, the fourth and the fifth day followed, but none of them brought the sitting figure on the other side of the road, or the fugitive kisses during the night, or the blank canvas on the boy’s lap.
Only the second week brought a novelty, when Frank was already telling himself that the Drawing Boy had grown tired of just watching the days go by, and the plants growing on their own, but Frank not going anywhere with him. Frank thought the boy had just grown tired of waiting for something Frank couldn’t promise him, so he had given up on finding the shape ever again. But it came.
For the whole morning, Frank carried a weightless smile over his face, and words echoed beneath his hat as he sang along to a song he had once heard the Drawing Boy humming on Frank’s ear after an especially long kiss. And for the whole afternoon, Frank carried a bulky frown on his forehead because he could see the figure by the Old Tree, even if it had never been there at that hour. And then the evening came, as he worked on the fields with one eye on his tasks and the other on the shape on the other side of the road. It hadn’t move a single inch and Frank didn’t know what to think.
That night, though, he knew what to do; he sneaked out of the house through his bedroom window and trotted as silently as he could to the tree where he had furtively met the Drawing Boy for countless times until that night. The sun was still visible on the horizon, but Frank immediately wished it hadn’t been there at all. The sight was too excruciating to understand.
***
You keep distracting him.
Those were the words on repeat mode inside Gerard’s head every morning he walked closer to the Farmer Kid’s house. They had come from an unknown source, but he could almost tell who had put them into paper and brought it to the same spot he sat on every day to draw the kid.
When the boy came outside, though, there was nothing in Gerard’s mind except for his pencil and the favorite scene he had gotten obsessed with; he would always remember the first kiss, during the season of planting broccoli, he had given to and received from the kid. Therefore, he wanted to plaster that moment on History books and he kept drawing it over and over and over again. There were always exceptions, depending on his mood, and muse, and daylight, but Gerard mainly drew his Farmer Kid and broccoli.
“Get out of here.”
It all happened while also those words hammered inside Gerard’s head, tiring his brain cells out and removing all odds of inspiration, because they only came when the kid was out of sight. They were the reason why Gerard tried to stay away from the kid for some days, but after a week of suffered separation, he had to go back to the Old Tree.
“He’s a farmer, not your freak peep show.”
He had to go back to the messages.
Those particular words hurt him like millions of knives shredding his skin, flesh and bones to bits, but he could never ignore them. They were part of the reason why he wanted the Farmer-Boy-and-broccoli images constantly on his canvas; there were no ideas in Gerard’s head of abandoning the boy, his favorite muse, solely to his farmer duties, but there were slight chances of it being a danger for him.
And sooner than Gerard expected, they became real.
***
Frank trotted as silently as he could to the other side of the road, to the spot under the Old Tree where he knew he would find his Drawing Boy, but there was an incredible shot of surprise when the sunlight still allowed his eyes to see it.
There was the boy.
There was the canvas.
There were still the strokes forming his silhouette.
There were still the shades of green from the broccoli.
And there was blood.
♠ ♠ ♠
Thank you, Erika, for being such an amazing friend, and for betaing my stories all the time.I'll love you forever.
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Feedback is appreciated.