Status: This is a story I am doing for NanoWrimo so it will be hopefully 50,000 words
Is this a Dream or Reality?
Chapter 2
Chapter 2
Saiah sat in class, silent and focused paying close attention to the details of the woman’s body sitting in front of him. A stroke here, another there, a change in the color on his pallet. His painting was realistic with a flare. The woman was there and the detail was indescribable but the color was off; the tones of her skin a little more blue than the golden hue that radiated before him, the hair a little less thick than the bushel of dark wires dangling from her head, her lips a little less full and a little less pink and her eyes with less of a gleam as if in this painting her soul was dead, not she herself, but her spirit.
“Okay class. That’s all for today. Go and put on some clothes Fiona,” the professor announced. Then, quickly adding, he spluttered, “Oh! Before I forget, there will be no class next week. Did everyone hear? No class.”
A boy had shouted why and the muttering flowed through the class. Saiah didn’t care however and was packed up and out the door as quickly as he could possibly move. He could not stand his fellow classmates, most of them at least. They just weren’t of any interest to him, nothing special about his colleagues. They were monotonous to say the least.
It was Saturday and after his class, he was ready to go and spend some time by himself. He was ready to go to the park, as was the usual routine, and paint what life he saw alive there.
A few girls had chased him out and were now following him. Typical Saiah thought, bored with the girls. This was not the first time they had approached him.
“Hey Saiah,” one of them called. “Where you headed?”
“Mind if we tag along?” asked another.
He wanted to be alone, to pretend that these girls were not with him. He wanted to ignore them. He couldn’t though. It wasn’t in his nature to ignore someone who has addressed him directly. He looked at them, coldly, but that only seemed to entice the two of them more. He sighed, “I’m sorry girls, but I have some personal matters to attend. Maybe next time.”
“But that’s what you always say,” the first girl whined then mocked, “Next time.”
The other seemed to ignore her and say, “That’s too bad. Give us a call if you change your mind. Come now Heather. Let’s leave him to his business.”
The girls left giggling. What they thought was so funny was outside the grasps of Saiah’s mind. He knew that if he was going to leave campus anytime soon, he had to leave then and there.
Personal business was technically not a lie, alone time is technically a personal matter. After all, he created some of his best works of art alone. He paints, however, because he loves the stroke of a brush, the mood he can set with that one simple motion. He loves how people can identify with the meaning of the painting, the emotions he intends to set forth when he sets the paint brush on the cold lifeless surface of a blank tapestry. He loves how he feels as though he is creating life as the white space is filled with color, giving it personality, giving it a heart. The money he eared when he sold one of the pieces was simply a bonus.
Before returning to his small studio apartment that was scarred with paint and ink and drowning in tapestries, brushes, and other tools, Saiah stopped by the park, hoping to captured some of the life there. He strode with long strides, as he had long legs and was a tall 6’ 2”, to the very familiar bench in the middle of the park. The view and lighting from that point was the best he has yet to find in the entire space. From there, he could see a large patch of grass divided by a twisted pathway that runners, walkers with children, dogs, birds, and the occasional cat liked to wander. There would always be the typical college students playing frisbee or football or even volleyball. In the distance, as if to interrupt this chaos, was a bird pond with an oriental styled bridge floating over it. Verdure filled the area adding to the mystery and danger of the place in the late afternoon.
No one messed with Saiah so he did not really have to worry too much about the frequent mugger or kidnapper that seemed to be unnaturally common in that particular park. He wasn’t exactly weak looking, in fact, it was just the opposite. He was the kind of guy that looked like he could be a hockey, soccer, and football player all at once. People tend to not pick fights with those that look strong.
So Saiah sat there and painted whatever he felt like, caressing the paper with the end of his brush as though it would break if he applied too much pressure, if he did not take care with each motion he made. A small crowd would gather and then disperse periodically throughout his painting. The lighting of the area did not want to stay however and slowly disappeared behind the trees, bushes, and bridge. He had to cease his painting and pack up before it became dark as, for some reason, he lost his sense of direction then.
On his way home, he had to pass over the bridge of the pond that he was painting in the distance. He stopped at the top of it, at the highest point of its arch, and stared out at the water. Saiah did not know for what reason he had decided that he would like to stop and look out over the reflection of his blurred face below, but he did. All that matter was he did.
One last couple passed him in the park, a boy passed behind him, and then it was silent. There was practically no sunlight left as the lamps throughout the park began turning themselves on. Saiah was telling himself that it was time to go. If he did not leave, he would have strong difficulties getting home. Something was compelling him to stay. Something was telling him just one more minute, you’ll be fine, just stay one more minute. He could hear the soft voice in his head. At the point that he looked up to see just who was talking to him, water from the pond shot up and engulfed him, binding itself to him with its liquid claws, and dragged him down under.
Saiah fought. He squirmed and kicked and held his breath until his face was blue. He did not scream for air was much too precious to him then at that point. It would not last him forever. As he swiped at the water, attempting to get free, it forced him down, deeper and deeper. The depth was unnatural. There was no way that the pond was naturally this deep and this dark. Before Saiah passed out from lack of oxygen, he saw a bright white light where he was headed. It was bright, and then it was dark. Saiah had though he had died, but what he was to realize was that he was far from death. As a matter of fact, he was being born, given a new identity, a chance that none but three others would receive.
Saiah sat in class, silent and focused paying close attention to the details of the woman’s body sitting in front of him. A stroke here, another there, a change in the color on his pallet. His painting was realistic with a flare. The woman was there and the detail was indescribable but the color was off; the tones of her skin a little more blue than the golden hue that radiated before him, the hair a little less thick than the bushel of dark wires dangling from her head, her lips a little less full and a little less pink and her eyes with less of a gleam as if in this painting her soul was dead, not she herself, but her spirit.
“Okay class. That’s all for today. Go and put on some clothes Fiona,” the professor announced. Then, quickly adding, he spluttered, “Oh! Before I forget, there will be no class next week. Did everyone hear? No class.”
A boy had shouted why and the muttering flowed through the class. Saiah didn’t care however and was packed up and out the door as quickly as he could possibly move. He could not stand his fellow classmates, most of them at least. They just weren’t of any interest to him, nothing special about his colleagues. They were monotonous to say the least.
It was Saturday and after his class, he was ready to go and spend some time by himself. He was ready to go to the park, as was the usual routine, and paint what life he saw alive there.
A few girls had chased him out and were now following him. Typical Saiah thought, bored with the girls. This was not the first time they had approached him.
“Hey Saiah,” one of them called. “Where you headed?”
“Mind if we tag along?” asked another.
He wanted to be alone, to pretend that these girls were not with him. He wanted to ignore them. He couldn’t though. It wasn’t in his nature to ignore someone who has addressed him directly. He looked at them, coldly, but that only seemed to entice the two of them more. He sighed, “I’m sorry girls, but I have some personal matters to attend. Maybe next time.”
“But that’s what you always say,” the first girl whined then mocked, “Next time.”
The other seemed to ignore her and say, “That’s too bad. Give us a call if you change your mind. Come now Heather. Let’s leave him to his business.”
The girls left giggling. What they thought was so funny was outside the grasps of Saiah’s mind. He knew that if he was going to leave campus anytime soon, he had to leave then and there.
Personal business was technically not a lie, alone time is technically a personal matter. After all, he created some of his best works of art alone. He paints, however, because he loves the stroke of a brush, the mood he can set with that one simple motion. He loves how people can identify with the meaning of the painting, the emotions he intends to set forth when he sets the paint brush on the cold lifeless surface of a blank tapestry. He loves how he feels as though he is creating life as the white space is filled with color, giving it personality, giving it a heart. The money he eared when he sold one of the pieces was simply a bonus.
Before returning to his small studio apartment that was scarred with paint and ink and drowning in tapestries, brushes, and other tools, Saiah stopped by the park, hoping to captured some of the life there. He strode with long strides, as he had long legs and was a tall 6’ 2”, to the very familiar bench in the middle of the park. The view and lighting from that point was the best he has yet to find in the entire space. From there, he could see a large patch of grass divided by a twisted pathway that runners, walkers with children, dogs, birds, and the occasional cat liked to wander. There would always be the typical college students playing frisbee or football or even volleyball. In the distance, as if to interrupt this chaos, was a bird pond with an oriental styled bridge floating over it. Verdure filled the area adding to the mystery and danger of the place in the late afternoon.
No one messed with Saiah so he did not really have to worry too much about the frequent mugger or kidnapper that seemed to be unnaturally common in that particular park. He wasn’t exactly weak looking, in fact, it was just the opposite. He was the kind of guy that looked like he could be a hockey, soccer, and football player all at once. People tend to not pick fights with those that look strong.
So Saiah sat there and painted whatever he felt like, caressing the paper with the end of his brush as though it would break if he applied too much pressure, if he did not take care with each motion he made. A small crowd would gather and then disperse periodically throughout his painting. The lighting of the area did not want to stay however and slowly disappeared behind the trees, bushes, and bridge. He had to cease his painting and pack up before it became dark as, for some reason, he lost his sense of direction then.
On his way home, he had to pass over the bridge of the pond that he was painting in the distance. He stopped at the top of it, at the highest point of its arch, and stared out at the water. Saiah did not know for what reason he had decided that he would like to stop and look out over the reflection of his blurred face below, but he did. All that matter was he did.
One last couple passed him in the park, a boy passed behind him, and then it was silent. There was practically no sunlight left as the lamps throughout the park began turning themselves on. Saiah was telling himself that it was time to go. If he did not leave, he would have strong difficulties getting home. Something was compelling him to stay. Something was telling him just one more minute, you’ll be fine, just stay one more minute. He could hear the soft voice in his head. At the point that he looked up to see just who was talking to him, water from the pond shot up and engulfed him, binding itself to him with its liquid claws, and dragged him down under.
Saiah fought. He squirmed and kicked and held his breath until his face was blue. He did not scream for air was much too precious to him then at that point. It would not last him forever. As he swiped at the water, attempting to get free, it forced him down, deeper and deeper. The depth was unnatural. There was no way that the pond was naturally this deep and this dark. Before Saiah passed out from lack of oxygen, he saw a bright white light where he was headed. It was bright, and then it was dark. Saiah had though he had died, but what he was to realize was that he was far from death. As a matter of fact, he was being born, given a new identity, a chance that none but three others would receive.