Strands of hair the color of midnight fell scross his cerulean eyes. The corner of his lip was pulled into his mouth, chewing in concentration without even realizing he was doing it. Sketchpad balanced on his slender knees; the charcoal pencil flew across the paper held by long, bony fingers. Dark smudges covered his fingers and hands as the picture took form, much like the black make up surrounding his eyes. Everything else around him disappeared when he was focused on the images within his mind, placying them on paper to share with others. I could sit hours, unmoving, watching him. There was no doubt he was an artist... not by trade but by nature. It emminated from every part of him as he sat before me, eyes raised signaling the completion of his project.
The red and yellow leaves fall from the trees, softly creeping along the lawn with the help of the wind. Trees bow outside my window. Cars pass. Rain falls. Everything is continuously changing. Nature's on going work of art lives right outside my door. You used to love the fall and the pictures it painted. Would you be angry to know that I've hated this bittersweet picture ever since you were painted out of it?
I'm thinking of turning them into short stories. One of them I'm going to use for class since we have to write a short story. We don't have to use them. But I really like both of them. So let me know what you both think? Or any ideas in the ways of where I should take them? Or just if you think they suck hah.