seaycee (A Collection of Short Stories)

My little love.

there have been changes to the premise, bear with xx

~edited~

She took a step back, then several scuttling steps more. Removed herself from the work table like velcroed together atoms ripping apart. Slowly. Painfully.

Her haggard eyes trail the edges of the marble.

It was huge. Not necessarily within the means of what she could afford to spend on art. But she desperately needed it. Needed it like a cool breeze brushing burnt skin.

She sighed.

It was late July, an hour passed dawn on what would be an uncharacteristically dreary day in LA. Already the sky held evidence of this, a damp cloud of humidity burdening the horizon line and the back of her neck with a thin coat perspiration. How fitting.

Examining the lump, she could see the beginnings of the piece. The outline tracing invisible cuts along the surface slowly, the veins of which she would chisel and chip away to reveal what lay in wait.

It was a delusion to think a lump of material was the saviour she needed. But she wanted to believe it would help enough that she could be okay, even if only momentarily.

Her fingers twitched.

'Hello, my love', she whispered to herself, relieved at the rush of creative compulsion she hadn't felt in months.

A week ago it had returned with a vengeance, the feeling settled under her skin, itchy and aggravating. Digging deeper with everyday, demanding to be acknowledged.

When she was younger, her mother had explained it away as the quirks of a driven child, the way she worked with clinical focus. Good at everything she put her mind to.

She'd shown a particular affinity to the arts at the age of 5 after replicating artwork almost exactly with only a glance. From there, she had sampled different mediums until her accidental discovery of sculpting at the age of 9.

That first encounter had felt like coming home. The transition from paintbrush to chisel second nature.

But it had never felt easy.

This constant beckoning and coaxing, seductive like a siren to pirates. Emotions rushing and waning with adrenaline as she went from the start of to the completion of a piece. She often felt insane with the constant need to produce what existed only in her head.

But this would help, she reassured herself, wiping a forearm across her forehead. This would help her breathe again. Make her feel like her lungs weren't just luggage for pollutants.

Just okay, even if not happy.

Grabbing a legal pad and pencil from the floating shelf, she placed both beside the lump, flipping through until she came to a blank page. With practised ease, the pencil flew across the page in sure, even strokes, the shape appearing within the rendering, shadows and light merging slowly.

She paused, pen hovering over the pad.

She believed in the typical 'up to interpretation' artist shit, liked the thought of something she made having an impact. For that reason alone, she didn't name her pieces.