Incinerate

Chapter 20 - The Lighthouse, Part 2

We pack up our things when the bell cuts through the clamor of thunder and rain against the windows, and I slide Dad's book back in its place on the bookshelf. Trading our lunchtime things for sketchbooks and utensils, we head to the Arts Hall. We take our usual seats in the back as the rest of the class fills in the empty spaces.

"To me, my little Kahlos and Picassos!" Mr. Rainey bellows as he bounds into the classroom. "Today, we delve into the deep seas that are your psyches. Gather your minds in meditation, and search for something that represents you as a person. Forego the shallows of vanity! Find who you are at your core, and upon the canvas display your true self. This is your task of the day. Have it ready by our next session. And... begin!"

The flutter of more than a dozen sketchbooks breathes the class to life. Mr. Rainey clicks a button on the boombox behind his desk, an old dark gray relic from before I was born, and 90s alternative rock music plays at a low volume. Zippers of pencil bags unzip, plastic boxes pop open, and soon the sound of scratching pencils and artists at work join the upbeat tunes.

But my hands are still. The little tool betwixt my fingers waits above the blank page. It yearns to know what to say to the paper, and I wish I knew what to tell it. My mind mirrors the miniature bound canvas, however. I've got nothing. Dissatisfactory ideas flash and disappear, like a book or a dog, but none are what Mr. Rainey has asked for. Sure, I like to read and I have the cutest pup in town, but those are surface level things. Then again, the devil on my shoulder argues that my Art teacher doesn't have the first clue as to who I am, so how would he determine the depth or shallowness of this artistic reflection? Hell, with how broad the term "art" is in the first place, could I turn this in as is? I don't imagine I would get much of a good grade on that, though.

Glancing over my left shoulder, Sera is quick to get to work. Long parallel lines stretch northwest to southeast and come to a point at the top. While I wonder what the end product will be, I know well enough to refrain from asking. Don't want spoilers, after all. Don't wanna spoil anything with her, really. Even though I'm not afraid to poke and prod when need be, I also don't want to scare her away. When I look at her, there's that ever-present pull to know her, to be her friend, to be a source of light in whatever darkness in which she might find herself. Like a lighthouse in the middle of a storm.

A lighthouse. Hm. That's not a bad idea.

The vision takes shape in my mind. It stands upon the edge of a great cliff and peers out into the black of a rainy night. Far below, waves rise and crash upon the rocky face of the cliffside. The lighthouse's bright and mighty beacon cuts through the darkness like a holy sword against vile undead flesh. Behind the stately tower, as it guides any out-of-frame ships home, a full moon peeks through a break in the weeping clouds.

Slow and light pencil strokes glide across the page to form a jagged edge of the cliff. To the left, near the spiral binding, the base of the lighthouse forms and stretches up until its roof nears the top of the page. I outline the width of the beam, letting it grow thicker the farther it expands to the right. The shoreline comes next, an uneven line that makes me wonder how I'm going to draw the waves. I might need to fill in those details at home using a reference photo.

"Whatcha got there, Rembrandt?" Sera's voice, soft and curious and teasing, comes from my left. She has paused her own work to gaze at mine, her off-blues meeting me in a flash before going back to my basic outlines.

"It's so bad that you can't tell?" I ask, putting on a facetious offense.

"Nope, looks like just a bunch of wet spaghetti thrown at the wall," she says.

"Darn, and here I thought I was the next Monet."

"Why a lighthouse, dorkus?" she gives a soft giggle.