This story came from a well received poem i wrote a few years back. I'm not into poetry but i knew something good was there, so i decided for my second short story post to play around with it. I like this story, it has some heavy imagery and metaphores that i am not sure will be picked up on. Maybe i am giving myself too much credit though. As always i wrote this in about two hours and is a first draft. Comments? Ideas? Possitive Criticism?
The Canvas
He is old now, completely grayed and his face was no longer lined with vibrant colors. Instead, it’s been replaced with dark shades of black. His hair has thinned and his beard grew into perfect harmony with a brilliant mix of white and black. His life is empty now; with nothing left for his old and wrinkled paint stained hands to create. He is slipping rapidly out of health. When I visit him in the sterile white stained room of the hospital, and I look into his once dark brown fleeting eyes, I know deep down, he’s already dead. He has been for a long time.
When he was younger he was always in his studio. I remember when I was a real young kid; he would be in there sometimes for hours. I knew this because my adolescent mind gauged time through the half hour episodes of television programs. I always wanted to watch him turn those oily blobs of paint into massive city landscapes or rusted out Chevy truck beds hauling mounds of dirty trash bags into the desert.
He told me once, that when he stood before his canvas, he felt like God.
“I control what happens here. I turn this white bleak canvas into anything my mind can imagine. No one has any control over what I decide to make with these paints and my hands. Its freedom boy, pure unrestricted freedom, it’s the American dream.”
In real life, it was complete opposite for him; I know this now looking back in retrospect. He had no control over anything, in fact everyone had control of him. The government controlled his income due to debt. Mother controlled where he went and what he did during his little spare time. His job controlled the majority of his time. He was a product of those around him. He was the canvas; all those other parties took turns with the brush creating him.
His creations -as I call them- were gorgeous. I think labeling them as paintings or sketches is too informal. They were much more then that. I remembered when he finished one of my favorites, a magnificent ship with towering sails battling through menacing waves that violently came crashing into its bow. It hangs in my living room above my television this very day.
It’s unfortunate that I am not as talented with writing as my father was with paint. No matter how hard I could try to depict its beauty with words, it would only pale in comparison to the perfection of every stroke of his brush. When I was younger I would sneak into the basement to look at his creations. The ship always gave me goose bumps.
I’m not sure how he did it, but the ocean looked so scary to me. I swear it was as angry as I have ever seen or witnessed the act of anger in my life. Sometimes even in my adult life I dream of being trapped on that boat. I’m there all alone, looking overboard watching as these ten foot waves crash into me. I fight for balance, fight for composure as the violent winds batter my face with the sting of the freezing rain. In my dreams the ship never sinks, but I’m never strong enough to weather the storm. I grab a life vest and I jump into the ocean, fading away into its omnipotent gloom. I wake up sweating with tears in my eyes. I never understood what it meant.
“Son, what are you doing down here?”
I’d heard him walking down the steep creaky staircase but I was too captivated to really take notice until he spoke.
“Its late, you have school.”
I’m not sure my age; I was young though, probably just of out grade school, within my first two years of middle school. I remember I would sneak down after I thought everyone was in bed. Even at that age, that basement scared the shit out of me. To this day I’m not sure how I ever muster up enough courage to sneak down there at nights to look that them.
“Why are you down here looking at these old things?”
Even back then, before he truly physically defined the concept of “old” he had began the process of giving up on his dream. It had been years since he had created anything at that point.
“Why don’t you paint or draw anymore, dad?”
“Oh, I do. Everyday at G.M. you know I draw the manuals for all the stations and their parts.”
“It’s not the same.”
“It pays the bills. You grow up, and you realize the things you love to do don’t pay the bills. I have your mother, you, and your sister to think about.”
“Don’t you miss it?”
“Of course I do. You’re still young. You’ll learn responsibility soon enough. You’ll start by going to bed.”
He’d pick up his paint brush and his pencils every now and then. It seemed that all his years working and raising us tired him out too much to the point that he was never really able to recapture his inner artist. I know now that he chose his family over his creations.
I sit next to him as he sleeps. It’s because I know he will not be with us much longer that I am there with him by his side. It’s been a long time since we really spoke. It’s funny how fast life goes by when you hold a grudge. Even when mom died, we just kind of did our own things.
I never amounted to the success my parents always bestowed upon me. I was always deemed the one to make something of my life. I chose the road less traveled. My father chose the duties of a father, the hardworking backbreaking ethic of putting your family first before your own dreams. I married young, due to a pregnancy that my girlfriend and I at the time were definitely not ready for. We struggled. I worked a shit job at a restaurant and I spent most of my time dedicated to my own creations.
I wasn’t a painter, I was a writer. At least I called myself a writer. I made money here and there, made publications in this journal and in that journal. I never made much money. I never quit though, not like my father. It got to the point that I was forced to choose, I never wanted to. It was between my family, or the thing I truly loved, creating.
I knew then, first hand what my father was talking about. When I looked at that blank white page staring back up at me, I felt like God just waiting to create anything I deemed. It was a drug to me, a release, it was therapeutic. My parents backed my wife’s side. Even my father, who I thought would understand at least a little how I felt. It didn’t matter. I chose to follow my American dream. I chose freedom. I chose to create.
I think of that day he spoke to me in the basement. Sometimes I wonder how foolish I was. I never remarried or even dated. It wasn’t an act of un-love. I just couldn’t give up my dreams; I wouldn’t let anyone or anything write the words on my canvas like he did.
I was going to leave this story uncompleted on his bed. I was going to walk away from my father who lays deathly ill before my very eyes and say goodbye leaving only this behind. I would have ended it with clichés that form our daily lives. I would have said that I love him dearly. That he was a good hard working father. I was going to apologize for our separation and tell him that I still stand by the choices I made.
Instead he woke up and I never got to write or tell him any of that. Instead you get the following events.
His eyes watered upon seeing me sitting there next to him. I couldn’t speak. I folded this up and handed it to him unfinished. He shook his head simply with a no.
“I had your sister bring something here in case you came.” He spoke slowly, his voice had aged and I hardly recognized it. “It’s in the closet.”
I said nothing; instead I placed this unfinished story into my pocket and opened up the small closet within the hospital room. There underneath a clear plastic bag with my fathers belongings sat a large art folder. I opened it up and pulled out a large painting.
“I painted that a year after you left your wife. It was the last thing I ever created. It is my greatest achievement.”
There in my hands was almost an exact replica of that weather worn ship painting that still hung high in my living room. The waves were still as dark and scary as ever. There was one main difference; in this one the ship was well manned. My father, mother, sister, and even my ex-wife and our son Jacob, all manned their positions. They look worn and tired, yet they fought on.
“I love you father. I am sorry.” I walked away and did not look back. I cried harder that night then I had in years. I understood now. I always thought back to that night my father spoke to me in our old basement as a way to justify my choices. I understood everything as clear as day. There was nothing left for me to do. I went to bed that night and I found myself back on that boat. I was alone, and I did as I always do. I jumped into that violent ocean and faded away into nothingness.
