‘Brush Strokes’ by Susan Samlidis
Henry scrutinised the painting, tilting his head to one side, his blonde curls spilling onto his shoulders. A wide grin sprawled across his face, his heart flipping as buoyantly as the frantic waves on his newly painted seascape.
Bright sunlight beamed through the skylight, illuminating the art studio with warm golden hues, radiant light settling on the painting poised on its easel. A carpet of vivid colour showcased a stunning cottage garden, alive with violet gladioli that stood to attention like soldiers in patriarchal salute. Crimson poppies sat proudly amongst sap-green foliage and ivory gypsophila.
Henry stepped a little closer to appreciate the vibrant sienna and scarlet hues of winter orchids, their fragile blooms dancing in the depths of light and shade.
Humming happily to favourite songs blaring from his playlist, Henry layered bursts of colour to his landscape. Such simple pleasures filled his heart with joy, but he craved validation for his work.
The letter lay unopened on his desk, fear holding it to ransom. The churning inside sought truth so he ripped open the envelope.
As the sun dipped and shadows danced, he scanned the words. Pride swept over him, but a wave of disappointment settled heavily in his stomach. Torture of failure locked in his mind as he read of third place for his seascape, hopes of first place dashed.
Henry crumpled the letter like a used tissue and tossed it into the bin. Shelving disappointment in a cloak of determination, he picked up a tube of cerulean blue and created depth to the delicate cornflowers. A sharp rap on the door distracted him. Frowning, paintbrush in hand, Henry swung open the door to find Lucy carrying a bottle of wine and wearing a hopeful smile.
Henry tutted. “Oh, Lucy, what are you doing here?”
“Well, I wanted to see you, so I thought I’d surprise you!”
“Er, Lucy, no, sorry, I’m painting. I need to finish this piece,” he scowled, gesturing towards the painting.
Lucy’s heart dropped, and a tear threatened to trickle, but instead she spun around and flounced down the path.
Slamming the door, shaking his head, Henry returned to the painting. He blended leaf green with gold onto the palette and focused on his work, pushing the encounter with Lucy and the letter from his thoughts.
Darkness fell. Henry flicked on the lamp above the easel, casting a silver thread of light over the canvas. He squeezed a blob of magenta onto the palette when his right hand froze. The paintbrush clattered to the floor. Adrenaline surged. He stared at his fingers, willing them to move, but they lay lifeless. Heart racing, mind screeching, Henry grabbed his phone and keyed in the emergency number with his left hand.
At the hospital, in a flurry of chaos, doctors barked orders, machines bleeped, and sirens wailed in the distance. Needles pierced veins in his left arm, his right arm floppy, like a puppet devoid of its puppeteer. The scanner whirred above his head, intrusive as it photographed his brain.
The diagnosis blasted through the air like a gunshot. A small stroke, caused by a tiny hole in his heart, which had dwelled silently, cruelly waiting to expel a clot into his bloodstream like a thunderous cannonball.
Time passed in a blur. Henry’s family and Lucy cooed over him, as if he were a newborn baby or a forlorn puppy. They droned with endless forecasts of recovery, taunting the finger of anger wagging inside his mind. The doctor’s words replayed in his brain. Motor skills required for painting would likely never return.
Henry stomped into the studio. Lucy fussed and bustled around the tiny space like an annoying wasp. Henry snapped.
“Lucy, will you just go. I don’t want you or anyone here. I want to be alone. I don’t want to see you anymore.” He ignored the hurt etched in her eyes. “Just leave!” he bellowed. The studio door slammed.
Grief sat like a boulder in his chest. He stared at the floral landscape and exasperation rose like venom from a snake. He smashed the painting to the floor and hurled the palette with the dried acrylics into the sink. He gathered up the paint tubes and flung them into the bin before dropping to the floor, racked by sobs.
Henry lifted his tear-stained face from the cold floorboards, the cruel assault settling inside him like a mounting fever. He crawled onto his bed and lay for hours until his eyes flickered, shutting out the light of the world into welcome oblivion.
Henry slept fitfully, dreaming of landscapes with swirls of alizarin crimson and cobalt blue. Paint dripped, their splodges staining his landscapes. Seascapes flooded canvases, saturating his soul. A deluge of torrential rain soaked his cottage garden and muddied his world. He dreamt of Lucy, her smiling face, the suppleness of her skin, and loving touch. His masterpieces hung in galleries, and awestruck artists came to shake his hand.
His eyes fluttered, and as he emerged from feverish sleep, he awoke to a new slice of resilience, a slither of hope that grew into a mountain of possibility.
Poised before the blank canvas, Henry painted using his left hand. The strokes appeared childlike, naive, futile, like his right arm, which lay as inanimate as a pebble. Cursing, screaming and weeping, Henry discarded canvas after canvas, wasted tubes of paint until, stroke by stroke, the canvas portrayed a new story. Each line and splash of colour embraced more freedom, bolder and braver, like a soul once held captive, now set free. Brushstrokes played dynamically on the canvas, capturing light and warmth, softness and depth, until a rugged seascape emerged, its horizon dotted with red-sailed yachts, a bronze sun sitting high in the sky. Henry grinned as he uploaded his piece for the competition.
Looking through some photos, his heart jumped wildly when an image of Lucy smiled back at him. He savoured the memory of their first electrifying kiss. A lopsided smile formed on his lips as he dialled.
Henry uncorked the wine, stirred the spicy bolognese and waited. Lucy’s smile lit up her face and tears swam in his eyes as she lifted his flaccid right hand and brushed it with a gentle kiss.
Henry glared at the letter, his stomach in knots. Lucy, perched on his knee, held her breath as he sliced open the envelope. The text, like his painting, popped.
First Place: Best New Artist of the Year.
Susan Samlidis wrote this story in response to the prompt Simple Pleasures, as part of August’s Just Write! short story competition.
