They say that when the heavens turn to fire the vagabonds cry failed million dollar ideas; but when the inferno suffocates in tidal waves of moonlight, their cardboard portraits spring to life.
The sketchbook ballerina began to move, Arabesque Penchée, Relevé and followed by Grand Jeté. No-one could keep up, because she danced with passion, with the love of the art. She performed in the back alleyway slums but choreographed it for the Louvre. One, two, jump. The ballerina fled the scene.
The brown poster board now a doughy bridge to her new canvas. A Chinese takeout container stained by acid rain with red Autumn leaves in its white oblivion. The vagabond tears smeared the tree’s dye. A transfiguration from roots, stem and branches, to a bleeding mist.
The teary mist gave birth to man, shoes pointed and black. The ballerina stood still, freezing mid pirouette. He held out his hand. Was it a sign of good faith? He moved his left foot one step forward, she moved her right foot one step back. His right moved to mirror his left, her left copied her right- and so they began to waltz. Inches apart but they were tracing each others souls with every stride forward and backwards, left and right.
He didn’t slack, he stayed his distance but kept the pace. She wasn’t losing him, not so fast. They jolted form one lost and crumpled idea to the next, flying through sewer smoke mid air, nose diving across trash cans of polished steel and scaling mountains in shrivelled post cards. Throughout it all, he matched her speed.
She had met her equal and lead him back to her humble beginnings. They stood before each other at the cardboard where it all began. Pointed shoes moved forward, she remained still. He held out his hand- palm towards her- and stopped. She raised her arm, a lone finger outstretched to touch him, like holy water, and that was exactly what he was. He was the rain and she was ink. In a single touch of their hands she began smudge. She was busy disappearing, she was dying, and instead running back to her vagabond creator she smiled. She moved towards him and embraced every drop of his form. She knew with the first sip that he was her poison. But if she was going to fade into non-existence she was going to do it with the one that matched her speed, that travelled the world with her in an instant. She was going die with the one that she was searching for her whole life.
The sky burned once more, but the vagabonds no longer wept for their misfortunes. They smiled for the ballerina, who had found some-one to call her own.