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Short Lesson With Another

By @Grallingbo

Short Lesson With Another

The artist leaned back against the chair, taking a moment to gaze at the mess he splattered on the canvas.

The watercolor canvas was dotted in splotches of blue that blended together horribly into a navy monstrosity. From a distance, the painting could somewhat be seen as the eye of a cyclone, but from the artist’s position, it was nothing of the sort. It was awful, terrible.

It was everything Owen Arcbolden never wanted to see in any of his work.

Owen managed to contain his anger as he stood up from his wooden seat and lifted the canvas off of the easel. Despite how much he abhorred the work he created on the canvas, something about it compelled him to keep it somewhere. Instead of tossing it in the trash, the artist planned on setting it down against a wall in his basement.

A lesson that nothing comes out as good as you’d like it to, Owen thought, nodding as if these words were being spoken to him.

Now he was smiling as he stood, the canvas held tight in his hands. He turned around, the canvas still raised to the point where it was blocking the view in front of him.

You can turn your trash into treasure, just as long as you set your mind to it, the artist added in his mind.

Then, Owen lowered the canvas and–

Oh, my god!

The canvas landed on the ground, front-down in the wet, dewy grass as the artist staggered backward, tripping over his own feet and collapsing back into the wooden chair. The force of him coming into such abrupt, rough contact with the chair caused it to fall apart under his weight. As he came crashing down onto the grass with all of the wooden parts surrounding him, laughter came from in front of Owen, taunting him as he tried to get his bearings.

“Did I scare you?” the same voice questioned O, a hint of laughter still able to be heard its tone.

“Well, what does it look like?” O responded, angrily.

“I’ll tell you what it looks like. Pathetic.”

O growled as the man in front of him then continued to laugh. “Easy for you to say,” the artist snapped back, “those wire-rimmed glasses you always wear make you look like the discount Harry Potter.”

“I’ll have you know these are still in style and have been for quite a while.”

“Your sense of fashion is as up-to-date as a VCR.”

“Oh, shut up.”

Owen was always aggressive with this man. Despite this, they’ve known each other for quite a long time, having met when they were teenagers. That was a decade ago.

This other man’s name was Nicholas Foldwell. A man whose name would somehow find itself etched deep into O’s mind over time.

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