Woad O' Wisp

500 word Short Story

Pursing her lips, Elowen glared at the unruly canvas, its drying paint stubbornly defying her.
“What’s the matter?” asked Alder, his keen ears noting the moist separation of her lips
Dredging her brush through the pale cerulean paint of her palette, Elowen raised it once more to the canvas--her eyes to his. “I can’t seem to get the color of your eyes.”
Alder gazed through her with that distant look of his"as though the night sky had wreathed itself within surreal fathoms. Slowly, deliberately, he replied, “And what color are they, to you?” It was a strange question, considering Alder’s eyes had never seen light, much less color. Even for her, who could see his eyes, their color was as enigmatic as it was impossible to emulate their scattered warmth with mere acrylic. How could you convey something like that to someone who had never experienced Alder’s gaze?
Tentatively trying to find words for the feeling, the color, that Alder emanated, she replied, “Your eyes: their color is a lambent caress of moonlight on a field of wheat stirring to a yet unfelt breeze; as tepid as silence held breaths apart or the sensation of a lover’s hand teasing hesitant flesh with its absence--never touching, ever present.”
Dipping her brush once more, this time a dense indigo for contrast, Elowen continued, her words flowing as naturally as the moist paint, “Their color is like running your fingers along the grain of a cypress bookcase, each yielding recess far removed from the scent of stale cinnamon and ink, an ink which once laid slick upon canvas’ chagrin.”
Seizing upon the moment, upon a trace of titian hued whites, Elowen applied those soft highlights, “Its color is but a simple name, blue; despite how a simple name will never be who you are, yet still you’re that very name--entwined like the earth’s breath lingers within trees, unfettered as rain cascading naked flesh. Each nuanced hue’s like wandering an abandoned cloister; indulging in the memories of strangers who once breathed the sensation of brick.”
So consumed was she in sculpting the soft curves of his eye’s shadow, like entwining mortar, Elowen didn’t notice Alder until his hand was on her canvas--stroking the smooth, already dried, surface, as though trying to decode a nebulous message under finger. Elowen shifted uncomfortably, aware now that she had said too much; she did that a lot.
Quietly, so as the words may never leave them, Alder at last spoke, “All I see is a smooth canvas.” And indeed, in the days to come, when Alder’s eyes lost more than the light, those words never left her; no matter how she painted, the canvas was only smooth--a sorrow without hue.

Reviews

[Einstein Noodle]

beautiful! so nice to see you posting my friend! first of all ..the names ..right away i have a sense of nother time ...some mythos ...some charmer at work.. as she paints his eyes that never knew sight ..its so engrossing and impelling ..that i slowed my reading rather than speed it up (if you know what i mean) the pure intent of the painter and his reaction is so so melancholy to me ... one of the best short stories i have read here at the cafe sir ... well done says i!
E.
ps. this just really grabs me:
"....indulging in the memories of strangers who once breathed the sensation of brick.”

[Nusquam Esse]

I originally started out trying to think of ways to describe color without sight. At some point the descriptions took tangible form, and weaved themselves into my own regret, realization of how hard it is to connect with others... all the words, the colors, can never truly communicate what we intend. What may effect us profoundly may just be a smooth canvas.
Admittedly, I may have also been painting a lot at the time.

[Einstein Noodle]

how true ..it is near impossible to convey everything ..and how wonderful that there are those who continue to make the attempt ..giving us all wonderful creative works in words and paint .. again...great to see you back

[Moonie]

For some reason, I really love the following lines..
" Each nuanced hue’s like wandering an abandoned cloister; indulging in the memories of strangers who once breathed the sensation of brick.”
I know they're not the heart of the piece, and there are many other gems in the story...nevertheless I still adore these lines...
If I could give any suggestion, I would say change the end just a teensy bit...it is indeed beautiful...but I think you've already used the word "hue" and colour so many times, that it fails to provide the punch that this fabulous story deserves...i dunno...maybe it's just how I feel.anyways, it sure is brilliantly written, and the care that you've provided to each line shows...that care, that hard work makes it all the more special! :))
And yeah I was curious why you'd given them these names... I have read your work many times before (dunno if you remember...i was active so long ago ) and I know all your names have special meanings...i would like to know about that, if you feel okay to tell... :))

[jacob erin-cilberto]

"only smooth's sorrow without hue"

i wish i had written that...sometimes there just are no proper words to describe a feeling---we just make lame attempts.

j.

[Nusquam Esse]

I feel that some writers, despite having a passion for language, find its use limited, and in turn, develop a fickle frustration... not from a mere lack of skill, but that some ideas lose substance when concisely described; despite how deeply we wish to convey our own uncertain selves.. All the complexities of language, how often does our 'mastery' fall short before loss...after. All our intentions, our experiences which are ours alone, are a seive through which any essence flows, leaving only clumsy words... someone else's clunky words we delude as our own. When you sit alone in the dark, how can loneliness encapsulate what you feel? That would infer a shared sensation...but as the night drags on, you realize that you are anything but 'lonely'. Photographs will never be people... and words are just words.