Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Fly Away Home by - (best ereader for comics txt) 📖
- Author: -
- Performer: -
Book online «Fly Away Home by - (best ereader for comics txt) 📖». Author -
“We will.” My brother chuckles. There’s a certainty in his response as he glances over at Lizzie. “I know this because she’s already picked out her next painting subject. Something having to do with a produce shop on Main Street.”
We separate and prepare for the inevitable departure that no one wants to happen. But it must. Russell has a new corporate landscape project to envision. And an artistic daughter to dote upon like I know he will.
Before I realize it, Russell’s car horn honks. The driver and passenger are both waving their hands outside the window. Calls of see you soon are no longer lip service. We mean them, and I already look forward to our next visit together.
I peek back toward the man still standing on my front porch. Jack holds a watercolor painting. It showcases a pyramid of lemons stacked with careful exactness. They’re situated on my kitchen table, which has been an important cog in my emotional transformation over the past week. The thoughts, conversations, and decisions made in that room? It only adds certainty to my belief. It’s my favorite place in the house. In my home.
“She gave you that?”
“She did.” His response rests somewhere between surprise and assertion. Why did Lizzie choose that one? “She said I should continue trying some new things.” I should’ve known he’d read my thoughts.
A warm smile spreads, inside and out, that speaks with more depth than any word or thought. I know what’s coming. My heartbeat skips, and my unsteady breathing quickens. It’s a spontaneous and instinctive response to keep my world from spinning out of control. But I want it to continue pirouetting as it is with a sense of reckless abandon.
I close my eyes and drown in the delicate pressure of his lips against mine. It’s strong and certain. But also tender and unsteady. I continue sinking into each emotion and every sensation that harmonizes with it.
When Jack steps back after a moment of pure bliss that I wish could go on forever, I want to scream, Please, don’t go.
But I have no words. He’s stolen my breath, and maybe more.
17
The next several days pass in a blur of beautiful serendipity.
The pitcher of brewed sweet tea remains chilled in the refrigerator. Jack prefers my lavender lemonade after giving his palate time to adjust. Unfamiliar but delightful experiences bloom everywhere around me. Afternoon rain showers have nourished the soil and flowers in my garden. They tangle with each other in an act of beautiful chaos. One entity becoming intertwined with the essence of another.
At the end of each day, we sit on the porch swing and watch raindrops tumble off the roof. They drop into the flower boxes waiting to soak up the natural nourishment. I offer Jack a taste of different baked goods I dreamed up in the kitchen. The peach tart holds a special place in my heart, and it came out perfectly on my most recent attempt.
We exist in our own little cocoon, wrapping ourselves in the mystique of a splendid aura. It encompasses nothing in particular, and everything at the same time. A graceful dance occurs between us as my metaphorical wings continue to unfold.
He sketches from across the street while I sit on the porch and watch him. Jack glances up every so often and offers me a smile. I return one without realizing it. We’re separated during these moments, but only in a spatial sense. Connection runs so much deeper than physical touch.
We haven’t talked about the kiss, and that’s okay. Some things don’t need words to disturb what’s already there.
The wild idea in my head gains momentum with each passing moment. And the afternoons spent with Jack? Watching those charcoal lines swirl into an emotional personification of my home? It nurtures deep-seated feelings I never thought I’d experience again.
#
I KNOW HE’LL FINISH today, and that scares me. This inanimate structure I live inside has nurtured our time together. An undeniable connection grows stronger with each passing moment. I’m convinced these walls are alive and breathe life into the space between us.
Our shared artistic journey has been dreamlike. I don’t want it to end. He must have something else to draw or paint. Or at least pretend to, for the sake of continuing this magical fairy tale. These quiet moments on the porch, watching Jack, have guided me back toward a time long ago. To ponder and deal with my messy parts in a healthier way. He has no idea that by just being there across the street, he’s helping me.
How do I share that with him? Should I? There is so much that could go wrong if I divulge the details of my past. But the comment shared with Lizzie echoes in my mind. The foundation of every relationship, even with yourself, is trust.
Jack gathers his supplies, tucks them in his backpack, and makes his way toward me on the front porch. The afternoon cumulus clouds roll in from the west. They provide a softer backdrop for the space surrounding us. I have a peach tart and two glasses of lavender lemonade waiting when he arrives beside me.
My pulse quickens as I prepare to do the most courageous and vulnerable thing I’ve ever done. I am about to risk losing everything that is good in my life at this moment. He sits down on the porch swing next to me. “A penny for your thoughts?”
His penetrating gaze sees through me. I should know he already senses my emotional unrest. “It might be closer to a dime.”
“I’m right here.” Yes, he is. And that’s how I would like it to stay. Still, I push forward, relying on that elusive and invisible thing called trust.
“My mother abused me.” It slips out in slurred speech. If I don’t say it quickly, it will never come out. “I’ve never dealt with it well, and it’s kept me from . . .”
Jack places a hand on my thigh, with a most reassuring touch. I feel his thoughts. It’s okay. Everything will be okay. I want to share that I fear losing someone again, like I did Dillon, but that would be presumptuous.
His thumb makes tiny circles on my jean shorts as visions of that copper pipe return to my mind. Those same random words alight on my heart. Infinite. Whole. Timeless. Another one is about to emerge, its warmth spreading, when Jack stops and looks directly at me. “Everyone has a troubled past to deal with. It’s not what happened, but how we respond to it that defines us.” I study Jack’s eyes and feel his anguish. Layers of trauma are trapped between his words. “Her name was Teresa.”
He stares at the ground and exhales, lost in a tangle of painful memories. “I was married to my work instead of the woman I was supposed to wed. We got into an argument one evening, and she left the house. Upset and angry.”
He takes a deep breath, removes his hand from my thigh, and interlocks it with the other in his lap. I set the swing in motion, ever so gently. It’s my way of communicating the same message. It’s okay. I’m right here. “Instead of going after her, I continued focusing on my work. A stupid painting.”
I sense the emotional instability in his quivering voice. “She didn’t come back. I assumed she wanted some space. Police found her car in a ditch two towns away the next morning. There was a suitcase in the trunk. Not that it matters, and it’s selfish, but I’ll never know if she needed time to herself or was leaving me for good.”
I want to pull him toward me, but I’m not sure where we are right now. I have no words, so I borrow his. “It’s not what happened, but how we respond to it that defines us.”
He pauses for a moment, catches an unsteady breath, and reaches for his backpack lying on the ground. He pulls out the completed sketch of my house and hands it to me.
“Jack, this is breathtakingly exquisite.” It escapes from my lungs, soft and tender. They’re the same words Russell used to describe Lizzie’s painting. I can’t help but feel there’s a connection between the two.
“Since my fiancée died, I’ve felt compelled to work in black and white. My life has become nothing more than varied shades of gray.” He reaches back into his backpack and pulls out a small canvas, placing it cautiously in my hands.
I begin to sob uncontrollably, overwhelmed by the likeness of my garden in its full splendor. Everything I’ve ever dreamed it could be is captured by Jack’s delicate brushstrokes. The colors and textures of the oil painting touch something at my core.
“Claire, you are the first person who has brought color back into my life.”
I’m home. Right here, right now. In this moment, I am home.
18
Without thinking or deciding, our hands find each other. There’s a natural chemistry between Jack and me that the rest of the world has yet to discover. Seated on the porch swing, we sway gently, moving in unison like two planets with a shared orbit. The force and attraction are unmistakable. Certain.
I never want the feeling in this singular moment to end, and I anticipate Jack feels the same thing.
I gaze at his creations beside each other. The charcoal sketch dwarfs the smaller canvas painting. But the intimate mood and depth in the latter sings poetry that only my soul understands. His too.
“They belong together.” I speak in veiled terms, even though I don’t need to. Everything about this afternoon should coexist in soulful harmony. Including us.
“You’re right.” Jack tilts sideways, viewing both works of art from a different perspective. His head is almost resting on my shoulder. His scent at this moment, after a full day in the sun, is rough and masculine. But it is more enticing than the coveted and delicate jasmine in my garden.
“Have you thought about a name for it?”
He studies the mixed-media pairing with a pensive gaze. The sleek sheen of oil paints complements the edgy shadows created by the charcoal lines. To others, they might appear too divergent. To me, they are exactly as they should be. Jack’s meditative study of his artistic creation sparks a growing smile on his face. “Fly Away Home.”
He says it with such certainty, as if there is no other name. Jack squeezes my hand and begins those tender circular motions with his thumb. His touch is soothing electricity. “I fled what I thought would be my home, looking to run away from the past. But it was only when I decided to do so that I found my home.” He stops and looks into my eyes. “Not in a place, but a community . . . and perhaps a single person.”
His other hand caresses my cheek. With the gentlest pressure, Jack tilts my face. I’m off-kilter and balanced at the same time. He pulls my lips toward his with an emotional certainty that no force of nature can stop. It’s the most tender, compassionate, and loving connection I’ve ever known.
The same word keeps alighting on my malleable heart. Home.
“I want you to have these.” He places the sketch and canvas before me, placing my hand on top of them. Jack wraps his fingers around mine. Our interlocked hands
Comments (0)