Just Make Art . . .

I’ve been writing, drawing, reading, and messing around with my family.  Writing, drawing, reading, messing around – Repeat.  Repeat.  Then, I look up and my days are gone.  It’s pure bliss.

Here’s what I’ve been working on . . . a short story called Siren House and some drawings.

Siren House (Excerpt) 

The two siblings walked hand in hand for a long time through the streets of the quaint village.  All the cottages opened up their windows and doors to let in the Spring air.  The two children skipped past each home, smiled and then waved.  They made their way up past Mrs. Werrill’s “Rose Nest” cottage and down to the little dirt road that ran out of town.

Some bicyclists past by on the other side of the road.  The brother and sister moved from the dirt ruts to the shallow stone walled that outlined the right side of the road.  The other side was open to the meadow.  Once the bicyclists and a couple vehicles had past, the two children raced over to the wild grass.  The little boy found a frog and tried to get his sister to kiss it.

She ran screaming from him, over and down the small hill east of the road.  She bumped into me.

“Hello, Miss,” the little girl said and curtsy.  Such a nice girl, so sweet, so innocent, she wouldn’t grow up to be what she was now.  She would grow up to be something far less.  I could tell by looking.

The little boy raced up behind her, screaming like a wild animal, but he stopped when he looked up at me.  His delicate blue eyes shining like stars with wonder and curiosity.  Something he would also lose, but he would be told what to wonder about, and it would not be a stranger on the hillside.

“Whoa,” said the little boy, “you’re a large one.”

I chuckled.  The sound was strange to my ears; I hadn’t laughed in so long, many, many, many years.  Too long to remember how many.

“You’re adorable,” I said as I bent my legs and placed my hands on my knees.  My voice was weak and strained like after weeks of coughing.

My voice must have scared the little girl, she backed away.  “Who are you?” she asked.

I felt the smile wipe from my face.  “Moria,” I said with more strain and agony on my throat.

“That’s a lovely name,” said the little boy looking at his sister with disappointment.

She looked back at her brother and took his hand.  “We’re going to go play now,” she said as she tugged on him.

“I want to stay,” he said yanking his small hand back.

“Would you like to come play with me,” I asked the small boy.

“No, he would not,” said the little girl.

“We can play in the meadow,” I said.

“No,” and she took his hand and led him over the hill.

I went back to my tent in the woods and stayed until I heard the cries of child far away in the distance.  I knew where the sounds came from – that house up on the hill filled with ghosts and siren calls.  Children died there every decade for three weeks.  They always tried to blame me, but here I am, never been locked up.

“Stay put,” I reminded myself, “stay.  There’s only trouble up that way.”

The screams continued, continued for hours.  The police sirens went off in the direction of the old house over the next hill.  They also came in my direction.  Stupid cops, stupid society.  They will never learn.  The spiritual takes from the physical world has its leisure.

Have a great night, Biz. 

 

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Author: bizboston

BIZ BOSTON . . . is an art educator, writer, artist, painter and drawer in Missouri, USA. Born in United States of America and raised practically everywhere in it. She is fascinated with nonlinear narratives and memory. Artwork shares perspectives while simultaneously stirring alternative ones. Her paintings are created in oil, and her drawings are vary from pastel, charcoal, and graphite.

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