Canvas

• Zoe Dickman, Grade 9
• Short Story
• 2021

They say that life is a blank canvas. I’m not so sure. With dust kicking up like storms at my feet, I make my way into the night. The stars have been extinguished. The world is too quiet, dressed in shades of deepest grey. Sounds ring out across the desolate valley of dying grass before me. The Earth seems to shudder with every passing breath, feeling the crashes in the distance, and with it, the fall of dignity. But, amid the silent, unfeeling chaos, I sit. Barely sensing the numbing pain in my legs from the scrape of the shrapnel littering the ground, I pull my knees into my chest. I close my eyes. A taste of sweetness on my tongue from a gentle fragrance drifting through the air.
My body warms as the world stills, and my mind carries me away. I see the sun rising over blue oceans and rolling plains adorned with early morning light. A light breeze kisses my cheeks as I hear the distant singing of birds. The grass is soft beneath my bare feet, and the soil is moist with fresh rain. The tide rolls with the strength of a thousand horses, but kind in its glory as it brushes against the shining sand. I am alone. There is no-one here to splash violent shades of red or midnight hues of black against my peace: I am here, as a blank canvas.
Then, a dark blot of ink appears over the horizon. So mild—it seems—so tame. But it starts to stain the gradient fuchsia and gold of the dawn. Slowly, ever so slowly, shadows seem to crawl across the lush rug of Earth, sucking away the warmth from its green embrace. The breeze seems to lose its joy, and whistles pitifully into the looming dark. Birds fall silent as the darkness grows. I am frozen to the now-chilling sight before me, the vivid array of light being stained by the night.
Time halts. My heart stops. Nothing, and then, my world comes crashing down. I open my eyes to see the sky illuminated with angry flames that consume the night. The Earth reverberates with the thundering sounds of destruction. My ears are filled with screams. But I am still, amidst the pandemonium, I let myself calm. Because, all my life, my canvas has been stained with black, with red, and with grey. It has been slashed and torn and destroyed over, and over again. I have watched my life crumble. Yet, somehow, I have never relented. I know that life isn’t a blank canvas, and it never will be, but that doesn’t mean that beauty cannot be found. So, I let my eyes close, and carry myself away to that place I always knew I’d find one day. A place of colour.