Painted Sky.

• Elvis Gleeson, Grade 11
• Short Story
• 2015

A daring streak of amber stitched with pale giants- bursting apart over a scarlet canvas. At this hour, the honey warmth of the world grew dim and the slow shadow of night peaked from its sweet rest. A young lark swayed, pressing its dark stencil against an alabaster mountain. The smell of worn oak danced throughout the air. But this meant nothing for old Martin Crud. For the real beauty of the world sat two seats away.

He often heard her talk. Rich slurs of sweet nothing to whomever took the adjacent seat. He thought once of sitting there but alas, the intrepid step was too much to bear. So he idled- trapped in the confines of his own prison. Twenty years he caught the one five to Broome, each day delivering a dry reminder of regret.

As he wobbled home, his weakness would whisper. “We are alone.” Martin had no pictures or frames, mementos or gifts, just a lone, dusty mantle, shadowing a threadbare doll. Money came and went- always surviving but never living. Home was a weatherboard jail, sown with cobweb and anguish. He ate modestly but pondered wildly. Every scene rehearsed in his head. Yet Martin held one expense. No matter the cost- he always took the one five to Broome.

Martin tottered along the aisle towards his seat. The view was a plain sea of endless teal. He lost himself in the simplicity. Maybe she is alone too. A vagrant dog dashed to roadside. The coach lurched, but continued. The jolt crooked Martin’s neck, edging it towards a vacant seat. “Ah, that’s where she sits.” He thought. Then thought again. “That’s where she sits!” Suddenly, Martin rose, as swiftly as he could manage. His age behind him as he stormed towards the driver. His breathe abruptly electric and heart convulsing with passion. Suddenly, a phantom ledge failed his step and he crumpled to the ground. Yet with conviction, he lifted his chest towards driver and yelled with raw fear.
“Where is she?!”
A reaction shot through the driver’s leg and he halted the bus.
“Where is who?!”
“The woman who sat there!” Cried Martin, pointing towards an empty seat. “You’re mad, you could’ve just got us killed! How I am supposed to know? I’m the driver- that’s it.”
Martin rose to his knees. Soft tears creating shallow ponds in the burgundy pits of his face. He limped back to his seat and looked out the window. His vivid imagination no longer painted the sky. It was grey. A grey world of ashen disregard. The trees bore no leaf, only mere shells of endless glades.

For the rest of his days, Martin nor his beloved stranger were seen on the one five to Broome again. Yet unknown to the world, there lay two weathered stones. Alone but connected, under a pastel sky.