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The Drawer

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A journey never to forget............ Chapter 1: The Time Of My LIfe Drawing has been my life; it always has, it always will. I sat in front of an empty canvas, my hand begins to raise. My drawing pencil is about to touch the art yet to come. It’s all coming to me, the pictures dance through m ,mind, coming to life as my hand swepts the page. Magic is what I recall naming it. Then I fell asleep on the couch in the same room.

Later that afternoon, I awoke to a poke to my check. I slowly open my eyes, and realized my drawing pencil was poking me. While I rubbed my eyes with disbelief, I looked around and no one was there. A sense of another presence over whelms me. I slowly turn around in the corner of my eye, my canvas’ picture moves with excitement. My picture is moving!!

A scratchy growl came up to my right. Then I turn face to face with a lion; identical to the one in my painting, when it walks pass me. I turn to my left, my painting was jumping out of the canvas and became as real as you and me. My attention arose when I heard a trumpet sound as a giant shadow hovers over me.

Acrobats, leaping out of the painting shove by me, I stare as they flutter off. I join the applause with the tiny crowd still in the painting. Clowns take over the thrill as they honk their horns and play jokes on each other.

As the other acts stood by, a man flew by, his engine growled loader that the lion. He hauled to a stop in the middle of the painting, I feel a tingle in my toes, right before a ramp. A ramp that points towards the room I stand in. Astonished, I suddenly lost my breath. The driver tightens his grip on the handles, you can see the determination in his eyes, even through his thick sunglasses. His feet slowly lift off the ground, his posture as if he was at a formal dinner. I fell like a helium balloon, lighter than air. The other acts walk toward the painting, and one by one they go back in. The driver does not wait for them, he hit’s the gas. Faster and faster he goes on the ramp about to jump. My throat tangle to where cant talk.

- I realize I’m in the room by myself now. I just stand there, as the driver approaches.

Another large growl over comes my apartment. A wheel appears out of the canvas, then a body, then another wheel. He gets slower while he spins in a perfect 360 circle. He sat there for a moment staring at me, me staring at him. The crowd roars with excitement.

The bike shrieks once more. It’s tires start to roll forward. The bike picks up speed, continuously moving towards me. The mysterious biker takes his right hand, soon his whole right arm, reaching out for me. Should I take his hand? Gradually, my right hand starts to move to the arm reaching out for me. He doesn’t slow down, but takes my hand any way. I fell a rush of adrenaline shiver down my spine, as he gently swings me to the back of the bike. The wind runs over my bulb head as I was being swung around. Content to be with my art, we’re rolling along to the painting, and without a word escaping my mouth, the bike hurls into the painting.

I was posed in the middle of the ring, as if I were apart of my piece, never to return.

The painting just sits there, untouched and finished. Years come and go, seasons start and end. But never did it move or travel. It remains apart of that room, till the day it crisps away and I never came out, but stood there forever, content with my life.





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