Nomadic Madness

October 14, 2012
By Freddy Miller BRONZE, Rochester, Massachusetts
Freddy Miller BRONZE, Rochester, Massachusetts
1 article 0 photos 0 comments

She drives around in her ratty old car. Still, a palace of pastels, her castle moves on. Her masterpiece is complete, a full canvas. Thus she must seek new ways to fulfill her need. A coping mechanism of sorts. Expression channeled through cans of spray-on paint. Not graffiti, or even murals. Colors. Colors intricately chosen, woven together. Oozing down on other layers, or flowing freely over one another, like currents, or a breeze. Beautifully indicating her exact feelings at that very moment in time. And the cherry on top, a quote. Some saying or lyric, eclectically selected based on the theme. Smacked right on top.

Tonight, she is on her usual route. Earlier she had to creep past a cop. She caught the man lurking, waiting hopelessly for his prey. A meal that will not come. Something she too is familiar with. Up to this very point her life has been utter s***. She didn’t feel welcome through her childhood, abused by parents. Had no motivation… or mentors. Got no help, and never noticed. Yet she did have talent, and that is one thing the cruel hands of life cannot reach. This talent managed to get her into an arts college, but with only a years worth of scholarship and no money, it did not get her far. She was forced to drop out. A car is no studio. Luckily, this mid-sized, raunchy, old city was filled with blank spaces. Voids ready to absorb human response. She got to filling them nearly every night. Her only stress relief, and only way to get feelings across. After all, those drugs got tiring.

Soon enough the forces caught on, and then the crackdown. More patrols at night, regulations on buying the paint… slowly stripping her reason to keep moving. All her labors, covered in white paint. Masked and hidden by society, and ripped to shreds by man. Hours of devotion treated like a leak. Plugged up and covered, like they need to hide what a flytrap city like this can really do to a person.

And still, tonight she sits on the hood of her car. Before her is a lifeless, untouced wall. She shakes the cans and makes her first strokes. Then more, and more. Faster and faster. Rapid switches. Deep blues. Sapphires. Indigos. Greens. Grays. A deep ocean. An ocean of mystery. An ocean of fear. Hate. Anxiety. Waves reaching up, just to pull you down. A deep ocean. Self-hate, and over thinking. A hurricane. Still, silence. It never ends. A trap.

On top she stencils “The End”. Leaving the cans scattered along the side of the wall, she allows herself to fall back into the drivers seat. The ignition kicks a few times, and the car spins out of the break down lane.

The author's comments:
Inspired by Dahl's "The Hitchhiker" and by pastel grunge murals, this short story also captures some of my own feelings.

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This article has 1 comment.

CammyS SILVER said...
on Oct. 20 2012 at 9:37 am
CammyS SILVER, Papillion, Nebraska
5 articles 0 photos 188 comments

Favorite Quote:
No passion in the world is equal to the passion to alter someone else's draft.
H. G. Wells
Don't say the old lady screamed. Bring her on and let her scream.
Mark Twain

Why are there regulations on buying paint, and cops after the woman? Other than that, great sentence fluency. I could really feel the woman's pain.

Parkland Book