Apologies, Updates, and Terrors

If you hadn't noticed, "Pygmalion" has been put on the back-burner for quite some time. I have the blog on my quick-links at the top of my browser, and it's little orange "Blogger" icon has been giving me the look of death for weeks now. It's really quite terrifying. I just did the math, and it has been (gulp) three months since my last post. Here's a brief explanation of how these three months of totally barren activity upon the blog came to be:

For the first month, I had every intention of getting back to it. During the second month, I convinced myself that what I really, really  needed was a good outline (and it's true that I was hitting the point in the story where I felt like I was flying blind from point a to point b, and it causing all kinds of stress inside of my tummy). I believed that the outline would solve my writer's block, but you see, the problem with block is, it's one part actual lack of ideas and six parts terror that all of your ideas are crap, so writing an outline doesn't actually solve the block. At best, it can only be a way of speeding through the block. With month three, there came this mad thing called "University", and suddenly I was so caught up in the swing of making new friends, going to classes, attending parties, and essentially rediscovering myself that Pygmalion became the furthest thing from my mind. That, my dear readers, is why this blog has been so lonely for the last three months.

Now, on to the future! You see, there is actually a future to Pygmalion, and it has been inspired by none other than my favorite contemporary author, Neil Gaiman, himself. I was tooling around his tumblr this afternoon when I came upon this link. That link might have just changed my life. Go read it right now, particularly if you are a writer. I'm going to go home and pin that letter to my bulletin board AND my desk! That letter is what inspired the decision I made this afternoon. I am going to finish "Pygmalion" as a NaNoWriMo challenge.

For those of you who do not know, NaNoWriMo is "National Novel Writing Month". It is an actual, legitimate event that happens every year for the thirty days of November. Google it if you don't believe me! The idea is very simple. In thirty days, all participants of NaNoWriMo are attempting to write a 50,000 word first-draft from scratch. Now, those of you who are reading this might (fairly) be thinking to yourselves, "But Gardiner, you're definitely NOT writing this from scratch," and you'd be right. I'm not. I am continuing a novel that I've already begun writing, so sue me. If, you simply cannot abide this, here is how I'm justifying myself: I have just under twelve-thousand words at the moment. The goal of NaNoWriMo is to write a 50,000 words novel. Therefore, in order to complete NaNoWriMo, I must come out of it with a manuscript of no fewer than 62,000 words. This seems perfectly fair to me.

Now, as I've already mentioned, I'm at College now, which doesn't leave a terribly large amount of time to write, particularly for people like me who a) take pride in the work they do at school and b) like to have a social life. I admit it, the thought of adding this much writing to my already busy schedule terrifies me. It makes me want to piss myself in fact. You know what scares me more though? The idea that I might not finish this novel. For a while now, I've been sailing on the high I felt when I finished my play last spring. Finishing that validated me. It made me feel like a "real writer". It isn't as though I haven't written for the last few months either. I finished a couple of decent short stories and some poems. Even so, the high from last spring is fading fast, and the need to further validate myself is growing even faster. Therefore, I have two choices. I can either cave into the fear of NaNoWriMo and how hard it will be and then suffer through the fear that I'll never finish "Pygmalion" and will therefore feel like less of a writer, or I can suck it up, try my best at NaNoWriMo, and carry on with a little less sleep and a less active social life for a month. Personally, I find the consequences of the latter choice to be WAY less terrifying than than those of the prior.

So, here we go, in twenty-two days NaNoWriMo begins, and I will continue writing the first draft of Pygmalion. It's true, the slightly sick feeling I get when I think of NaNoWriMo will probably only get worse as November draws closer in, but I've got a plan to keep myself in good spirits until then. I'm going to spend the month of October posting other writings on the blog (some of them Pygmalion-related, but not from the actual novel, others not related at all to Pygmalion), writing general posts about how terrified/excited/etc/ I am, getting a head-start on any and all of the schoolwork I'll have in November that I can do early, and finalizing the outline of Pygmalion so I have a pretty little roadmap to follow going into this madness.

I don't think I'll be posting the actual novel in November, just short (and quite possibly increasingly frantic) posts about how things are coming. If all goes according to plan though, I'll begin editing the first draft in December, and that's when posts will become more regular again. Trust me when I say, you and I will both be happier if what you read on the blog is not a first draft (me especially). Please be patient with me, and those of you who send me emails or stop me on campus to ask how the novel is going, please keep doing so! It's very encouraging!

So, if sometime around the eighth of November I develop a chronic twitch in my left eye or stop returning your calls (sorry in advance), you'll know why. It just means that I'm following my dreams, and I think that that's a perfectly legitimate reason to develop eye-twitches or not call your dear, loving, altogether quite understanding mother as often as you might. I promise that once November is done, regular levels of Gardiner-interaction will resume.

So here's a toast to following dreams, even in the face of chronic eye-twitches and a terrible lack of sleep!

Serial 4

IX

Phillip danced at least twice as much on his way back from his date with Charles as he had on the way there. He couldn’t help but smile at people as he walked past them. The bus ride back to campus was, to him, full of miraculous sights he had never noticed before. “The White Album” was more wonderful to listen to than he’d ever noticed before. He hummed and jived his way up the stairs to his studio. Phillip sang along to “Oh-bla-di Oh-bla-da” as he unlocked his studio door.  There in the center of the room was the strawman waiting for him. It was nearing completion now. Phillip had decided that he did, in fact, want to keep the piece’s scalp missing, and he had finally developed a way to make the hands that satisfied him, and now all there was to do was to recreate the prototype on his desk, and apply the pair to the sculpture.

            Today though, Phillip had not come to his studio with the intention of being faithful to the strawman. There was a new urge within him; a new vision of creation. Phillip figured that this infidelity would not take him too terribly long, but he still felt a twinge of guilt as he passed the incomplete strawman. It felt to him as though it knew that he was abandoning it, however temporarily.

            Phillip headed directly for the little cluster of carving stones he kept on a shelf in the corner. He only had a few in his collection to choose from. There was a medium-sized block of limestone, and two pieces of soapstone, one an oblong blue stone, and the other a rather large, iridescent green piece. These however, were not what he had come for. Phillip pushed aside the verdant soapstone, and reached into the space behind it, pulling out a little piece of alabaster.

            The alabaster was about the size of an ostrich egg and the rich, rosy color of blushed cheeks with streaks of bright red coursing through it. Phillip carried it excitedly over to his carving table, then rushed back to his shelves scanning the bindings for the sketchbook he’d filled with detailed, and well-labeled sketches of the human anatomy and all its parts.. Taking the tome back to his table, Phillip flipped through it until he found the illustrations he needed, and charcoal pencil in hand, began to sketch around the outside of the alabaster, giving himself guidelines to show himself later where and how he should carve.

            When Phillip began the work, his hammer struck lightly, and his cuts were delicate and careful. He let the teeth of his chisel kiss the stone, taking small chips off of it, rather than ripping through it with abandon as was sometimes necessary. He followed his guidelines precisely, closely minding the vision in his head while also pouring feeling and intent into the stone, letting it be shaped by them as well as by the finished product he could see in his mind’s eye. The stone was small enough that the actual carving was not terribly time-consuming.  He was done with it by midnight, and then all that was left to do was to refine the piece with rasps and sandpaper, and finally to polish it.

            Phillip spent the night in his studio, knowing that he could sleep the whole next day before classes on Monday to make up for it. This insatiable need to create a specific piece, this infatuation with his work was familiar to him. Sometimes he would be inspired to create a piece that shone bright and vast in his mind, leaving space for nothing else. Afraid that they might leave him if he didn’t act, Phillip always tried to bring them forth quickly.

            Phillip finished polishing the piece as the sun began to creep its way through his window the next morning. He looked it over once, and then took it delicately in his hands.  He felt the crunch under his shoes as he stepped on the chiseled remains of what the stone had been before he’d carved. Holding it carefully within his palms, Phillip held the piece up to meet the sunrise. The light pierced straight through the stone, illuminating it from within.

            Phillip had carved an anatomically correct human heart. The delicate structure played beautifully with the dynamic reds and pinks of the alabaster. Arteries extended elegantly from it, cut short just an inch or two from the main body as though the structure had been ripped straight from some stone person’s chest. When Phillip turned the heart in the light, the colors within it danced, playing a trick on his eyes that made it almost seem as though the heart were beating in his hands.

            Phillip admired the piece for a while, filled with a great sense of satisfaction. He didn’t want to let it go. Finally though, he was overcome with the need to sleep. He wrapped the heart gently in a cloth on his desk, and laying it gently on his worktable, left for his bedroom.

X

            Phillip woke up to the sound of knocking on his door. Groaning, he rolled over to look at his clock. It was two in the afternoon. Phillip flipped obstinately onto his stomach. His plan was to pretend very hard that the pounding sound was nothing but a dream until he’d actually convinced himself of it and fallen back to sleep. The knocking however persisted longer than he did. Eventually, Phillip came to terms with the grim truth that he was going to have to get out of bed. He jerked himself off the mattress, and realizing he hadn’t even bothered to take his clothes off before he’d gotten into bed this morning, stumbled blearily towards the door. He swung it open, fully prepared to bite off the hand of whoever it was that had been knocking should it come to that.

            “What happened?” Renee asked, excitement for news of Phillip’s date with Charles and concern that it had not gone well mingled on her face.

            Phillip stared at Renee a moment, and somewhere in the back of his weary head realized that biting off the hands of people who knock on your door at two in the afternoon to see how you’re doing is not generally looked well upon. Then, he thought of Charles, and was lost for a moment in the memory of his face. Finally, Phillip came back to the present and found that Renee was still looking at him expectantly. He sighed.

            “It was wonderful,” he said, relaxing into a smile, “It went better than I could have dreamed it would have.”

            Renee pulled Phillip into a hug, and let out a sigh of relief, “I’m so glad, sweetie,” she pulled back from the hug, “I guess that means you got along well then.” She smiled playfully back at him.

            “Yes, Phillip replied, “yes that does mean we got along well. It means we got along spectacularly actually.”

            “That’s so wonderful, Phillip! You have to tell me everything!” Renee pulled him into another hug, overcome with vicarious joy.

            “I will,” Phillip said, “Hey. I’ve actually got something I want you to see in the studio, do you want to come by later to see and we can talk about what happened with Charles then?”

            “That sounds great!” Renee’s flashed a gleam of long, white teeth. “Would you be upset if I came by tomorrow after dinner though? I’ve still got calculus homework to do,” Renee shuddered a bit at the mention of, as she called it, “the dreaded calculus”, which she was currently scraping a passing grade in. “I just wanted to come by and make sure everything went alright. I was kind of worried when I didn’t hear from you.”

            “Absolutely. Tomorrow after dinner it is. It was really sweet of you to come by, Renee. I’ll see you later,” Phillip said. They hugged again, and then Renee was bouncing down the hall and out of sight. Phillip turned around, looked longingly at his bed, and decided that he was fully awake at this point and might as well see if he couldn’t also finish the strawman before Renee came by the next day. Still wearing his now grubby clothes, Phillip closed his dorm door and trudged off towards his studio.

XI

Phillip was singing again as he entered his studio on Monday afternoon; this time it was “The Smiths”. He had finished the strawman that day between the end of classes and dinner, and he was excited to show it to Renee along with the alabaster heart as soon as she made her way over. Phillip burst through the door, belting out the chorus. He choked midway through. The strawman was no longer standing in the center of the room. Phillip stared at the spot where he had left it for a moment, before he was where it had gone. It was huddled in the corner, sobbing. Phillip’s exploded into chaotic thought and feeling, and then just as suddenly, it went silent. He stood in the doorway shakily, entirely uncertain of what to do. His body was screaming at him to run, and there were sirens ringing in his once-again loud mind. He saw big neon lights reminding him that his piece couldn’t be moving; it was a strawman! There was, however, some part of Phillip that kept him standing there. A fire burning in his stomach that knew that this-whatever it was- was his, and that he had to take care of it.

“H-hello?” Phillip called out to the wailing figure. It started, looking up at him. Its head was still blown out, and the agonized face it made was perhaps even more horrible looking in straw than it would have been in flesh. Phillip locked the studio door behind him as he approached his creation. “M-my name’s Phillip. What’s wrong?”

The creature looked at him, as if it were entirely stunned he could speak, and breathed, “Brainless.”

“Brainless? What do you mean-“ Phillip cut himself off.  Did the strawman know what he had been going to title it?

“There’s a part. A part that’s missing. A part- Apart- Apart from me-of me,” It said, and then pointing at its head it repeated, “A part.

Phillip swallowed. “Do you need help?”

The man screamed now, “Missing part! It hurts!” Pieces of yellow grass fell to the floor as it jerked its legs towards its chest.

Phillip, having tentatively made his way perhaps two feet toward the strawman, now rushed at him and put his hand on the creature’s mouth, shushing him as soothingly as he could. “I’m here,” he said, “Let me help you. I’m here.”

“It hurts,” the strawman whispered through Phillip’s palm.

“Your head hurts?” Phillip looked from face to non-existent scalp, completely unsure of what to do. Just then though, a knock came at the door.

“Philip? Phillip its Renee! Tell me everything! I want to see your piece!” Renee called. Phillip cursed quietly, “I hear you in there!” Renee shouted. Phillip cursed loudly. “Phillip are you alright?”

Phillip stood up shakily, and made his way toward the door on unsteady footing, “C-coming.” He had no idea what he planned to do, but he was certain that he wasn’t going to invite Renee in. He reached for the door, and undid the lock just as a scratchy sounding shuffling came from behind him. He turned around just in time to see the strawman, face contorted in pain, reach up and rip his own head off. Phillip screamed, running toward the strawman. Renee burst through the now unlocked door.

“Phillip, what’s-“ she stopped, looking at the pile of straw limbs collapsed on the floor, “Oh my God. Phillip what happened?”

Phillip took a moment to answer, choking back tears. “I-I don’t know. It just collapsed. I guess there wasn’t enough wiring inside to support it.”  Renee approached what had been the strawman slowly. Phillip looked up at her. He had only been vaguely aware of what was happening when his knees hit the floor “Do you think we could talk about my date later?”

“Of course, Phillip,” Renee said, “Do you want me to stay with you?” Phillip shook his head. Renee paused, concern on her face, then said, “Ok. Yeah I’ll come by your dorm later, alright?” Phillip nodded. Renee came over and kissed him on the forehead, “I’m sorry.” The door of the studio clicked shut behind her.

Serial 3

VI

Phillip let his mind wander as he made his way across campus towards his studio. It lifted off the ground, out of his body, and away from the steps of his feet. It floated back to Renee’s garden, wondering where the grass man might have gone. It searched his memory for some discrepancy, something he had forgotten that could explain its absence, but it found none. Then, there were the birds from the art show. They had gone too, just as mysteriously, and even before them, there had been the sculpture that had apparently been smuggled out of his studio window. Pieces fell into place within Phillip. He felt close to an answer, but his mind shrank back in terror from it, Frightened, it flew back into his body, away from the disheartening truth.

 Phillip had walked nearly halfway to his studio by now, entirely on autopilot. He happened to glance over at an empty property just off of campus. There were normally tall grasses growing there, but apparently they’d been mown down for the show the night before. Now, the grass was cut short, barely long enough to wave in the October wind. On a whim, Phillip changed directions and began to walk quickly towards the yellowed field.

The grass scratched at his ankles as he searched. It still smelled like fresh-cut grass. He strolled around for a while before he found what he was looking for. There was a stack of trash bags hidden from campus behind an old barn in the middle of the field. When Phillip opened one up, he found handfuls of newly mown, golden blades. Like a key meeting its long-lost lock, ideas within Phillip came together to bring in new ones. He was gone. All thoughts of anything else fled his heart, and Phillip was left to explore this new room within himself. He grabbed as many of the bags as he could carry, and headed back towards campus.

VII

Phillip hardly saw Renee over the next few weeks. The deep urge of artistry was running strong inside of him, leaving room for nothing else. He wasn’t very attentive in classes and all of his waking hours were spent in the studio. He’d even brought some blankets and pillows there so he could work until he could no longer hold his head up if he wanted. He felt as if he were possessed. Eventually, Renee showed up at his studio door, knocking.

“Hi Renee,” Phillip said, opening the door.

“Um-Phillip,” she said reaching forward to pick a yellow strand out of his hair, “Are you aware that you’re covered in straw?” Phillip hooted with laughter. It took him a moment to regain his composure enough to reply.

“Yeah, I’d noticed that.”

“Can I see what you’re working on?” Renee poked her head in curiously.

“Sure,” Phillip said, stepping back to let her past.

“So, I guess this whole grass man thing really took, huh?” Renee grinned at him. Phillip grinned back. In front of them was a bright yellow, nearly life-sized man made entirely of grass clippings. Sitting on Phillip’s work table were the half-made prototypes; there was a little doll with lumpy features, a small ballerina awkwardly long limbs, and several swatches of different weaving and knotting techniques. The end product in the center of the room certainly wasn’t complete. There were still thin patches here and there, and Phillip hadn’t even gotten to the hands yet. There were a couple of attempts at digits on the work table, but they were mostly clumsy looking.

“I’m thinking about leaving the top of his head like that,” Phillip said, indicating the gaping hole at the top with wild loose pieces of straw sticking out at odd angles, “If I did, I think I’d call it ‘Brainless’.”

Renee giggled, but then looked at Phillip seriously and said, “This is awesome in the most traditional sense of the word.

“Thank you,” Phillip said, smiling at her.

“Don’t rush it, but I’d love to see the finished product soon. I can’t believe you kept him hidden from me until now,” she scolded. Phillip chuckled.

“Trust me, if you’d have seen him a few days ago, you would have thought I was either blind or an idiot for thinking I should persevere. I got most of the fine details done between then and now.”

“Well, it’s incredible.” They stood together admiring the piece for a moment, and then Renee went on, “So, you’ve been so busy with this that you haven’t even taken the time to tell me what happened with Charles. Did he call you?”

Phillip felt his stomach plummet deep into the recesses of his legs. His eyes went wide in horror, “Oh my God! I don’t even think I’ve checked my answering machine in two weeks! What if he called? He’s gonna think I’m such an asshole!” Phillip looked at Renee in desperation.

“Well go check your messages,” she said in exasperation. Phillip was out the door before she could say goodbye.

Puffing with exertion, Phillip arrived in his room. He swore quietly to himself when he saw the little red button on his answering machine blinking angrily. He hit the play button, and listened as the tape inside the machine began to spin. Both Renee and Phillip’s parents had called him on multiple occasions (Phillip moaned a little when he heard his mother’s third message; she was not going to be happy with him).

“Hey,” Charles’ voice rang out of the machine, and Phillip was all ears “It’s Charles. I wanted to let you know how much I loved your show. Call me if you want to hang out.” Phillip grabbed a pad and pen and jotted down the number. There was a moment’s hesitation when he was uncertain of whether he should call Charles or his mother first. His mother was going to be angry…

Phillip dialed Charles’ number. He felt his chest tighten with each ring.

“Hello?” Charles’ voice was enough to make Phillip want to hang up and find a nice corner to crawl into to hide his shame.

“Hey. It’s Phillip.”

“Oh, hey Phillip. How are you?” Phillip could hear the smile on Charles’ face. He relaxed, but only a little.

“I’m good, I’m good,” Phillip rubbed the back of his hair nervously, “ I’m really sorry I didn’t call you. –I -, well I’ve just been really caught up in work, and didn’t even think to check my messages until now. Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it at all, Phillip,” Charles said.

So, I was wondering if you’d want to go do something this weekend.”

“Of course,” Charles sounded genuinely excited; Phillip relaxed a bit more after that.

“Awesome,” Phillip said, “How about we meet somewhere in town on Saturday. Does the park work for you?”

“The park? Sure. Why don’t we meet at the bridge? I’ll bring some food or something,” Charles said.

“Ok. Great,” Phillip said, “So, I’ll see you then I guess.”

“Yeah. Ok. Awesome! Bye.”

“Bye.”

Phillip hung up the phone. It dawned on him that he had what could quite possibly be a date. Phillip whooped, and jumped up onto his bed, dancing wildly to music that wasn’t there. He fell back onto the bed in exhaustion.

“Ahem.” Phillip looked up to see Renee standing in his open doorway, a bottle in her hand, grinning. “You appear to have started without me, but I believe this calls for a celebration.”

Phillip waved her in, and taking the bottle said, “Sparkling water? You are such a goody-two-shoes.”

VIII

Saturday came, and Phillip was almost to the bridge that he and Charles had decided to meet at. He’d stopped for coffee on the way there. He’d decided to buy Charles a cup of black tea, because that just seemed more like him than coffee did. The lawn of the park had a vibrant fall afghan of red and orange stitching tossed over it, and above Phillip’s head, the trees showed off their latest autumn fashion. It was a cold morning, so only the committed joggers were out.

Phillip had left early to make sure that he would get there before Charles, because he didn’t want to keep him waiting. He danced a little bit on the path as he walked; a tape recorder in his pocket, and The Beatles singing through his headphones. He turned the corner and there was Charles waiting for him on the bridge. He looked content enough, leaning on the wooden arch staring down at the creek below, a little smile on his face. Phillip tried to hide how disappointed he was to be the second to arrive as he walked up. Charles saw him coming and smiled widely enough to show his molars.

“Hi, Phillip,” Charles reached out and hugged him. Phillip felt his stomach kick violently against his ribcage.

“Hey, Charles,” Phillip relaxed into the smell of Charles, and then the hug was over. “Here, I thought you might like some tea. It’s so cold.”

“Thank you so much,” Charles said, beaming. He took a sip and went on, “Where do you want to eat this?” He bent over and picked up a dark blue backpack at his feet. “I just packed some crudités for us.”

“Crudités, eh? Aren’t we fancy.”  Phillip’s lips turned up slyly as he nudged Charles’ shoulder, “Come on.” They made their way across the bridge and towards a little cluster of benches in the distance.

They sat down, and Charles began to pull food out of his bag.
            “This is hummus and there are some chopped up veggies in here,” he said, pulling out a tupperware container, “And I’ve got a couple of slices of cake wrapped up for later.”

“Ok,” Phillip said, not sure at all of what exactly hummus was, but deciding that it didn’t really matter.

 “Wow,” Phillip said, “Thank you so much! I can’t believe you did all of this.”

Charles laughed. “You’re welcome. Go on, have some.”

Phillip took a piece of the broccoli, and following Charles’ example, dipped it into the hummus.

“This is really good!” he said, hoping desperately there was nothing green in between his teeth.

“Thanks,” Charles said, “So do you like ‘Toad the Wet Sprocket?’”

Five hours later, their stomachs full of Charles’ food, their conversation was still going strong.

“So she ran out of the store after you?” Phillip hooted incredulously.

Charles laughed, “She thought I was stealing something from her store. Given the situation, I don’t blame her, but it was awful! All of the employees lined up along the windows, their faces pressed up to the glass like this.” He widened his eyes comically and let his draw drop as low as possible. They both fell back reeling with laughter. It took them a minute to stop. When they did, Phillip wiped his wet eyes and then laid his hand on Charles’ leg.

“Charles, this might be the most fun I’ve ever had,” he said.

Charles’ cheeks flared red under his dark hair, “I’m having a really good time too.” He paused for a moment, looking at his watch, “I think I should probably be getting back home though. I’ve got an essay to write on the reconstruction before school on Monday.”

Phillip felt his face fall for a moment, but he forced himself to reconstruct the smile he’d had before. “That’s ok,” he said, “Do you want to meet up again sometime?”

Charles nodded emphatically. “Of course! This has been great. Maybe Wednesday?”

“Yeah,” Phillip said, “Wednesday sounds good.” They just sat there and smiled for a moment, then, Phillip looked down at his hand on Charles’ thigh. “Charles-this might be a really dumb question…are we dating?

Charles nudged Phillip’s face up with his finger, “I’d say so.”

They kissed briefly, and then Charles left. Phillip stood up, looked back down at the bench they’d been on, and sighing relaxed into it again, letting himself pretend that Charles was still there.

Serial 2

IV

Phillip and Charles stood for a moment next to the crane, giving each other sidelong glances. Phillip noted the pale blue scarf around Charles’ neck. It went well with his eyes, which were the type of icy blue that seems to penetrate a person. He felt a little shiver make its way down his spine. Terrified, he tried to imagine the force of it piercing the earth and soaring deep into its crust.

            “They’re all really beautiful,” Charles said gesturing at Phillip’s sculptures. Phillip started, pulled out of his imagination.

“Thanks,” he replied shyly, thankful that someone had broken the silence. He was worried that it might return, so he went on, “My friend Renee has some really incredible paintings in the next room. Do you want to come look at them with me?”

“That’d be great.” Charles grinned at Phillip, and they stepped out into the throng. Phillip wove his way between parents, teachers, fellow students, friends, and the occasional important-looking person who might have been a journalist or a benefactor come to see the show. Every so often, someone would recognize him, and stop for a quick handshake and a smile. Phillip kept finding himself turning around to ensure Charles was still behind him.

Renee’s paintings were incredible. She was mostly a portraitist, but there was the occasional landscape piece or still-life. What made Renee’s works unique though was that she never simply painted the figures or the landscape or the bowl of fruit; she painted them with dim undertones of vibrant pigment that one could only see upon close inspection. These undertones made her subjects appear to glow with color from within. Around them, she painted beautiful color abstractions that swirled or jagged, setting a tone for the painting.

Charles paused to look at one, letting his eyes soak in the swirling colors that redefined the figure’s features. Phillip stopped behind him, admiring the sweet, gentle curve of Charles’ hips as he rocked back and forth, thinking. Phillip realized that he was staring and shook himself abruptly. He sniffed a little, then stepped forward and stood abreast of Charles.

“They’re supposed to be ‘the real person’,” Phillip explained, “She got everyone she was close to, and painted them as she saw them. The colors are their true natures, I think, or their souls or something like that.”

“That’s really cool,” Charles said, a little breathless.

They continued to walk along, stopping every so often to inspect a painting more closely. At one such stop, the painting was of a lean young man, with lightly curled brown hair. In one hand was a chisel, and in the other a hammer. He was surrounded by rich indigos, ceruleans, and violets.

“Is this you?” Charles asked.

Phillip smiled shyly. “Yeah. Yeah it is. She said that it was a lot of fun because of all the cool colors.”

“But the inside is all red,” Charles said, pointing to the figure’s torso.

“Apparently, that’s my heart. She said that she saw it as something my ribcage couldn’t hold.

“Oh.”

Phillip hesitated nervously, but went on, “Hey. Do you wanna come see my studio?”

“I’d love to!” Charles seemed to glow with excitement.

Phillip let his hand slip into Charles’ and pulled him through the crowd toward the back door. Outside, the cold, Massachusetts’ night air hit them heavily. Charles pulled the blue scarf tighter around his neck.

“I like that scarf, by the way. It makes your eyes look incredible.”

“Thank you,” Charles laughed, smiling gently. He pushed back a shock of black hair that had flopped into his face.

            They walked at first across the empty, quiet lawn, but soon they were running, the greens of the trees and grass darkened by the early night. The circles of yellow light cast by the lampposts along the pathway seemed pointless though; the moon and stars were bright enough to see by. Breathless and laughing, they arrived at a tall, red brick building.

“The building is open 24/7, but you need a key to get into my studio,” Phillip said, “I had a lock put on mine after one of my pieces disappeared.” Phillip held the door to the main building open for Charles.

“Are you serious? That’s awful! I’m so sorry.”

            “It’s ok. I really loved that piece though. It was one of my birds. It was kind of a freak occurence too. I’d just finished it the night before (I was really proud of it), then I came back in the morning, it was gone, and one of my windows was smashed.”

            “They took it out the window?”

            “I definitely think the sculpture got out of the building that way,” Phillip said. Charles gave him an odd look.

            “Do you have any idea who took it?” Charles asked.

            “Nope.” Phillip put his key into the lock and opened the door to his studio.

            Phillip’s studio was a large room, perhaps twenty feet square. The walls and floors were stone, but you could barely see it through the thick covering of paint; one corner was nothing more than a blue stain. Supplies littered the floor. He had a bin of clay, rolls of wire, paper mache, canvases, oils, paint brushes, sculpting tools, uncarved stone, and blocks of wood strewn across every available surface.

The remaining space was filled with half-finished sculptures, some stunning, some not. There were a few birds, but they were the rejects of tonight’s show. There was a wooden cat with an unfinished tail, and the rough shape of a mermaid could be seen emerging from a chunk of white alabaster. On one end, was an abstract form composed of melting geometric figures.

“Oh. Don’t look at this one, it’s awful,” Phillip said, tossing a blanket over the abstract piece.

“I don’t believe that,” Charles said as he made to remove the sheet.

“I never like anything abstract I make. Please, leave it.” Phillip looked balefully at Charles. Charles looked at him for a moment, disappointed, and then reluctantly pulled his hand back from the sheet.

“Alright.”  Charles strolled through the room, stopping in front of the mermaid, “This is gorgeous.”

“Thank you. I think I might name her ‘Sylvia the Selkie’,” Phillip said, chuckling to himself.

“Don’t you think she needs a more serious name? She’s beautiful. It seems a shame to name her something flippant.”

“You think so? What would you name her?”

Charles spluttered, unsure of what to say. “I-uh-I have no idea. I didn’t make her…” He trailed off, blushing. Phillip let a small, clever smile lift the corners of his mouth, and for a moment he looked very much like his mother.

“I was thinking about naming her just ‘Selkie’ too.”

Charles grinned. “That’s much better, I think. It’s a nice, simple name.”

“’Selkie’ she is then.” Phillip smiled, and took Charles’ hand in his own with a light squeeze.

The clock tower on the other side of campus struck nine as they kissed.

Charles pulled back softly, blushing wildly. “I-I think I should go back now,” he said, “My mom is probably looking for me.”

“Yeah,” Phillip said, “My parents are probably looking for me too.”

They made their way back to the gallery in silence, the light-hearted fun of before dragging heavy and bloated on their ankles. They went their separate ways to look for their parents with nothing but the briefest of touches. Before they left though, Phillip handed Charles a slip of paper with the phone number for his dorm room. Phillip found his parents were still in his own exhibit. They smiled broadly as he approached them.

“This is all so amazing, Phillip,” Mr. Crane said, dwarfing his son in a tight embrace.

“It’s beautiful, baby,” Avia Crane chimed in, “That woman, Mrs. Parker seemed to love your work. She was positively bursting with pride when she walked out with one of your cranes.”

Phillip began to speak, fumbled, and then decided against it, nodding his head dumbly.

“But which is your favorite piece, son?” Mr. Crane asked.

“My favorite? I think that might be the instillation piece.” Phillip gestured above them to the 43 wire birds hanging above them.

“They’re excellent…they seem almost eerily alive,” Mrs. Crane said, looking up.

Mr. and Mrs. Crane left not long after that. They got in their car to drive home, leaving Phillip at the boarding school with promises of weekend visits and spring trips to the coast. That night, when the janitor came in to clean up the gallery after all of the guests had left, he noticed 43 lonely lengths of twine hanging from the ceiling, devoid of birds and waving in the wind coming from the high, open windows. He scoffed to himself, assuming it a failed attempt at modern art.

V

The next morning, Phillip woke up to a soft knock at his door. He slid his feet out from under the covers, wincing a little bit at the chill of the floor. He yawned massively as he walked to the door, grabbing a shirt from the back of his chair on the way. When he opened the door, clothed only in his boxers and a wrinkled, lilac T-shirt, Renee was standing there, her little fist held ready to knock a second time.

“Good morning, sleepyhead! It’s a beautiful Sunday morning and you’re wasting it away in bed! Wouldn’t you like to join me in the garden instead?” Renee’s breathy soprano rang out.

Phillip stood in the doorway, glowering at her for a moment, but all she did was smile back at him expectantly. He sighed.

“How long did it take you to come up with that little verse?” he asked.

“Oh, I made it up on my way across campus,” Renee said, “Now come on. Get some pants on and let’s go see how my peonies are doing!

Phillip muttered something about “effing morning people” and fumbled his way into a pair of dark blue jeans. Five minutes later he was sitting on the grass underneath Renee’s dorm window. Renee, armed only with a watering can and the wide-brimmed straw sunhat Mrs. Crane had given to her last Christmas, was tending to the flower bed she’d planted along the east-facing wall of her dorm building in sophomore year. She crooned little adorations to her lovelies as the sunlight shone its way inside of her auburn curls, lighting them on fire. Phillip was busy constructing a little man out of folded up and knotted blades of grass. Renee looked up from her work, wiping her hand across her cheek and leaving a little smudge of dirt.

“I think the show last night was pretty successful, don’t you?” she said, “Your mother bought my portrait of you, you know.

“I know,” Phillip said, focused on the shoulders of his little grass figure.

            “Then, of course, there was that boy.” Renee smiled mischievously, but turned her face away from Phillip and back to her garden, feigning disinterested.

Phillip smiled, then said softly as though to himself, “His name is Charles.”

            “Charles,” Renee said, tasting the name inside her mouth, “It’s a nice name, sort of regal. Do you like him?” She had turned back to Phillip now, all pretense of nonchalance gone, lying down in the grass beside him. Phillip’s lips turned up a little more as he delicately tucked the end of a blade of grass inside the man’s neck.

            “Yeah. He’s really sweet and funny,” Phillip said, “When I look at him I feel like my lungs are full of a breath I can’t let go of.” Phillip looked very happy in his reverie, but after a moment of it he turned his face back up to Renee, “He liked your paintings by the way.”

            Renee squealed in delight. “Did he really? Oh, that’s so great! Phillip, I swear, if you don’t pursue this, I will beat you over the head with my watering can. You are going to pursue it, aren’t you?”

            “I think so,” Phillip said, “I mean, I don’t really know how these things work, I’m not exactly experienced, but I gave him my number and all that, so maybe he’ll call.”

            “Maybe?” Renee said indignantly, “Phillip, if he doesn’t call you back than he’s out of his mind.” Phillip turned the finished grass man over in his hand. Renee leaned over him to look at it more closely. “Jesus,” she breathed, “Phillip the detail in that is incredible. He’s even got knee caps!”

            Just then, a shadow fell across the two of them. They looked up and saw Mrs. Delmorena, their teacher advisor. Her thin, pretty face was drawn in with grim lines, and her normally bright eyes were shadowed by creases of worry.

“Phillip, can I talk to you for a moment?”

            Both Phillip and Renee sat up in the grass. Phillip put his grass man down in the dirt of Renee’s garden where he’d be able to see it later. Renee’s little dark brows knit themselves together with confusion.

“Sure,” Phillip said, “What is it?”

“Phillip, I am so sorry,” Mrs. Delmorena said, “But it seems that one of your pieces has disappeared. Your paper bird installation is gone.” Mrs. Delmorena ran her hands through her hair in agitation. “I can’t see how it could have happened, but the birds are all gone. The wires are still hanging from the ceiling, but someone took the birds. At first we thought they might have been blown out of an open window, but no one has seen any sign of them, and I can imagine they were blown off of campus. I’m so sorry, Phillip. The school’s doing everything it can to find them.

Phillip looked from somber Mrs. Delmorena and over to Renee, who had a hand over her mouth trying to hold back the little dots of tears in her already watery blue eyes. Then, he looked down at his hands, stained lightly green with grassy juices, and said, “It’s alright. I mean, it’s an installation piece, so permanency isn’t necessarily its purpose. It’s almost poignant for them to fly away, don’t you think?”

Renee looked at Phillip as if he’d suggested the sun revolved around the earth. Mrs. Delmorena just smiled tightly and said, “Well, we’re still working on it, Phillip, but I’m glad you’re taking this as well as you are. Rest assured, we’re doing everything we can to find your piece.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Delmorena,” Phillip said. She nodded to both he and Renee, then turned on her heel and walked down the path towards the faculty offices. Phillip glanced over at Renee who was still looking shocked.

“Phillip,” she said, “That’s so awful that someone would do that. I can’t even believe it. It shows a complete lack of respect for your work. I’m sure that the school will catch whoever did it and- and- well I’m not sure what the school would do to them, but I’m sure they’d deserve it!”

            “Renee, it’s not the end of the world. Besides, I don’t know that we should assume that ‘someone’ did it. What if they just disappeared?”

            Renee looked curiously at Phillip, considering what he’d said, and then apparently coming to some decision within herself, said, “Yes. I suppose that’s possible.” She paused for a moment, “Phillip, do you think I’ll get to paint Charles?”

            “I don’t see why not,” Phillip said, and then standing up continued, “Hey, I think I’m gonna go work in my studio for a while. I’ll see you later, ok?”

            “Ok,” Renee said, also standing and brushing the dirt off of her skirt, “I’ve got a history paper I need to write anyway. Come by later if you want alright? I don’t want you to feel alone right now.”

            “Maybe. Thanks,” Phillip smiled. He remembered his little grass man in Renee’s garden and bent down to pick it up, but he didn’t see it anywhere. He frowned to himself for a moment and straightened back up.

            “What is it?” Renee asked.

“Nothing,” Phillip said distractedly. He turned to leave with her, but shot a glance back at the garden. He thought he saw a little green blur dash its way through Renee’s peonies, but he couldn’t be certain.