Rio_uk
04-15-2008, 12:02 PM
This is a little something I have written (obviously). When I decided to share it, I found myself a loss as to where to post it. so, I chose here. Enjoy!
Chapter 1: Golden hand
Gethsemane watched as Ryan’s brush danced gleefully over his canvas. Although he spoke to Geth, his piercing blue eyes remained firmly riveted on his work. Geth’s eyes, however, were somewhat prone to wandering. They eventually fell on one of Ryan’s previous paintings, which wasn’t hard, considering that they were plastered all over his wall like some sort of rudimentary wallpaper.
This one was of a pleasant forest clearing with a single beauteous flower in the centre. A girl with a sky blue dress and red-brown hair was crouched over this flower, with her back to the observer. Ryan joked many a time about how it looked like Geth. So much so that he name it Gethsemane’s Flower. Geth smiled at this pleasant spell of hindsight and resumed watching Ryan. His was a picture of a beautiful girl in a dark purple dress, her pure white hair was caught effortlessly back in a sanguine red ribbon.
“That’s beautiful,” she said, “what’s her name?”
“Lola,” Ryan replied, still consumed in his painting, “she was in my dream last night. I can’t remember what else happened.”
“You never can.” Geth sat up, her legs crossed, “You want to go to the café?”
“Yeah, I’m starving” Ryan stood up and slipped on his jacket “And,” he continued “I’ll pay.”
Ryan hated his paintings. No one else did, though. Everyone else though they were wonderful but that was because they did not understand why they were bad. He painted, or tried to paint, the things he saw in his dreams: dragons and faeries, witches and griffons. He knew what they looked like and he could paint them with all the right colours and everything. But they had something that his paintings did not, could not. An aura, a living light that set them apart from everything in this world.
He bit the inside of his lip as he stepped into the café, running his hand through his tangled mess of chestnut-brown hair. He listened to the friendly jangling of the bell and felt comfortable, safe and at home.
“What’re you having?” he had almost forgotten that he had brought Geth with him.
“Um, the usual.” He looked to Geth and remembered why he had asked her out a long time ago. They were still friends, mind, and he often daydreamed of one day when she would come to realise how much…
“Ryan? Are you OK?
“Huh? What?”
“You were daydreaming again, weren’t you? What was it about?”
“Nothing.” He lied. Gethsemane was wearing a pink tank top and her trademark grey skinny jeans. He watched her with longing as she confidently strode through the café and chose a table on impulse.
Ryan was always daydreaming. But Geth could hardly say that she found it irritating. She actually thought it was somewhat sweet of him. Ryan was a dreamer; that was what was wonderful about him and his paintings: dreams. Geth loved dreams, but never had them. She didn’t want to tie Ryan down, no matter how much she liked him. About ten minutes after they sat down and ordered, their food arrived. Geth, in a typically thoughtful manner, chewed on her sandwich and began a prolonged conversation with Ryan.
As they were leaving, her eyes caught something golden in the café, a hand, the owner of which was an attractive looking young man with black hair and green eyes. Gethsemane pondered this as she stepped out into chaos.
“The target has moved,” said the boy, “they're in the street.”
“Then follow them,” said the girl on the other end of the video call “and stop gawking at me.”
“Sure thing, Lola.” replied the boy with the golden hand, “just so long as you can take your eyes off of me.” Lola laughed, her snow white hair falling in her eyes and her shoulders.
“Fat chance.” She said, but the boy had already hung up.
Chapter 1: Golden hand
Gethsemane watched as Ryan’s brush danced gleefully over his canvas. Although he spoke to Geth, his piercing blue eyes remained firmly riveted on his work. Geth’s eyes, however, were somewhat prone to wandering. They eventually fell on one of Ryan’s previous paintings, which wasn’t hard, considering that they were plastered all over his wall like some sort of rudimentary wallpaper.
This one was of a pleasant forest clearing with a single beauteous flower in the centre. A girl with a sky blue dress and red-brown hair was crouched over this flower, with her back to the observer. Ryan joked many a time about how it looked like Geth. So much so that he name it Gethsemane’s Flower. Geth smiled at this pleasant spell of hindsight and resumed watching Ryan. His was a picture of a beautiful girl in a dark purple dress, her pure white hair was caught effortlessly back in a sanguine red ribbon.
“That’s beautiful,” she said, “what’s her name?”
“Lola,” Ryan replied, still consumed in his painting, “she was in my dream last night. I can’t remember what else happened.”
“You never can.” Geth sat up, her legs crossed, “You want to go to the café?”
“Yeah, I’m starving” Ryan stood up and slipped on his jacket “And,” he continued “I’ll pay.”
Ryan hated his paintings. No one else did, though. Everyone else though they were wonderful but that was because they did not understand why they were bad. He painted, or tried to paint, the things he saw in his dreams: dragons and faeries, witches and griffons. He knew what they looked like and he could paint them with all the right colours and everything. But they had something that his paintings did not, could not. An aura, a living light that set them apart from everything in this world.
He bit the inside of his lip as he stepped into the café, running his hand through his tangled mess of chestnut-brown hair. He listened to the friendly jangling of the bell and felt comfortable, safe and at home.
“What’re you having?” he had almost forgotten that he had brought Geth with him.
“Um, the usual.” He looked to Geth and remembered why he had asked her out a long time ago. They were still friends, mind, and he often daydreamed of one day when she would come to realise how much…
“Ryan? Are you OK?
“Huh? What?”
“You were daydreaming again, weren’t you? What was it about?”
“Nothing.” He lied. Gethsemane was wearing a pink tank top and her trademark grey skinny jeans. He watched her with longing as she confidently strode through the café and chose a table on impulse.
Ryan was always daydreaming. But Geth could hardly say that she found it irritating. She actually thought it was somewhat sweet of him. Ryan was a dreamer; that was what was wonderful about him and his paintings: dreams. Geth loved dreams, but never had them. She didn’t want to tie Ryan down, no matter how much she liked him. About ten minutes after they sat down and ordered, their food arrived. Geth, in a typically thoughtful manner, chewed on her sandwich and began a prolonged conversation with Ryan.
As they were leaving, her eyes caught something golden in the café, a hand, the owner of which was an attractive looking young man with black hair and green eyes. Gethsemane pondered this as she stepped out into chaos.
“The target has moved,” said the boy, “they're in the street.”
“Then follow them,” said the girl on the other end of the video call “and stop gawking at me.”
“Sure thing, Lola.” replied the boy with the golden hand, “just so long as you can take your eyes off of me.” Lola laughed, her snow white hair falling in her eyes and her shoulders.
“Fat chance.” She said, but the boy had already hung up.