One day, Hank couldn't breath. One day he woke of and was so sick of the world that he nearly suffocated. When he woke up he had trouble breathing and by the time he got to his art gallery, only a few blocks from his house, air would barely enter his lungs. he stumbled into his office looking for his phone and he, to his surprise, breathed. He wasn't breathing air. he can't anymore. Paint fumes are what saved his life.
Hank lives in a contained space, filled with various chemicals, paint fumes among them. things from his life that he has learned to adapt to. He does nothing but paint. It is almost as vital to him as eating and sleeping are to us but, he doesn’t care about that, he cares about art and when more paints are coming to him and when canvas is coming to him.
I am his caretaker. He can’t see me. To him I could be anyone -- any number of people. I get him his meals and serve it to him through a slot in the door, wearing a mask to make sure that the people in the real world don’t die.
Jared,
ReplyDeleteI started to read this story when it was on the projector that one time, and was really fascinated by it.You write in a way that is different than the norm, it is told very straightforward, and while some people may think this is a sign of weak writing, it is really a unique way to tell a story. The last paragraph is my favorite, because this is where the story picks up, and I want to know more. The only critics I have is that there were a couple spelling mistakes, and that I want to read more!