Monday, March 14, 2016

Canvases - @flashmobwrites

Another entry for FlashMob. You can tell it was a cold and dreary night when I wrote this.


Canvases

The room looked like one if the fancy libraries that Sebastian had seen in movies. The ones where they had ladders on rollers built into the tall bookshelves.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Gordon.”

Sebastian spun around to see a slight man in a suit as refined as his surroundings. “That’s fine.”

“Did you bring anyone with you?” the library’s curator asked.

“Just me,” he responded. The only person he wanted to be with him would never have agreed to come to this place. His daughter was a respectable young woman though. He hated her mother for many things, but she raised Bethany to be a good Christian woman and wary of men like him.

 “Let me show you around,” the small man said, motioning to the innumerable hinged frames lining the walls.

The tour only lasted for fifteen minutes. Not because they had seen everything, but because Sebastian became too weak to stand. The disease was slowly robbing the man of his remaining stamina. In that time he’d seen dozens of the pieces on the wall. The curator headed straight for what he thought were the most valuable items in the entire collection. The oldest images in the library were blurry blue ink drawings of ships, mermaids, anchors and the like all on similar stretched canvases. The newer acquisitions were much more modern, elaborate and larger. Sebastian was fond of the corner of the room dedicated to cartoon characters. Daffy Duck was his childhood favorite.

“And you are certain you want to make this donation?” the curator asked.

“Aside from a good honest daughter, I don’t think I’ve done much in this life that the world would remember,” Sebastian shared. “This donation gives me a chance to be remembered beyond my time.”

“Of course.” The curator nodded. “Would you want to know how we harvest?”

“No.”


Sebastian caressed his neck where he had Bethany’s name tattooed shortly after she was born. She used to trace the calligraphy with her fingers when she was a child sitting his lap on the weekends when he had custody. Now, if she wanted to do that after he passed she would have to come here. To the room that smelled of mahogany and dried apricots. It would be peeled off, and preserved alongside the rest of the donations in the tattoo library. 

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