She records all the places they don’t go to on the car. The weekend he got food-poisoning she painted a beach scene on the roof. A garden appeared on the passenger door after his foreign conference. He says he doesn’t feel guilty, but he doesn’t drive so much these days.
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The tree extended its finger. running a grey nail outline around the grafitti on the jeep it felt comfort in the knowledge that With the coming of spring its leaves would weep, its leaves would hang, its leaves would hide brave car peoples dreams.
He pretended that he hardly saw the pictures. That they were just something that had grown there, like the spreading net of rust. But when she wasn’t looking he’d run a finger down a painted fencepost, or tap on a tiny, rendered window. He dreamt of entering that secret door.
They rolled into towns, set along dusty tracks where the only breeze was the warmth rushing through the quarterlights and their hair, stopping with a sandy screech of the brakes, the rubber swooshing on gravel. Each time they stopped, a new picture appeared on the paintwork. Time to move on.
well im sure they need a dozen cars at least...
im glad to have hit your blog, happy 2009!
cheers!
I passed a little blog-love along to you today at my place in the form of the Premio Dardos award. Hope you are enjoying your writing time. Good writing and reading in '09!
Last winter left his truck stranded in an unsavory part of town; when he returned she was painted of ghetto houses and choke chain fences. Now he was more careful where he parked, and since he liked this view, he wouldn't drive for some time, hoping his painter would come.
Lillian paints the world, hides all the ugly behind ice and snow and trees. Or beaches brushed onto the sides of buses, and starry starry nights on metal buckets, and sunflowers on broken slat wood fences. And once, a Botticelli angel on the red brick wall of the old mill.
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