flight-risk {g.d.}

ten

grayson:

i stare at the art piece in my hands, amazed.

"you could sell your drawings, you know?" i turn to her and say, mouth still gaping.

"who would want to buy a colored pencil drawing?"

"elizabeth, i'm not kidding. you have talent. learn to use watercolors or oil pastels. this could be your business in aus!"

"woah," she laughs, "slow down. art is a hobby, not a living."

"you just pissed off every art major known to man."

she shrugs. "if i thought i could make money off it, i would've tried already."

i flick my eyes back to the paper.
it's me, but yet 10 times better, because she drew it.

"can you write me a story?" she asks suddenly.

"huh?"

"you like to write. whip up a short story for me to read so i can fall asleep?"

"are you implying my writing would make you fall asleep?" i joke.

"only a little," she teases with narrowed eyes.

"okay," i agree. "okay. i'm only making it a page, though."

"front and back. single spaced."

"damn, okay."

she relaxes back into her seat and i start to scribble on my notebook pages.

"an erratic infliction of a soul who has danced like a flower field in the wind has also stomped on a bed of thorns. those who tend to her, clip her dead petals off and watch as she blooms unblemished blossoms..."

this story is different than my usual. i like to write about people as if they're actually living, breathing things. this time i decided to personify a flower. not a specific type, just any flower. but a beautiful one.

i smile as my hand swiftly dashes across the paper. this story is about a girl.
a girl who's been through hell and back.

a light tap on my shoulder pulls me from my trance, and i turn to see elizabeth staring at me.

her eyes are wide, excited. "done yet?"

"i think," i say and scribble my name at the bottom.

"gimme!" she says and grabs it from my hands.

her eyes smile, then dim, then grow, and then soften back down.
that's how a story should be. that's how the reader should react when reading a piece of writing.

once she's flicked her eyes up and down the paper multiple times, she turns to me, stuttering and dumbfounded.

"that was..."

i wince. "bad?"

"bad?" she shrieks, "that was the most beautiful thing i've ever read. i have goosebumps." she holds her forearm out and i see little bumps crowding her skin.

"wow," i collapse into the back of my chair. "that was the best reaction i've ever gotten."

"dude," she smiles, but my stomach drops. the dude. "doesn't your brother or family know how talented you are?"

i shrug. "i've tried to show ethan my writing, but he just doesn't get it. he's the fun guy. i'm... me."

"you're grayson."

"duh?"

she laughs. "no. you keep degrading yourself. you're grayson. not the fun guy's twin brother, not the weirdo book freak- even though you are that- but you're not just you. you're grayson dolan."

"now look who's preaching the lessons?" i snicker.

she punches my shoulder lightly, and i rub the spot she touched. "i'm serious. your confidence is low, shakespeare."

"being compared to shakespeare is the best compliment i've ever gotten, thank you."

"grayson. seriously. i think if you put yourself out there more, people would love to read what you create."

"i've tried. do you even know how many creative writing contests i've entered? poetry and verse competitions? it's not that easy, elizabeth. at least with art it can be a scratch on a paper and still be considered a masterpiece!"

she flinches at my words, and i realize how i made it sound.

"no-" i try to right my wrong, but she shoves her sketchbook into my hands.

"draw me something and i'll write you something. just see how hard art can be." she says, a touch of bitterness. "and don't break the tips. those are expensive."