Sorry if this is a little long, it's the shortest peice I have. I am not too informed when it comes to prose, but haven written quite a few peices and thought it might be worth getting an opinion or two in respect of my story writing to see if it would be worth my tidying them and doing something with the work. Please excuse the fact that one character has my posting name. The prose came before my posting here, and I took the character name I use for posting from my prose. If this is complete crap, please say so and I will bury it back where it came from with the others.
A brush with silence
Bethany smiles, as she remembers the days of last summer back home in the sunshine. Almost tasting the salty air inside of her memories, now replaced by the sound of the early summer rain here on the outskirts of London.
All these pastel shades with sultry impressions and smoky skies almost like another world.
In direct contrast, the coastline of Barbados seems so inviting, but then it could also be pleasant here on warm wet rainy afternoons.
Six months of solid work and doing some additional research, all such a huge experience, and now only a few weeks remain before travelling back home to continue her arts degree.
Most of the work could have been done in her Home country, but Bethany has an intense passion when it comes to her chosen vocation.
How much she admires the life within the many varied forms of art in her own country. Yet, here in England, within easy reach of the rest of Europe, a vast array of architecture steeped in history. Much of it art in its own right, all to be experienced and savoured.
In-between the clouds outside, the strong early June sunlight scattering its rays,
it all looks so green and lush, she thinks while pondering the afternoon ahead.
Looking down at her watch as two o, clock arrives; she leans towards her coat, hanging expectantly on the back of the door.
Outside is requiring some adjustment of her eyes, overwhelmed by the light pouring back up from the rain soaked suburb, the sound of the birds beginning their response to the skies respite. Her dark tightly curled hair sparkling in the sunlight, as caught within, are fine droplets of rain that have become trapped there. Taxicabs waiting at the side of the road, engines still running, plumes of white fumes rising lazily above the reflections in the tarmac.
An array of umbrellas, allowing her mind some mild debate, looking at the chosen designs and styles, wondering which ones, appear to look in keeping with the person beneath. Rarely is it, that her mind becomes completely idle.
Wrought iron railings, lending stark contrast to the cold stone paving as she walks toward the park gates. Children playing, their voices carried on the wind like the chorus of some medieval song. Wood scraping, as one small boy walks past dragging a stick as though it were the culmination of a ritual-forage.
Dominating the lake, a frantic call of mallards and the sight of the sliced bread bobbing along the edge of the lake, alluring as they skim the tips of their webbed feet across the surface into noisy view.
Beyond the park benches, an arched figure standing in front of an old battered easel.
She pauses and then alters her direction to converge a little more closely, watching as his wrist, rhythmically begins laying a painted sky onto the fabric.
At first glance it is difficult to see, how closely he has observed his subject and the life he has begun to portray with his brushes.
She exhales lightly and wonders what is going through his mind as he works, mixing a few primaries on a palette that would be invisible if held against the back-drop.
Now seeing the likeness of refracted cloud borne sunlight, eased onto the stretched flaxen cloth, Bethany, wondering how those random looking strokes, slowly begin to convey each detail of his perception.
“Do you mind if watch for a while?” She asks! “Not at all!” he replies, “I will
probably forget you are there anyway, please don’t take it personally.”
Washing the tired looking brushes, he leans toward an untidy box, containing many
Half-empty tubes of colour. Momentarily, she catches a glimpse of his eyes as he once again starts mixing his paint into other shades and the palette changes its mood.
She watches for another half-hour, and then he looks at the canvas and looks beyond and back again before carelessly dropping the brushes into conscripted coffee jar.
He then turns towards her, his neutral expression giving very little away until a gentle smile interrupts her heartbeat.
Her dark eyes catch his for a moment as she becomes aware that her feet are
fidgeting. Drawing breath, he shakes the brushes out onto the wet grass, flailing the sparse remnants of pigmented water into multicoloured beads.
Then carefully he zips the half finished painting into a purpose made folder, and collects all the brushes and paints before tossing them into a small rucksack.
“Do you paint here often?” Bethany interrupts. “Sometimes” he replies, without elaborating.
“There is a café at the end of the park! Would you like some coffee?” He asks.
Taken completely by surprise, she had answers “yes” and then glances shyly towards his weathered features. His eyes, somewhere between slate and indigo, sparkling as he moves away from her and looks towards the café end of the park.
Walking along the pathway, his conversation following him while she replies to some of his remarks. Occasionally, he turns his head towards her and half smiles keeping his teeth completely hidden.
“What do you do when you are not painting” she asks.
“I have a day job” “What do you do?” She enquires. “Engineering, It keeps the wolves away from the door and pays for the good days.”
“Do you live near here?” “Yes that is why I was painting in the park today, I had a glass of wine or two at lunchtime, so have had to leave the car at home”
“Maybe I could see some more of your painting sometime?”
“Yes! I have quite a selection, of pictures at home, although most of them! are without frames.”
Both of them sitting, at a sun bleached wooden table with steam from their coffee swirling in the gentle breeze above their hot coffee cups.
“I live just over there!” he says with his hand gesturing.
Again Bethany looks, to try catching his eyes head on and then enquires “By the way, what is your name?”
“Dante!” he sharply replies.
“Mine is Bethany” she informs him.
He swings his coffee cup in an arc, almost leaving it dry then wanders over to the counter placing his cup down before turning to Bethany.
“I am off home now” he almost barks, and nods towards the side of the park.
“Is it one of those cottages over there?”
His reply, “Sorry! Oh yes, second one from the right”
“It must be great living so close to the park”
“Yes! It is I walk here most days after work. Well Bethany I had better be going.”
“Are you busy now Dante?
“No! I am just going to have a bite to eat and then maybe relax for the evening.”
Without saying another word he stands up, gathers his folder, and walks towards the path again while briefly turning his head to see if she is following him with her eyes.
“Can I come over and see your pictures” she asks. He turns back towards her and replies “I guess so”
She begins walking, then breaks step to catch up with him, Bethany once again conversing with the back of his head. She finds his manner a little bemusing.
For a moment his footsteps slow, and then for the first time they walk together, heading towards the gates at the bottom end of the park. Once through the wrought iron gates they turn and walk along the side towards the cottages.
Taking his keys from his inside jacket pocket and unlocking the door he walks a few feet inside and gestures her to follow. She passes through a red brick arch, almost obscured by overgrown bloom laden Wisteria. Although Bethany is not particularly tall, she finds her-self having to duck to avoid a large oak beam that appears as though it has seen more than a few woodworms.
“Please excuse the clutter, I do not have many guests and usually find myself far too
busy during the week to be particularly domesticated.”
The room certainly reflects that statement; there are paintings everywhere and all kinds of rolled canvas and timber for making frames.
Bethany finds her attention drawn towards one particular picture on the opposite wall; it portrays a vase of flowers, the flowers appearing so lifelike yet also very intense.
Below lies a stack of half a dozen or so landscapes propped against the wall, where she can now also see his features in portraiture, looking out from another dusty canvas. By now it is obvious to Bethany, that Dante lives here alone, she is almost tempted to remark, but thinks better of it.
“I am going to have a glass of wine! Would you care to join me?” he asks.
“Yes! That would be nice.”
Moments later he returns with an ornate un-labelled bottle, “Blackberries picked last year from the park, I make it myself” as the cork now effortlessly withdraws impaled on the ageing corkscrew.
A few glasses later, she finds herself feeling very relaxed in his company, his economical use of words had subsided. He has quite a warm smile when he chooses to display it. Topping up her glass and passing it back again with their fingers touching briefly, she chuckles, and says “the wine is lovely.”
Dante wanders across the room and then returns holding a small picture of the sea which he passes to her. “ Where is this Dante?”
“It is one I painted from my imagination” he replies.
Once again, Bethany finds her thoughts returning to the house near the beach all those miles away and her family. Dante feels himself becoming less reserved, aside from the stimulating conversation he finds Bethany extremely attractive.
Rising from the chair she says “I had better get going, and leave you in peace, so you can enjoy the rest of your evening.”
“I have enjoyed talking with you, feel free to visit if you find yourself at loose end he replies.”
Stooping as he reaches for the door and then pausing, Dante turns towards her again. Bethany looks into his eyes and after placing a single kiss on his cheek she smiles broadly and once more, thanks him.
Both in silence lingering in the doorway their gazes held more deeply now, Dante
returning the kiss to her cheek, but finding her full lips instead as she deliberately turns her head and dwells upon his smile. They kiss again, and linger in the doorway and as she opens her eyes, she finds herself moving away from the door, her hand now held in his. They both look awkwardly at each other, before returning to the room and back to the sofa, just sitting and mutually enjoying the warmth of their embrace. Leaning over her now Dante, places a delicate kiss on her neck, and caresses her ear with his lips. Both tumbling onto the carpet the button of her faded jeans opens and the zip is moved downwards as she reclines. Peach coloured lace just showing, peeping out as his eyes are surely transfixed on her exposed navel and the loosely knitted jumper riding up her waist.
Moving closer his kiss is barely placed upon her brow with his hand placed against her cheek his fingertips massaging her hair.
She unbuttons his shirt, and pulls him closer, her lips held against his, pressing her tongue between his lips, delicately tasting.
His hand, again finding hers, as she finds herself following him up the narrow staircase towards his bedroom. The fading sunlight draped across the sheets of his unmade bed, now warm and inviting far more than just a visual inspection.
Holding him close, as the mattress absorbs their careless arrival onto the duvet.
His gentle hands stroking inside of her pullover and then removing the garment over her head, leaving only the lace bra to cover the rise and fall of her breasts. With its paleness in direct contrast, held against her smooth brown skin.
Their deepening breaths quicken, almost muted by their tongue entwined appreciation
of the moment. Dante removes his trousers without taking his eyes from her gaze. She gasps and closes her eyes as she feels him against her; those faded jeans now strewn at the foot of the bed. Dante, now lying on top of her, holding her in his arms feeling her erect nipples pushed against his skin as the remaining items of clothing are then cast aside with complete disregard. His position shifts slightly and she feels him become erect and brush against her moist anticipation. She draws her feet upwards along the backs of his legs, allowing them to naturally nestle onto his lower back, kissing his shoulders, and flicking her tongue mischievously.
Dante, stroking her forehead and smiling again, she feels him slowly entering her awaiting warm moist yielding flesh. Those large gentle hands massaging her neck as she pulls him deeper inside. Both exhale and then commence, their bodies undulating as the windows of the room become less translucent. In response to his tightening grip, her fingertips sink forcefully into his buttocks encouraging his deliberate stroke to have more urgency, as the deep warmth inside her grows and her hips pivot to allow him to penetrate further.
Quietly she gestures him to roll over, he finds himself looking up at her, silhouetted against the white of the ceiling. She nestles downwards gathering the sheet with her hands to support her as she throws back her head and gasps as if all air is depleted.
As she lifts then lowers herself, his fingers begin tracing the taught muscles of her thighs; as he raises himself to rhythmically meet her falling, rising ecstasy.
The temperature in the small room becoming almost stifling as their beads of perspiration condense and mingle.
Then in almost the same instant every sinew in each of their bodies tightens, her teeth hard clenched, then her mouth opens wide as she feels his pulsating warmth spilled inside of her tingling spasms of blood rushing heartbeats, that rise and ebb then rise.
Their exhaled air almost vocalised as they both tremble and writhe within the moments of complete mutual release. Her shoulders falling, while his mouth meets hers to exchange a long deep affectionate kiss, as they lie together in silence not wishing to find words to justify the unexpected delights.
Bethany, finds her consciousness drifting as Dante gently massages her into a satisfied and restful sleep, until morning’s intervention.
“What time do you need to be at the college” he asks, standing over the bed with a tray containing toast, marmalade and freshly squeezed orange juice.
“Somewhere around nine” she replies, smiling sheepishly towards him.
Placing the tray on the bedside cabinet, Dante leans over and holds her head in his hands while placing a kiss on her chin. “Mmmmmm you are amazing” he says.
She yawns, stretches out fully then exhales “yes last night was delightful” She stretches again and lights the morning with her smile.
“Are you painting next weekend?” She asks!
“Yes” he replies and then chuckles.
“What is so amusing Dante?”
“ I am just feeling happy; maybe we could visit one of the galleries if you are not busy next weekend and I can let the brushes rest”
“I would like that; as I don’t know the area too well, and would enjoy your company;
that is of course if I am not distracting you from your work”
“Life’s a fuckin distraction; I have enjoyed your company too, so next week it is”