Tag: painting

Clone is a science fiction story by David Timmins on Amazon Kindle. This is a few pages towards the end of the story.

I walked over the first bridge, then meandered along passing several small shops before I stopped at the glass wall of the main basketball court.

I leaned against the glass and watched for several minutes, and marvelled at the speed the ball was moved around from one person to another.

It brought back memories of my attempt to play basketball, and they were not good.

I had worked hard in training, but after several months of trying to grasp the basics, the coach took me to one side and explained that this was a sport I would never be good at. Well, I sort of knew that without the embarrassment of him telling me.

‘Scott,’ he said apologetically, ‘you would probably be better playing a different sport; everyone is good at something, you just have to find out what it is, and to be quite frank, lots of other students are trying to access this program with too few places for them.’

I never told him that I had tried every sport I could think of and I wasn’t good at any of them.

I suddenly became aware that Jimmy Tom, the best basketball player in the team, had noticed me and was whispering something to members of his team. They all started laughing, and the spectators, who were mainly girls, looked towards me and did the same.

It should have upset me, but somehow it didn’t. I had always been clumsy, but realized that part of the reason for this was that my eyesight was so poor. And it was getting progressively worse, so bad that when I continued on my journey, I was forced to stop, take my glasses off, and clean the lens, but when I put them back on, my eyesight was no better than before.

I walked past one of the many coffee bars and noticed four girls who were part of the art class I attended sitting around one of the tables. I nodded and said hello. They looked at me with vacant expressions on their faces and then carried on talking as if they hadn’t recognised me, or had and didn’t want to.

Eventually, I reached the art room. Miss Stevens, the very young and very atractive art teacher was sitting behind a beach-topped desk, and spread around the top were several brown envelopes pinned to large work folders.  There were two students in front of me, so I stood behind them and watched as they subconsciously drooled while she explained how they could have improved their artwork during the previous term and what she needed from them the following year.

I tried without any success to concentrate on what she told them and not how she looked, but the short denim dress that emphasised her slim figure made this impossible. Fifteen minutes later, I stood in front of her and waited as she rearranged the remaining set of folders, then, without looking up, asked in a voice that suggested that it had been a long day, ‘Your name, please?’

‘It’s Scott, Scott Ridley.’

 There was a delay, and the reason for it soon became apparent: ‘Scott, are you sure that you’re in my class, only the name doesn’t sound familiar.’

‘You probably wouldn’t have noticed me because I sit right at the back.’

The delay was shorter as she found the folder with my artwork in it. I watched apprehensively as she skimmed through it. There were many half-hidden sighs and frowns that stayed in place far too long, until she came to the last thing I had painted.

It was my impression of a local street with one of the oldest universities on one side and small coffee bars and independent restaurants on the other.I painted it on a warm summer evening, just as the light was starting to fade, and when a full moon lit parts of the buildings that the street lights had missed; people were spilling onto the cobbled road as the warm night air and cold white wine produced a feeling that hippies must have felt on similar warm nights in San Francisco in the sixties.

Initially, there had been objections to the collection of these small premises in such a historic area, but they had added to the atmospheric feeling of history and not taken it away.

I had not painted in my normal style or colours because for some reason it was one of the few times in my life when I felt inspired, instead I had used a vivid palette that was more reminiscent of the famous café scene painted by Vincent Van Gogh and while I was painting I could almost feel the intensity of those nights as if I were part of him.

She studied it intently, and a confused expression spread across her face. Then, she went through my earlier paintings for a second time, and the confused look stayed and was added to.

‘I do remember you, Scott, and I think I was not as subtle as I should have been in my assessment of your work, but there appeared to be no adventure in the way you formatted your paintings, and sometimes it helps to be honest with students in case there are other subjects they may be better suited to.

But this last painting bears no resemblance to your previous work, in fact the style and technique appear totally different to all your previous paintings, even the way the colours are mixed and faded into each other are quite unusual as are the brush strokes, so I want you to be honest with me, did you paint this picture yourself or did someone else help you?’

I tried to focus on the painting she was looking at, but could hardly make out which one it was; it seemed as if my eyesight was deteriorating even more rapidly.

I took my glasses off and started to clean the lens, but then something remarkable happened. I realized that I could see better without them; my eyesight had improved dramatically in only moments.

I folded the glasses and put them in my top pocket next to the comb.

I stared at the painting, ‘that is definitely my painting and I did it without any help, I always put my initials on the top right-hand corner and if you look carefully it’s the same as all the others.’

She checked and said, ‘Well, Scott, it’s quite brilliant, but I don’t understand how you have managed to improve so quickly…? She looked up at me and stopped talking… then just stared at my face for what seemed like several minutes without saying another word.

No woman had ever looked at me that way before.

‘Are you alright, Miss Stevens?’

Was she blushing?

She started to say something, then hesitated as if she couldn’t find the right words then looked down at my painting again.

She took a deep breath as if to compose herself and then started speaking to me again.

‘So Scott, can you explain to me the dramatic changes from your initial artwork to the latest one?’

‘Yes, but the reason might not make much sense.

 When I started painting that scene, it was the first time in my life that I was able to produce what I felt inside. For some reason, I understood what inspired some of the great artists and was able to transfer my thoughts onto the canvas.’

All the time I was talking, she was looking right into my eyes as if she was mesmerised and was unable to look away. And although everything was out of sequence, I found myself thinking how beautiful she was.

I wondered if she realized what I was thinking, but my self-confidence was now so high that I didn’t really care.

She gradually regained some of her composure and passed over a long brown envelope with my name on the front. ‘Don’t take too much notice of my remarks regarding your coursework over the last year; if I had seen this last painting, my take on you would have been entirely different.

So Scott, I look forward to seeing you next term,’ she smiled, and I thought wow, ‘and maybe I will move you closer to the front.’

I moonwalked backwards for the first few steps, then spun around and walked out the way I had come from, and I knew for certain that she was watching every movement I made.

It was busier than when I first arrived, but I seemed to move through the crowd far more easily than before, and I put this down to the improvement in my eyesight.

I drew level with a group of girls who I thought were Japanese and noticed a credit card on the floor by one of them.

I bent down and, using one hand, flicked it off the floor, then from one hand to the other in a single movement, then held it out to the girl who was nearest to me and said, ‘I think this may be your card.’

She turned towards me reached for the card then looked at me the same way the art teacher had, paused for a moment then smiled the gentlest of smiles, ‘thank you, I never realized that it had fallen out of my bag, you are very honest,’ she stared at me again then said, ‘do you mind if I ask what course your attending?’

‘I’m studying art and graphics.’

‘Not languages?’

‘No, I did Spanish and French at primary school, but I was never very good despite putting a lot of effort into the courses; none of it really stuck.’

She looked puzzled, ‘but you must have lived in Japan for quite some time.’

‘I wish I had, but as yet the only other continent I have visited is Europe.’

‘Well, you have certainly improved a lot since your last attempt at languages,’

I started to walk away, but stopped as she asked my name. ‘It’s Scott, Scott Ridley ’

‘Well, Scott, I will look out for you next term, and I have to say that your grasp of the Japanese language is quite exceptional.’

I continued walking and wondered what she meant. I had no knowledge of Japanese and was unable to speak a single word of it, but I was starting to realize that something very strange was happening to me.

My vision was now so good that I could see small letters a hundred metres away, so mom was right, but she never said anything about how sharp my hearing would become.

It was now so good that if I concentrated, I was able to isolate conversations between people who were so far away that it should have been impossible.

Then it dawned on me that even if they were speaking in a different language, I could understand every word they said.

I no longer felt clumsy; my body was changing at an incredibly fast rate. Every part of it was tightening up and becoming muscle, forcing me to stop and tighten my belt as my waist shrank and my chest expanded so much that my T-shirt was becoming skin tight.

I was no longer just walking across the floor; my movements had become effortless. It was as if people were moving out of my path, allowing me to move in an almost straight line.

And why were so many students whom I had never met before saying hello to me?

The sound of music drifted towards me from somewhere in the distance, and I let myself become drawn towards it.