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The Painted and Unfinished Canopy

Short story By: Venice Scarlett

Leonardo-taking place in the 15th century- has run away from home, searching for acceptance and love he once had. In less than 500 words, will his journey be successful?

Submitted:Dec 8, 2012    Reads: 19    Comments: 0    Likes: 1   

Leonardo Alonzo, shoulders high and eyes triumphant, watched his brush move effortlessly across the parchment. A midnight-black strand fell in front of his twinkling deep-blue eyes, only to be noticed by passing strangers. This must be the fifth drawing of St. Peter's Basilica I've painted… at night. The colors were too ordinary; too safe during the daytime- Nicole always fancied the night. As the strokes elongated, swooping curves and vehement dabs engulfed the page. He was there again. That day. The cool, damp wind danced on winter's heels next to the chiesa, an eerie silence teasing the serenity of the mourners. Nicole had always told him each new star recognized del cielos embrace of a new soul; his parents becoming upset with his adolescent ability to fall for the word of Nicole. Sitting in the città del vaticano, Leonardo felt the beam of that still familiar, once close star illuminating the Italian sky. I wonder if they see it too? No, Leonardo thought, I'm here to forget. I ran for the hope of finding someone like Nicole, someone who sees me. It was subtle at first, yet he'd noticed the increasing jingle of his left side with every step during his recent midnight strolls. Still, was the full pocket everything he hoped for? People at least are noticing me, he pondered, it's progress. Asserting himself, as the brush's impetuosity dwindled and the first rays of light began to creep over the housetops, Leonardo put his half-covered canopy on the table to his left. Observing the passing stranieri, Leonardo's eyes fell upon the ground before him save the reluctance; a sudden drop in his cuare as laughs echoed through the alley, gondoliers' voices lurking closer as the night's romance came to an end. 'Twas never so much the romanzo he longed for, no, as he was a young inexperienced man of seventeen- his heart thirsted for a lover of kinship and acceptance. Patiently waiting for the moon to rise again, Leonardo was aware the finishing of this capolavoro dawned near. His broad shoulders now sulked, hands clammed, eyes lost in thought. Abruptly, he felt it. Could it be? On the bridge of genius, he queerly felt no need to reach for his brush. The familiar touch caused eyes to soften, mouth to tilt upwards. Turning right, Leonardo made out the cordial silhouette caricatured by the sun's blazing glare. Those wandering by slightly detangled the situation, noticing with peculiar interest in a certain sister's death, finding a son, and the questioned lucidity of a Leonardo. The woman's hands trembled, her face wet, as she clung to the younger boy. Although his voice quaint, looking at the elder duo, he cried, "Don't worry. I think I've finally found what I was looking for".


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