The Fireflies of an Artist's Imagination
 

Colours burst and blossomed everywhere, like imperfect flowers adding vitality to an otherwise drab, oatmeal coloured room. The walls were a chaos of cobalt blues, crimson reds, pastel pinks and cadmium yellows. The artificial wood tables were strewn with rough papers, half covered with layers of oily pastels. Peeling tape half-heartedly kept a flimsy layer of tracing paper on a creamy pad of parchment. The art room is a place were ideas and imaginations flourish and grow roots, were colour lives and breathes. You can see inspiration in the air like little fireflies that glow golden, ready to be snatched out of the atmosphere and used.  As the fireflies of imagination are grabbed and pulled down towards the expecting artist, they expand, grow, flash a brilliant shade of gold that would have made King Midas weep with want. The firefly slowly dissolves, only a thin layer of glitter remaining, symbolising the budding artists' ideas, spurring the artist through the hectic fields of imagination towards their goals.



As the artists began, the smell of freshly released paint filled the air, the sharp minty taste of secreted gum in everyone’s mouth. Tattered, bulging art books were taken out for comparison, proud faces, uncertain faces dotted around the class, waited for the verdict. Many were praised, honoured for their dedication. Others scrambled, shame-faced to hide their lack of inspiration, their absent imagination. Soon competition was forgotten as dry new paper was brought in together with scratchy charcoal and watery paints. Tables and fingers were soon sticky from aged glue and covered in splodges of dark ink. Hair was pulled of clammy necks and tied into clumsy buns, in an attempt to maximise focus as the artists bent closer to their task, dedicated hands working furiously to beat fleeting time and the ever persistent, ever ticking clock mounted on the wall.



Erasers of many shapes, sizes and colours flew across the room, while rolls of yellowed tape rolled languidly over the table tops. Concentration was broken for a moment by the thud of erasers dropping on bent over heads, followed by bursts of exclamations and giggles. The senselessness escalated with charcoal covered faces, hair dipped into paint pallets and brilliant shades of exotic colours decorating the once plain floor.



A gasp was heard. It was the girl that had worked throughout the chaos, her head bent over her task, concentration making furrows in her forehead. She had been inspired by a firefly, and thus decided to go get some of the ever present, bright paint. As the girl stood up and swivelled round to face the paint cupboard, a squirting noise was heard. When the girl looked down at her chest, she found the colour of blood blossoming there, like if from an open wound. A smirk and then a chuckle was heard. The pale girl looked up into the face of her worst nightmare that was leering down at her. The girl’s cheeks lost all colour as she noticed the quiet staring eyes that now filled the room, the words she loathed the most forming on her tormentor’s lips. She did the only thing she could think of doing in her state of intense embarrassment. She ran. When she tried to stumble out of the room, a lanky boy shot out of his seat, reaching for the pale girl, as if to halt her. He ignored the icy look from the tormentors eyes, but what did stop him in his tracks was the look of pure loath that the girl shot at him, after she yanked her arm out of his firm grasp. He slumped against the wall, resigned, a tired hand lifted to massage his temples. Worry had coursed through him, as he watched her pale face disappear past the yellow doorway, her swift feet carrying her away from the place that was once her sanctuary.



The place that had once been their sanctuary. Remorse for what he had done to her filled his heart as he continued to stare at the yellow door which languidly swung on its hinges. The only signs that the girl had once been in that room, hoarding fireflies of inspiration, the half-finished masterpiece on the paint splattered desk, the purple Eastpak with home-made yellow alterations and the lanky boys bruised heart.

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But the moment had passed, the excitement had died down, the students morphed back into aspiring artists. The noise dwindled, returned to the quiet shuffling of paper, paintbrushes swooshing through bold paints, chairs scraping, and the insistent bass of someone's rap music turned on too loud.

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- Iris Gioti