1. The Pebbles On The Boulevard
"Fuck." she muttered when she almost tripped on a small pebble as she walked on the boulevard. Well, you don't expect her to look at where she's going with that canvas taking up the space that was meant for her sight. That small little body, was carrying the canvas, being five times larger than she was, with her arms widened to its fullest extent, gripping tightly to it as if her life depended on it. Well, her life is, kind of depending on the canvas. Not the canvas itself, but what is on it. She had been working her arse off that artwork, trying desperately to get it into an art gallery. It was the best she got. The best artwork that is made out of paint, of course. If it was to be compared to her other artworks, it wouldn't stand a chance. She was used to using spray paint for art, but this particular art gallery, demanded that artworks using the medium of paint only, will be granted. If it was up to her, she would have used spray paint. Spray paint was her comfort zone. (Not saying that she is afraid of stepping out of her comfort zone.) Spray paint is her haven. She has control in every movement of the can. The strokes are all carved based on her desire. The pressure she pressed onto the nozzle of the spray can is perfect. She loved the smell of it. It makes her dizzy, but in a good way. She likes how it doesn't matter how careful you are. At the end of the day, you will still get stains from it. And she loved it. She love spray painting if not more, the same amount of love she has for life. She struggled a little at the entrance of the gallery, but the guards helped her and she couldn't help it, but gave them a sheepish smile. She trailed behind them, occasionally looking at the way they handled her work with concern. They placed it gently at the designated area and she waited. The person she loathe, but needs the most right now, came out to greet her. Mr Bartin, a short, plum man with a bushy moustache, who is as narcissistic as he can get, circled around her artwork, as if he was judging it. He hummed a little, nodding in the process and she held herself back from rolling her eyes. After about the tenth time of circling her artwork, he looked up to face her. "It is accepted." she grinned widely. Finally. She needed the money from the auction to pay her rent. The landlord too, has limits when it comes to patience. "Just remember, the auction will be held this Saturday, at 3 p.m." She just nodded. She picked up her satchel bag and was about to walk out the door when he stopped her. This time, Mr Bartin circled around her like he did to her artwork. "Wear something that is at least decent to the auction." He said, while eyeing her up and down disapprovingly. She gasped, but Mr Bartin didn't wait for her respond. He exited from where he came in. She just shook her head in disbelief. He had the audacity to say that to her face? She looked down. Her clothes were okay. She was wearing her 'Holy Shit' t-shirt, denise lace shorts and white Chuck Taylor. It was decent. It was just that Mr Bartin is a sodding arsehole. She pushed him out of her mind. No one and nothing can bring her down right now. Not even Mr Bartin. She sighed and skipped down the boulevard, occasionally tripping on the pebbles, but even pebbles can't bring her down now. She's too happy and she wants to rush back home because she knows what she wants to do the most right now. Spray paint.