Creative Writing: Skylar Thatcher

Skylar Thatcher paced angrily down the barely lit street. Hot tears streamed down her cheeks and made trails on her neck. Clutching her tote bag tightly, she could barely control herself from breaking out into a mad run. Ever quickening her pace, her boot heels clicked along the cold pavement and sent shivers through the night. Suddenly she halted and traced her steps backwards, coming to a standstill in front of a little old shop. Still sniffling, Skylar tilted her chin upwards to read a brightly lit sign: “GALLERY WALK-THROUGH”. She reached into her bag and glanced at her phone: 7:56 PM. Curiosity lured her into the mysterious store and led her to the first painting.
Two children, a boy and a girl, were playing in a whirlwind of snow.
The artist had swirled yellow and white amidst an upward leading path. Childlike bliss radiated off of the woman as she soared up the bright trail.
Cracking a slight smile, she found herself looking for more paintings, but could not spot another. Sighing she let her shoulders sag and started to head towards the door, when a small voice spoke.
“Like my art, do you?”
Skylar flipped around immediately, unaware someone had been watching her. A cheerful older woman smiled up at her and outstretched a wrinkly hand.
“I’m Florence,” she beamed.
“I’m Skylar,” Pausing she added, “You painted all of this?”
The grey-haired woman grinned and stepped across the room to admire one.
“Why yes, indeed.”
For a moment there was an awkward silence before Skylar cleared her throat and eyed the last canvasses.
“Tell me, is your art based off of personal experience?”
“Yes actually, this is my story. I’m not much of a writer, but since I was a young child I’ve always been taken by art. Life is a journey, and I felt impressed to share mine.”
Skylar paced over to the last three pictures and casually pointed at
“You’re a religious woman?”
The grey-haired lady smiled and nodded.
“Do you now see the purpose of my paintings?”
“I’m starting to.” Skylar replied wearily.
“You see Skylar, you can only serve one of the two masters. For me it was either God or my worldly habits.”
The younger woman felt her eyes grow moist, and blinked. She unconsciously pulled out her phone but was shocked by how the time had passed. Skylar abruptly stood from her stool. “I’m sorry but I really must go.”
Skylar quickly grabbed her things and reached out for the doorknob just as the little old woman called to her.
“Your life is like a canvass, Skylar. The colors and patterns you choose determine the beauty and depth of your art. Let God guide the stroke of your brush.”
Florence’s words tumbled head over heel in her mind. What canvass was she painting? Who was guiding the path or her brush? Skylar turned and gave the elderly woman a warm smile. As a small tear formed in the corner of her eye she whispered, “Thank you.”
“Paint your life well.” Florence called after the girl, as she disappeared into the