General Fiction posted May 19, 2019 |
Creating light.
Street Artist
by Heather Knight
Grey is the absence of colour. Just try to believe it and don't go all scientific on me.
City pavements are grey. Dust embedded in every crevice. Feet treading on them day after day, month after month.
Buildings are grey. Huge mammoths that obscure the sky.
That's why I paint them. My crayons brighten them up and I get a smile from passersby.
Homeless people's clothes are grey. Because of this, I bought Bobby, the guy who begged outside my door, a yellow sweater. A day later, he found a job.
I wrote a list of grey things and tackled them one at a time.
I've turned storm clouds into candy floss, lead into gold and ash into pixie dust, but even though I'm a fairy, there's something I can't change.
The thoughts inside my head are still grey. But I've dyed my hair red in the hope that some of the color will seep into my brain and lighten my dark, dark musings.
Grey is the absence of colour. Just try to believe it and don't go all scientific on me.
City pavements are grey. Dust embedded in every crevice. Feet treading on them day after day, month after month.
Buildings are grey. Huge mammoths that obscure the sky.
That's why I paint them. My crayons brighten them up and I get a smile from passersby.
Homeless people's clothes are grey. Because of this, I bought Bobby, the guy who begged outside my door, a yellow sweater. A day later, he found a job.
I wrote a list of grey things and tackled them one at a time.
I've turned storm clouds into candy floss, lead into gold and ash into pixie dust, but even though I'm a fairy, there's something I can't change.
The thoughts inside my head are still grey. But I've dyed my hair red in the hope that some of the color will seep into my brain and lighten my dark, dark musings.
City pavements are grey. Dust embedded in every crevice. Feet treading on them day after day, month after month.
Buildings are grey. Huge mammoths that obscure the sky.
That's why I paint them. My crayons brighten them up and I get a smile from passersby.
Homeless people's clothes are grey. Because of this, I bought Bobby, the guy who begged outside my door, a yellow sweater. A day later, he found a job.
I wrote a list of grey things and tackled them one at a time.
I've turned storm clouds into candy floss, lead into gold and ash into pixie dust, but even though I'm a fairy, there's something I can't change.
The thoughts inside my head are still grey. But I've dyed my hair red in the hope that some of the color will seep into my brain and lighten my dark, dark musings.
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