For this "article," I wanted to share something a little different. Below is a story I wrote a few years ago and entered in the Young Georgia Authors' contest and actually ended up winning. I wished to share it because although it is a short story and not the typical article, the overall message is intended to touch the reader through the different struggles of both characters and present the idea that hope is alive as long as the imagination lives.
Da Vinci’s Prodigy: The alarm screamed six a.m., buzzing to life and violently jolting the professor awake. Wincing at the disturbing sound, he slammed the palm of his hand on the snooze button, begging for another five minutes. Today, however, sleeping in was no option; for his career was at stake and opportunities were rapidly disappearing. A few months ago, the art enthusiast destroyed his big image with the unveiling of his latest collection: the colors were not flattering to the eye, shapes clashed violently, and the discovery of what appeared to be a coffee stain on the piece made the whole thing seem like a joke. Desperate and shamed, the artiste found a new occupation as an art teacher at Tucker Cast Middle School. How cruel the world must be to waste my talent on such an amateur mindset he grumbled to himself. Sluggishly propping himself up and rubbing away the crust from his bloodshot eyes, the hissing of a halting school bus ran to him as if saying, “Time’s running out, James!”. Startled by the time, the new teacher swiftly threw on a casual set of clothes, hoping the school wouldn’t mind him lacking the appearance of a neat and tidy professor. Like he even cared.
Already ten minutes late, James reluctantly strolled into the briny doors of the school. Sour looks were thrown sharply in his direction as he sulked down the unoccupied hallways. A large “Art” banner dangled flimsily above the door only a few feet away. Just a few more feet. James attempted to slip into the classroom without drawing any attention, but the door’s hinges angrily shouted as he entered, alerting his audience’s attention. This is ridiculous, he complained to himself. Allowing the door to slam shut, he cautiously made his way over to the teacher’s desk, plopped down in the hard, plastic chair, and pulled out his art volume to study. The kids awaited their instruction.
James glanced up, only briefly, before mumbling to the crowd, “Just draw a dog or something.”
Twenty minutes felt like an eternity; a couple guys started pelting each other with spitballs, cell phones aggravatingly buzzed every second, and one kid got a crayon up his nose. Rolling his eyes, James was never fond of kids and thought their behavior lacked sophistication and class. Already bored with the book, James stretched out his legs and, for the first time, actually studied the room; nothing but a bunch of watercolor butterflies hanging from the ceiling and half-finished posters stacked in an unorganized pile. He slowly stood and decided to allow his mind to wander around the room. After studying endless rows of sunsets and shapes, James made his way to the back of the class, only to discover a small, isolated boy scribbling madly across a crisp, white sheet of paper, lead flying from the pencil’s head. After his eyes adjusted to the syncopation of the boy’s sketching, the professor peered at the work-in-progress and gaped in astonishment. A dragon? Dinosaur? No, no, a creature perhaps, but a marvelous, exquisite creature. The man searched the table; artwork was scattered chaotically as if order could not exist, but the images demanded the attention of the desperate artist. The professor eyed the little boy, observing his hand flow techniques and shading mechanisms. This went on for several minutes until finally, the boy whirled around with curiosity, startling James half to death.
“Oh, pardon my prying. It’s just…your sketches are quite advanced for your age,” he explained. The boy responded with a shrug.
He decided to start simple, and in his best teacher impression said, “I’m your new art teacher, Mr. Gordon.”
Still no reaction.
The kid’s stormy eyes were magnified through his glasses, and his dark disheveled hair swept over a soft face layered in freckles.
“Thomas,” he replied.
He speaks.
He was different: set aside from the other kids and completely to himself. A diamond in the rough, James thought, the timid guy who was always picked last for sports and ignored the company of society. Thomas had returned to his illustrated world while the professor continued to observe from a distance. It wasn’t until after Thomas’s lead splintered for the third time that James caught a quick glimpse of a bracelet hugging the boy’s wrist. A sign. A soft, baby blue puzzle piece smiled back at the artist before being rushed back to its task. James greeted the sign.
“Have you always been intrigued by the arts?” he asked.
Thomas wasn’t much of a talker and hardly expressed emotion, but in response, he stated, “Yeah, it keeps me busy.”
“Busy,” James scanned the table once more, “I can relate.”
Thomas continued scribbling, “I like de Vinci. We talk a lot. We are good friends.”
“I’m not surprised; he has taught you well.” Did James Gordon just…smile?
At that moment, the art room appeared to enlarge; everything was so far off distant from their little corner and the annoying voices of other kids were almost a decent volume. Autism. How can you manage: limited expression of thought, difficulty in understanding situations, being “the weird kid?" But would you just look at those words, those ideas?
Gordon let out a slight smile, “Thomas, do you have any favorite drawings of your own?”
Thomas ceased writing altogether, like time had collapsed or froze in a second. “Yes,” he replied sheepishly.
“May I see them?”
The young boy stared at the professor, studying him cautiously as though analyzing what he was asking over and over again. Looking down, Thomas carefully pulled a wrinkled folder from his torn backpack. Handing the sacred designs to James, Thomas seemed nervous, like he was expecting disappointment. He opened up the perfectly creased stack to reveal a whimsical painting; it was an evening sky, harmonious and starlit, with the outlines of horses dancing in stardust with streaks of pinks, purples, and oranges embedded in their manes. Gracefully prancing between the constellations, galaxies surrounded the backdrop and random relics from long ago floated in the midst of space. Even with its darker state, the picture was enlightened with vivacious colors, almost like a hidden message was scribbled under the dyes.
“Thomas,” James stuttered, “this may be the most original and beautiful piece I’ve ever seen.”
For the first time, the boy slipped a smile, approval cleaning his face of criticism and worry. “My mom lives there,” claimed the boy, “She lives in the stars.”
Sympathy took James by the heart, “Well, Mr. Thomas, I have a proposition for you.”
Thomas cringed in confusion.
“You see, my work sends me all over the world to collect the most original works of art, and I truly think that in all my years of searching, your pieces have been the most impressive.”
A blank face.
“I thought my career was done. The world does not know art anymore. People are not friends with da Vinci, they do not sit in the back of classrooms to create, and they do not see a baby blue smile.”
A freckled face with spots made out of stars.
“Thomas, I would like to offer you a gallery showing. You can bring the stars, the dragons, the horses…anyone you want,” the new man couldn’t contain the happiness in his voice.
A baby blue smile.
“Will da Vinci be there?” the boy was slowly allowing a smile to grow across his face.
James laughed, “It wouldn’t be the same without him.”
And you could bet, he was there. He was hugging the baby blue bracelet wrapped around the boy’s tiny wrist. He was there.
