Flash-Fiction

Cancelled

Cancelled

"So, how is your project coming along, Jocelyn?" Alfred asked, wiping the spattered paint off his cheeks.

Jocelyn's head whipped around, looking at Alfred with a face of bewilder. Hurriedly, she covered her portrait that sat slanted on the easel with a shabby, sheer cloth. She stood in front of it like a mother guarding its baby.

Specks of black, charcoal smeared across her hands, some on her light freckles. The ash contrasted against her pale skin, as it blotted on her Demin-overalls.

Swiftly wiping her nose, she glared at Alfred.

"You know that I will not let you see my work, right?" She deadpanned, cloaking an eyebrow at the boy.

"Well, we've been here in this stupid studio for hours together! I'd even say we're friends!"

Friends

Jocelyn shook her head, looking back towards the canvas. It wasn't half done, the outlines still visible, the lines stubby and wobbly. The smudging was too dark, and the highlights weren't pronounced. It wasn't her best piece, but it had to do.

"Come on, I know it's glorious!" Alfred pushed, walking towards Jocelyn.

Jocelyn panicked, taking a step back. She didn't like the way Alfred was slowly, sauntering his way towards her. She didn't like the smug, but determined look that was etched onto his face.

"St- stop." She uttered, tripping slightly, as her foot hit the front foot of the tripod, her heart dropping, quivering as it pulsed faster and faster.

Alfred rolled his eyes, before turning around and trudging out of the studio.

"Bloody hell", Jocelyn whispered, before turning around, to face the monstrosity that she drew.

In her professors' words, it was fine. The blurring was fine, the stroking was fine, everything was just-

Fine.

She didn't want to be just another art student; she didn't want to be every other art major. She wanted to be something spectacular, something special, something that would impact others in ways that words couldn't.

But she just had to be anxious.

Everyone told her to be more outgoing. If she wanted to truly share her work, she would have to overcome her fear. Her fear of criticism, the fear of not doing well enough.

The fear of adronitis.

She couldn't bring herself to talk with people she had barely met. Her gaze just quite couldn't meet their eyes, her fingers would become slippery and fidgety, her heart would fall, and butterflies would swarm her stomach.

Sometimes, she wished she could just slip, fall, and die.

But that couldn't happen, and fate just won't allow it. She had to move on, continue with the dreadful days she yearned to pass.

Tears brimmed her eyes, glossy, as some dripped onto her cheek. Wiping them away, she looked at the charcoal now smeared across her face.

Why, just why is it me? Why do I have to face this, and others don't? What did I do to deserve this injustice!

Anger boiling in her, the rage overtook her consciousness, as she kicked her canvas over. It tipped, before crashing into the buckets of charcoal and paint. The supplies fell, spewing across the floor.

The beautiful artwork now covered with blotches of colour, the charcoal now a messy array of nothingness.

Welp, her dreams of graduating and becoming a professional artist was definitely cancelled now.