A Growing Collection of Short Stories

Number One: Sunset

It was a cold September evening, the breeze blowing dry leaves through the air with a soft woosh. The sky was lit up a bright orange with the sun's most recent goodbye, painting the clouds to match the sky. She imagined drawing this spectacular sight; with her sketchbook in hand and pencil in the other. But no lines marked the snow-white page.

Why was it so difficult to draw a sunset? Were her supplies wrong? Was she at the wrong angle? No, she just couldn't compare her work to that of the sky.

But she's been doing this for years! She's drawn many sunsets before, so what was different about this one? Was it the bright defined colours? Sunsets like these were not uncommon, so why was a near perfect replica not on her page? Was it the silhouette of the houses and trees just under the clouds? Could it be that they were blocking her complete view of the sky?

No, she thought. It's not the sky, it's me.

The sky may not really be orange. I could just be imagining it. It could really be an entirely different colour. Maybe I just want to think it's orange, since that seems to be the most common colour for sunsets.

She stared back down at the blank canvas before flipping a page over, covering it with her previous work: a tree with dull green leaves and a trunk the colour of her hardwood floors at home. This wasn't her most proud work, but she appreciated it; mostly because capturing nature in her sketchbook was her favourite way to draw. The way the earth's natural phenomena could be interpreted by an artist's hand was extraordinary to her.

The setting sun had fallen down below the black outlines of the houses, causing the moon and the stars to faintly appear in the sky and the street to fall to darkness. She slapped her sketchbook shut and started to make her way back inside her house. She felt very unaccomplished, like there was a block in her mind keeping her from the perfect piece of art she could have created.

It doesn't matter anyway. There's always more sunsets.

•

The man opened his eyes, squinting, as the sunlight from the open window streamed into them. He lifted his arm to block out the light as he slowly sat up. Sighing, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood on the cold wooden floor. He grabbed his housecoat from the hook on the back of the door before sliding his long arms into the sleeves and opening the door to the kitchen.

Before proceeding to brew his morning coffee, a large book on the counter island caught his eye. He turned towards the book and looked at the cover. On it was his daughter's name written in perfect calligraphy over a scenery of a beach. The sky was a dull blue colour, and the waves crashing the bright green sandy shore were almost a purple. He sighed, eager to see more of his daughter's captures nature on the once white pages. He had bought her this sketchbook for Christmas; it made him smile to see that she was using it.

Looking over his shoulder as if someone was watching him, he flipped a few pages into the sketchbook. When he looked back down, his eyes landed on a tree. There was no sky behind it, no grass or dirt, just a tree. It was well painted, too, though it was a dull tree. Replacing what should have been bright green leaves were dull yellow ones, like the colour of dead grass. The trunk of the tree was almost the colour of their floors but had more of a yellow tint to it.

He took in a deep breath before turning the page. There, previous to the tree, was a sunset. He could tell it was drawn from their front porch because of the way the houses stood against the sky. This drawing, though, was just as dull as the tree. What should've been a bright orange sky was a green-yellow blur in the sky and the clouds behind the silhouette of the houses.

He sighed. Though her art was beautiful, he wished she could see just how beautiful and vibrant the things of nature really were in his eyes.