Cinders

Chapter eight

One more time and I swear to the lord above I will slap the living day lights out of this girl. Her low cut top revealed a lot more than her bra and her so called skirt, was the length of belt. Her annoying chatter and hair flipping was driving me totally insane.  Now honestly, how could any eighteen year old girl talk about herself so much in the space of a two hour bus journey. The trip to a major art gallery in London was starting out on a bad note, as listening to Emma babble on and on about herself two rows in front of me and Poppy, was mind destroying. Who exactly cares if you started walking when you were six months old, defiantly not the poor sap who is sitting next to you. Even inside the gallery she was stilling boring anyone within ear shot with her boring life story.

“It’s amazing how she can be in a place this beautiful and still be so self involved,” I mumbled as I gazed at the beautiful wooden arch way that we were all standing under. My whole English class were surrounded by the work of Van Gogh and other famous artist in the human world. Not that any of them appreciate it, it was just an excuse for them to mess around. Immaturity was defiantly a vital factor in their day to day living.

Crafted beams hung high above our heads as we followed a tour guide through the huge building. I was surprised it wasn’t busier but then again it was a Wednesday, who visited a museum on a Wednesday afternoon these days. Apart from apparently random college trips that didn’t have anything remotely to do with what we were learning about. Who was I to complain, at least it got me out of the tubs of ice cream that I was devouring every day.

“Now don’t run off, act like adults,” Mr Hanno chattered as he ushered us all into a smaller gallery. Pieces of artwork hung in there own individual slots with information written on tiny plaques beside each of them.

“Claude Monet was born fourteenth of November eighteen forty and died in the year nineteen twenty six. After painting several pictures some which hang on our very walls. This one was painted in eighteen sixty seven,” the tour guide informed pointing at a painting of a lady in a beautiful sunny garden admiring the roses with an umbrella in her hands.

“Jeanne-Marguerite Lecadre in the Garden Sainte-Adresse,” He continued pointing to the plaque beneath the painting.

“Now let’s move on to Picasso.” Following the crowd as they were led out of the small gallery and down a hallway, I glanced behind me to see Poppy standing staring intently at the painting of the lady in the garden.

“Come on Pops or we shall lose them,” I muttered walking back towards her as the last two people left the room, leaving us alone with a bunch of painted, watching eyes.

“Ok I’m no art expert but I’m pretty sure it’s not supposed to be doing that,” she stuttered beckoning me with her hand to come closer.

“What?” I asked impatiently. Ignoring me she continued to stare at the picture of the lady until I stood next to her.

“Whoa,” I whispered in surprise as a newly painted goose was slowly moving in the painting. The woman didn’t move nor did the flowers. It disappeared in a blink of an eye. The sound of distant goose honking made us turn around.