The Girl With Pale Eyes

The Girl With Pale Eyes-Short Story

       My name is Cordon Taylor, 18 now but 17 when the story behind this painting started. I know Cordon doesn’t sound like a normal name, but that might be because it isn’t. It’s a mix of my mother Christin’s name and my father Gordon’s name. Points to them for originality I guess. Anyway, I’m a painter. Or an aspiring one at least. For the past few years I have been attending an art school downtown. I already knew what I wanted to do, so it made sense to get an early start. My parents split up about two or three years ago and I stayed in the city with my mother. My father moved out into the countryside. After having nothing but the city landscape as inspiration for my art, I decided to stay with him for a little while over the summer. 

I think it’s fair to say I got more than I bargained for.

        There’s something strangely calming about looking out at the countryside, watching as the trees and grass all fly past like a painted blur. 

        Sitting in that train, my head pressed slightly against the glass, I glanced longingly at that beautiful landscape. I could picture it in my head even when I closed my eyes. It was magnificent. The high-climbing clouds stretching far beyond the blurry distant leaves on the trees. The tall, swaying grass leading almost all the way to the railroad tracks but stopping just short of the rocks surrounding them. In my mind I could almost feel the wind pressing against my face as it shook the trees back and forth. I could imagine all these things, but they were not good enough. They did not resonate with me. They weren’t the inspiration I was looking for.

Eventually the passing trees turned to water, then back to trees. I took a nap at some point but I don’t remember exactly when. All I know is one minute I was staring at the same hills of green, only changing in shade, and the next I was startled awake by an on old man with a small smile saying 

        “Wake up, boy. Is this your stop?”

I nodded my head slowly, putting one hand against my transparent pillow and pushing myself up straight. I sighed heavily and picked up my bags, then exited the train. My dad was standing there waiting for me. 

       “It’s been a while, Cordon,” he greeted me with a smile. And a hug.

“Sorry. I’ve had to work pretty hard the past few years on summer projects for school but I finished early this time just so I could come see you.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me. It kind of my fault for moving so far out of the way anyway. Well, let’s get to walking.”

I handed him the two heaviest ones. He’ll be fine. He’s a strong man. He’s a little taller than me, so I’d say around six feet at least. We look almost exactly the same. We’re not skinny but not fat either. We both have short brown hair. We both wear glasses (although his are because he thinks they make him look cool) and right now, we are even both wearing brown shirts. A passerby would have every right to think we were twins and not father and son. The only real thing I got from my mother was her green eyes. My dad’s are brown. He also has faint reminders of a beard on his face. Those are the only two big ways to tell us apart (aside from his clearly aged skin).