Graphite Eyes-- Poke'mon Fan fic

In an attempt to both rid my hard drive of the stuff and get an opinion oe two, I've decided to post a number of vingettes based around various video games and anime. This first one was written shortly after seeing the 2nd Poke'mon movie for the first time rescently.


Graphite Eyes

The scratch of pencil on paper whispers into the hiss of the waves, blending like the mute grays and whites he relentlessly smudges at with his finger tips. It’s as if he has always belonged here with us, on this boat rocking endlessly over and under the same cerulean oblivion day after day. Land or sea, it makes no difference, all is blue, shades of cyan.

We dock again, off of a populated beach alive with the raucous of humanity that no matter how many times I hear seems so out of place. He strides off of the dock and turns to me, then to our companion.

“I’m running a little low on art supplies, so I’ll find a store and rustle up anything else we need, okay?” A temperamental ocean breeze ruffles his dark azure hair and he runs a strong hand through it. “Misty, do you want to come with me?”

“Sure.” Our companion darts off to do some sight-seeing and secure us a room for the night. It’s a rarity that we have this kind of money, but his art has been selling pretty well lately. It’s a wonder we didn’t think of it sooner. The docks lead onto a wide, worn boardwalk crusted with brine and sand, the wood creaking and crunching underfoot. He’s oddly quiet and keeps his eyes to the storefronts.

“Time was you couldn’t go ten feet without seeing an easel somewhere along this stretch. Where did they all go?” he wonders aloud, “there’s so much beauty out there, why stop, refuse to see it?”

I shrug. His artist’s ponderings are a mystery to me most days, and the days I’ve seen him stare so intently at something my heart had screamed to ask, “What do you see? Show me.” We’re alike in that this cerulean world accepts us as part, kindred.

That’s done nothing to define what we are to each other, except in moments like this, when he tries to let me see through his eyes. After a few ‘blocks’ of boardwalk we find a likely looking suspect, the windows piled in bonewhite driftwood and long abandoned shells. A standing sign proclaims, “Artist’s Walk Canvas and Supplies.”

He’s a concise shopper and a devil to haggle with, so we walk out having paid a full forty percent less for the two sketch pads, set of charcoal pencils, and blending sticks than we would have otherwise. He plays up the ‘young, starving artist’ card as if he really was one. Maybe he was before I knew him. He never talks much about himself.

“Misty,” he says after a long, pregnant silence, “I…was wondering if I could do a sketch of you…just you…one of these days.” He tries, bless his soul, not to seem embarrassed about it.

“Sure, whenever you want.”

“Now?” A hinge of the embarrassment is still there, but he’s looking me in the eyes now, and they’re trembling. So are mine. More than my eyes in fact.

“Yeah…I guess. Ash’ll be busy for a while. There’s a lot to see here.” That was a lie, but if he thinks I’m going to pass up the opportunity to once, see the world the way he does, he’s dead wrong. I want this. I need this. Just him and I.

He takes a moment to break out the charcoals and find a secluded enough spot for the picture. He spots it up an abandoned wharf: a single wrought-iron and wood bench framed by the wreck of a gazebo. We make our way there, picking over ancient chum buckets and discarded, shattered fishing poles, strewn like so much kindling on the wharf. He takes my hand and seats me on the bench, my knees turned, waist twisted to stare out over the empty boardwalk.

“Raise your chin a little,” instead of just telling me, he guides me, his hand nudging my chin up—places my hands where he wants them, like working in stop motion. Nothing he has me do is forced but perfectly natural, as if I would have done it anyway. He is a master; my master, if just for this one frame. The wind teases my hair and for a second I think it’s him doing it, arranging every hair until it lies as he wishes it. A strange feeling grips me then, as he works. It feels as if he is creating me for the first time, drawing me into existence here, on this bench, my first view of the world that weathered boardwalk, glowing with the first signs of another tropical evening.

“I’m done,” he announces, tapping me on the shoulder, waking me from the reverie. “Do you like it?”

It is, for lack of a better word, imperfect. But to get as close to perfection to call it that is an accomplishment in and of itself. He notes my awe and the red of a setting sun rises to his cheeks. The world is finally something other than blue. Cerulean gives way to vermillion, burning across the sky, down the beach to bathe our messy wharf in the softness of sunset. It glitters and dances in the lapsing water, the hiss of waves a murmur now, the kind that makes you think you’re hearing things you really aren’t.

Do you see now?
Yes. Thank you.

You posted something! ::is very happy::

Graphite Eyes is beautifully written; I love your descriptions, and how you introduce readers to the characters - a slim use of names; rather, a reliance upon their actions. The setting is well rendered, and I particularly like your use of the colour blue, how is melts in vermillion at the end of the vignette. Lovely, lovely work. Art, and the supplies needed to create it, is professionally detailed. I hope you post more work soon!