The following piece comes from beyond the twilight zone, straight out of
compton the ethernet, internet, and othernet, it travelled via rainbow road from Asgard to bless all our eyeballs. This is the first post to grace The Peachy Kings that doesn’t come from a regular poster (I know I know i’ll get those other guys to post) so please, show some love for Isaac Birchmier, Esquire. Isaac comes to us humble internet readers via astral projection, shining rays of love and motherly (yet-oh-so-masculine) care from his home planet Xanadu, this first piece a tale of losing control and the fear that comes with that all too natural experience. Enjoy.
The Painter, The Room, The Bucket of Paint, The Mural
By Isaac Birchmier
On the walls surrounding him were the most beautiful of scenes. Gardens of flowers—petunias, daffodils, lilacs, chrysanthemums, hibiscus, marigold, geranium, primrose. Images of deer racing through the green, the bright solar intensity casting UV beams in ocular stripes. The rhododendrons seemed almost to dance, like something out of the most picturesque Disney movie: the birds chirping in harmony, the world innocent and happy. For something like eons he sat there, happily engrossed in the scenery. He watched, enthralled, the world around him dancing and chirping and bright. He sat in the center of that scene, a smile permanently fixed on his face. For the longest time his world remained this way: perfect, sublime, beyond compare.
Then, suddenly, everything began to darken. He noticed it only slightly at first. The colors were more somber than what they once were. He initially shrugged it off as nothing.
That is, until the walls began to collapse.
A piece of the scenery caved in, and, behind it, much to his dismay, all there was was blackness, as far as the eye could see. The painter sweated profusely. His world was becoming a shell of what it originally was. Everything he knew was to be changed in an instant. The vortex outside threatened to consume all. He panicked, ran circles around his small world.
Then, his attention caught the bucket of paint in the corner of the room. In an act of fear, he unclasped the bucket’s lid and hurled its contents onto the wall. Various colors struck the vortex, the paint quickly dried, and the vacuum of nothingness was sealed. He was safe. But, as he looked around, he still was not content. Something was missing. The paint was now dried with tye-dyed splotches, and, being a man of considerable need for order, he couldn’t deal with such obvious disarray. Directing his attention to a paintbrush and palette nestled hidden beside the mural, he walked to the corner of the room and retrieved it.
The painting took a long while. He started first with grand strokes then finished with small dabs. He applied a new layer of paint to the now-discolored deer and trees and flowers. He made there be leaves falling from the trees and sunlight glistening on the branches. Being a perfectionist, he made sure the mural was not without the finest details. When he was finished, he returned to the center of the room, sat down, and smiled.
His world was perfect once again.