Callie's Hope

I blame my mother. Cliché, no? She tells the story still, fingers hooked round the bedspread under her chin, her bird-light body barely making a dent in the mattress.

How, when I was barely four years old, we'd sit and colour together. She, with her beautiful pencils, her Colouring Book For Grown-Ups, with intricate mandala patterns, and gorgeous images. Me, with my Jumbo Colouring Book and tub of ragtag crayons.

I coloured like any other kid that age, then one day, it was like somebody flipped a switch. I looked at her page, then at mine. Then I turned the pages until I found one un-scribbled-on by my baby brother, and coloured meticulously. I never did childish scribbles again. Her thin chest swells with pride at this part, as if it isn't just a little sad.

Mother gave me one of her unused books. I delighted in using shading to make the pictures stand out. The cheap wax crayons were pushed aside, and she opened her tin of quality pencils between us.

She was a fair artist, but it was only ever a hobby for her. She was expansive in her praise, assuring me (and anyone else who would listen) that I'd far outstripped her talents by the time I was nine.

By eleven, I could sketch or paint almost anything I saw. I could copy lots of artists and styles. Mother bought me expensive inks for my birthday, and the fridge bristled with my creations.

Father said I should take Business Studies, or do a course in Marketing. Mother squashed that idea.

I made art for the love of it, for the satisfaction of pushing myself to be a bit better. Kids stay up all night playing video games, athletes trying to run another mile, or shave another half second off their time... I get it. That's me, honing what I do. A pencil can always be sharper.

I don't know how to make money off what I do. In this world, it doesn't matter how good you are, you can still go your whole life unseen.

That's why I'm staring at the mould in this bedsit, choosing between rent and my mother's care.

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Word count - 366

(NB. This excludes the title, subtitle, and authors note.)

Submitted on Sunday 22nd September at 17:15

The story behind the story: Might be a bit on the nose, but the title is a sort of play on Calliope, the Greek muse, and the image (generated by me, using AI) is made up of colourful pencil shavings.

A Year of Stories: I'm writing (and submitting, here) a story every day this year. This continues my 266 daily microfiction story streak since 1st January.

ONE HUNDRED DAYS TO GO!

Please consider lending your support to the other creators on this madcap "a story every day" adventure. They're putting out excellent content every day!

Rachel Deeming

Gerard DiLeo

Thank you

Especially if you are one of the wonderful people who has been staunchly reading these daily scribbles since the start of the year. I see you, and appreciate you very much indeed! Thank you to those who leave feedback/comments. I will do my best to respond to each one and reciprocate the reads.

If you enjoyed this one, the very best compliment you can give me is to share it, or read another!

Here are a couple more with similar themes:

And now for something completely different: an excellent piece from my sister scribbler Rachel Deeming:

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Thank you again!