A Story

The morning sun emitted an eye-blinding light over the county. Thankfully, most people were still asleep at this early hour. All but Charlie, the stable boy, who never needed to concoct an acceptable excuse to get up at five in the morning to enjoy the morning air.

Everybody knew Charlie. The boy who carries the malodorous smell to the church hall every Sunday, who leaves horse hair stuck to the delicate velvet church seats, and who is heard off-key at the very back of the choir. In Lowland County, everybody knew everything about one another. All but Charlie, he has a deep, dark secret. He was an artist.

If anyone would dig under the pile of hay behind the door to the tools room, at the back of the stable, they would come across some peculiar ornaments, perhaps a few doodles drawn hastily on a piece of broken fence, or a rock. And on a small corner of each fossil, they would find a carefully-inscribed name: Charlie.

Charlie quite liked his name. Except for one time when he was minding his own business taking a stroll in the park and a foreign lady behind him screamed: “CHARLIE! CHARLIE!” Of course, Charlie was startled and obediently walked himself back in front of the lady. “Yes ma’am?” He was about to ask when the lady joyously bent down to scoop up her precious beagle puppy. ‘Charlie’ was a dog.

                That incident did not in fact turn out at all embarrassing. A few exchanges into their conversation told Charlie that the lady was a rich collector, and in return, the lady found out that Charlie was a self-proclaimed artist. They quickly became good acquaintances as each fits to be the other’s benefactor. Charlie needed a patron, and the lady needed someone with creative potential to construct the ultimate, unique collection that no one else in the world has ever seen.

                The same day, Charlie had skipped home under the pitch dark night sky humming an ancient lullaby he would have liked to believe that his mother had crooned him to bed with. It was a calming tune, thought Charlie. But any auditor would have disagreed that the unnerving monotone was not anywhere close to the famous, beloved Mr. Grahms’ lullaby.

                That night, as soon as he got home, he mulled over his project for two hours before gathering up the tools and material he needed. He built the structure carefully to ensure longevity, so the lady can enjoy the art piece for years to come. Charlie worked all night and into the next morning before his final product began to take shape and look presentable. He worked proficiently and with zeal.

                The lady loved Charlie’s work and praised him ceaselessly as such imagination is a rare sight and had receded with every other artist she has met. But Charlie’s item has impressed her and she now believes that her collection would prevail over all others. “Gnarly!” She had commented. Her henpecked husband could only agree even though the piece of ‘art’ seemed more like the quintessential of an ordinary rock. Even after generating all of his cerebral capability, he could not understand the two beaming faces in front of him.

 

                People often times misconstrue the true value of art. They try too hard to fathom some logic or definition of everything. Sometimes, life doesn’t always have a certain meaning, just like Charlie’s collectable item.