3.2 seconds later, Temera went, “Ooo!” and ran off.
Mireh, breaking out into a cold sweat, dove for her hand, but she was too slow. Temera was out of reach, and there was no way she was going to survive another poem tonight. Temera was going to have to be left behind. The saying went no man left behind; it mentioned nothing about poem-crazed poltergeists.
But it turned out Mireh was able to salvage Temera, because what she was chasing after was not a poem nor did it have relations to any poems.
It was a painting, and a big one at that. Not as tall as the tiny Temera, but more width than the medium Mireh if you laid her on her side, and it was set up on a makeshift wall for festival goers to ooo and aah at. It was of a dystopian metropolis with a blue monotone.
“Are these the sorts of paintings you're into?” Mireh asked as her eyes rolled over the 200-something story skyscrapers.
“I like what I like.”
Tautology. Yay. Mireh wasn't that big of a fan of this painting, but she understood what magnetized Temera to it. It was dark, bleak, and gave off this feeling that the city was going to shutter away at any second. It was very detailed, too, with the tiniest lights painted onto the smaller skyscrapers tucked away at the bottom of the canvas, and with a hooded girl standing on a girder to the right in the foreground.
Blue End.
“There's no signature,” Temera pointed out.
Mireh searched but didn't find one, either. “Guess not.”
“Why would they paint this but not let anyone know who painted it?”
That felt like a question her art teacher would ask. “Because they want people to view the painting for what it is and not who painted it?” Yeah, that sounded like an art teacher-approved response.
“Hmm...”
What, is my answer not good enough?
“I wonder if it's for sale,” Temera said and started looking around for a price tag. Some of the other paintings and statues and whatnot around were for sale or bidding, but this one wasn't. “Aww...This is a really nice painting, too...”
I doubt you could afford this even if it was on sale. “Where would you hang this?”
“I'd make a spot in my room,” she said as she pulled out her phone to take some snappies.
I'd have to sell all my posters and bookshelves to fit this thing in.
Temera took her snappies, then admired the painting for another minute before deciding they should resume their walk to the rendezvous point.
She walked and continued to admire the painting on her phone, Schildkröte/Nathan/Beelzebub also receiving the chance to admire the snappies, and she looked to Mireh like a child who couldn't wait until her next birthday to get that new toy that came out.
“You really like that painting, huh?”
“It's one of the best I've seen in a while,” she said. “Normally, I find most paintings boring, but I really like that one, for some reason. I just wish I knew who painted it.”
“Does it matter who painted it?”
“Yes. That way I can see what else they've made.”
“True.” Mireh went nuts when she found a song she liked but couldn't figure out who the artist was.
“But more than that, it bothers me that they don't seem to want people to know who they are.”
“What's wrong with that?”
“Maybe it's just me, but if I made that painting, I'd want people to know who I am,” she said. “That's what I want to accomplish in becoming a poet: I want people to know who I am.”
“No offense, but how do you plan to accomplish that?” Mireh asked. “I mean, I only know a few poets, and they're all dead.”
“That's part of my plan,” Temera said. “Most artists don't become famous until after they die, so what I'm going to do is write and publish a bunch of books of poetry, and then when I die, it'll be this tragic tale of a poet who died before it was her time.”
Mireh nearly lost her footing. Did I hear that right? “What do you mean—”
“Surprise bear hug attack!”
And then an untamed Retta ambushed Mireh from behind.
“Oh, hello there. You could come back like a normal person, you know,” Mireh said to her assailant.
“At least I'm not a jackrabbit.”
Inside joke.
“This is true. This is very true.”
Retta spotted a bystanding Temera. “Temera! How was the whatchamacallit that you went to?”
“The poetry reading? It was great! And I got to perform! Would you like to hear what I read?”
“Remind me later.”
Good choice. “So what happened to you giving away all your toys? You couldn't have given them all away that fast,” Mireh said when she saw no plateau of playthings nor the wagon Retta had been wheeling them around in.
“Let me educate you on one of the many rules of the universe,” Retta said, waggling a finger at the ignorant Mireh. “Families with nine kids require a great accumulation of toys.”
“Nine kids?! Are you serious?”
“That's a big word for you, Retta” Mireh said.
“I'm not stupid. I know words like accumulation.”
“I was talking about the word a.”
“.....Come on, Temera,” and Retta grabbed her by her wrist and dragged her away. “You're my new best friend.”
“Wha? Huh?” Her head was going back and forth between Retta and Mireh. “I don't get it. Is this another inside joke?”
It might be one in the making, Temera. Keep this up and you might yet figure out what the hell a bazooka to the face is.
“Really? Is it?”
Who knows at this point?
ns 15.158.61.20da2
