flash fiction by John Holman
When I look at a forest I see living things — leaves, flowers, birds, trees. My sister Gail sees colours — greens, yellows, browns. She called me yesterday to ask if I’d meet her at Morococo for an afternoon coffee. We hadn’t spoken in months — said she had some big news she wanted to share. I arrived on the dot. She was fifteen minutes late.
“So, what’s the big news?” I asked, as a lanky waiter wearing a black t-shirt and a fez led us to a corner table next to a pile of hand-woven rugs. We both ordered coffee and I ordered a Moroccan coconut cake to share.
Gail wanted to tell me about her latest boyfriend, Jason. “He manages this really cool, newly renovated two and three dimensional fine art gallery out in the burbs.”
Then, halfway through the cake, she says, “But the big news is — I’ve started to paint.”
“Paint! Paint what?” I said.
“Paint! You know, paint things — people, flowers, trees, streets — anything really.”
“I didn’t know you’d been studying art.”
“Well, I’ve only just started — but Jason says my paintings are really good. He thinks my abstracts will speak to people.”
“Wow! That’s fantastic, Gail, you really must show me.”
A few minutes later we left Morococo and caught a taxi to Gail’s apartment. There, in her living room, were eight oil paintings propped against a wall. All of them were coloured white. We’re not talking white and red or mainly white, we’re talking shades of the same white colour — nothing else, just white on white on white on white.
