Smoke, by Simon Parker

​Smoke

Yesterday's work stands behind him. The large canvas leans against the white wall. His eyes try to stay with the sky. He has been standing before this window for an hour, waiting, watching the light creep from the darkness, hoping that the sun's golden resilience might find its way to him. He doesn't feel strong enough to turn.

It's been a bad night. It's been a bad couple of weeks. Insomnia’s taken hold and won’t let go. He sucks hard on the cigarette, opening his throat for the tarred fizz to sharpen his senses, for sensation to be something more than despair. He looks to the glass and steel of Mercury Insurance on Fourth Avenue. Once solid things. He knows the light is coming, that a golden sheen will coat the upper stories, echoing to the sun that it is business as usual. The world will go on. He breathes the last life from the butt in his hand, drops it to the floor, and presses the sole of his shoe to its ember. The canvas cannot wait any longer.

Eleven foot and five of stretched canvas. Blocks of cadmium red, pigeon blue and a lightly panted swirl of forest green. The colours aren't there. He can name them, he can see them, but they aren't doing anything except ridiculing him.  What did you expect? You knew. Somewhere inside you've always known, now you've got to face it. Their derisive sneer forces him back, scrambling for his cigarettes. He must smoke. He must smoke and find his way out. He cannot be here any longer, cannot work here any longer. He grabs the packet from the chair, the chair from which he has spent forty years looking, finding his way into his work, and heads for the door. Once there, something happens, a sensation, something beyond the trembling anxiety that has stalked him for months. It surges into him and his hands seem to stop shaking. Rage. He feels it. He welcomes it. He wants to turn and take on the painting. Not with brush or palette knife or fingers, but with a blade, an axe, a fire. He won't be mocked, ridiculed, emptied. Then, just as quickly as it came, it is gone. The familiar dread returns and he forages in his pocket for a cigarette. He must smoke.

Simon Parker

Simon is a London based writer, performer and teacher. Simon is an associate artist of Vocal Point Theatre, a theatre company dedicated to telling stories from those not often heard, and providing workshops for the marginalized. He also runs creative writing and reading groups for the homeless, socially excluded and vulnerable at the 24o Project. His work has been published in various publications including  The Crank, Gramercy Review, Cathexis NW, The Ekphrastic Review, The Mackinaw, The Pomegranate London. www.simonparkerwriter.com