Notes Between Pages Part 1

Part of my newest big project that I have already decided that no matter what happens, I will be finishing and taking it to be published. It's called Wanderlust. And I'll be putting up the parts that I finish as I go along for you guys to enjoy.

Dedicated to my friend Ambrosia...

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The atmosphere in my sister’s flat is something I can fail to describe in just a few words. Almost like something similar the page ripped from your old children’s storybook - except that page has been desecrated and colored over more than a few times. The colors of your pastels and paints and pens have blended together in a haphazard display of outrageous gayety and of flagrant nonconformity in the face of landlords who would rather their tenants “keep the colors simple so that we can paint over them if  you move out”. The smell of paint still hung low in the air, the sound of Beethoven’s fifth symphony played.

I knock four times in the door frame loudly,

“Hello?” I yell out. No answer.

I knock again.

“Amber!”

I hear the faint sound of a female voice from farther inside the rabbit hole.

“Kennedy, I know that you’re already inside my house - I am in the kitchen. Come find me, I am not leaving this souffle.”

I leave my shoes by the door and stroll through the living area, directly adjacent to the fourier from which I entered. The last time I had been in my sister’s New York City apartment had been when she had invited me over for her Christmas Party a few months ago, and to my disbelief - the ceiling almost looked a little bit higher than it had been since then.

I have always been a little jealous of my sisters flat, a very fancy, very expensive penthouse apartment in Manhattan that she had acquired free of charge from her late fiance Janise who had (among other things) a very wealthy estate acquired from years of carefully planned stock investments, no next of kin whatsoever, and the kicker, terminal lung cancer. She’s dead now.

I reach the kitchen after a minute of slowly maneuvering around piles of books, art supplies, and other useless memorabilia. (For those who are thinking that my sister is a hoarder, let me wholeheartedly assure you that she isn’t - she is in fact, an artist.)

As aforementioned, I reached the kitchen: and to my horror, an eyesore of a rainbow comparable to the likes of that which decorated Amber’s walls also decorated the pristine marble topped counters of her kitchen - except for the fact that this rainbow’s constituent colors were edible (though not once in my existence would I consider advising anyone to consume any of these strangely colored food spots and splatters)

“You’re an artist with food just as much as you are with colors, it seems.”  I say. She giggles, that sort of younger sister giggle that makes you smile ear to ear when you hear it.

“And you’re an artist with chemicals and elements and matter, just as I throw paint on a canvas you throw atoms together with colliders. And just as the end result of my colorful escapades is Art; the end result of your particular escapades is also art. Remember that. Oh, and you look like a nerd today - next time you come over wear a hoodie and some flip flops.”

My sister speaks in full paragraphs sometimes. I think it’s a function of all artists  to speak in paragraphs, because one sentence can hardly ever convey as much information as is buzzing and wizzing in their exquisitely cultured minds.

“I will certainly remember to do that.”

“Of course you will...” - and sometimes one sentence conveys enough information I suppose.

A large DING, rings out.

“Oh! The souffle is done!” she bends down and opens up the stove, the aromatic scent of baked goods filled the room with a flood.

“I’ve poured way more blood, sweat, and tears into this souffle than is completely necessary,” she says laughing. She holds the plate up in the air with pride, and then sets it down on the island behind her.

“Is there a specific reason that you’ve barged in on my artful sanctum of solitude... bro?”

It takes me a moment to remember exactly why I had made the journey from my Montana home to visit. And then I produce the small, brown box that had been mailed to me the week beforehand. It was covered from corner to corner in stamps from around the world and multi-colored tapes.

“Oooh, that looks pretty.” she takes the box from my hand and examines it closely.

“I got that about a week ago out of the blue, the guy who dropped it off told me to bring it to you specifically today so we could open it together.” I added.

“The fedex guy said that?” She held the box up to the light, shaking it.

“No, it was some guy in a suit and tie.”

“Was the suit expensive?” was her only inquiry, it wasn’t uncommon for my sister to inquire about things of this nature. She was always one to think about the smallest, seemingly most useless details.

I chuckle.

“I can’t really remember if it was or if it wasn’t, I would assume it was because he seemed like that type of person.

“How about you describe to me the premise of this man's outward appearance in exactly three words. Call it a creative challenge.” she asked, still fiddling with the box so as to take a guess at it’s contents (much like I had done the week prior when I received the box, and I can satisfyingly predict that she wouldn’t find out what was hidden inside)

“Hmmm,”  I started to say.

“Your first word is used up, choose the next ones wisely.”

“Stephen Fry.” I said finally.

“Hmmm, I will take that. Now let us explore what lies behind these doors of mystery with the aid of my trusty companion - the saber of truth!” she strolled over to the counter and grabbed a golden letter opener, she holds it up.

“Forged in the very heart-magma of the core of our own Earth, this blade I use to hunt demons and expose false prophets. It’s golden edge is sharp enough to cut through diamond! It has the power to topple mountains and gods!”

“Just open the box Amber...”

...

To Be Continued...