Disclaimer: Twilight belongs to Stephenie Meyer. Peter Pan belongs to J.M. Barrie.
A/N: Welcome to my newest story, please enjoy. If you have the time, please take a look at my story Double Dare.
Mind's Eye
Chapter One
All children, except one, grow up.
They soon know that they will grow up, and the way Wendy knew was this. One day when she was two years old she was playing in a garden, and she plucked another flower and ran with it to her mother. I suppose she must have looked rather delightful, for Mrs Darling put her hand to her heart and cried, "Oh, why can't you remain like this for ever!" This was all that passed between them on the subject, but henceforth Wendy knew that she must grow up. You always know after you are two. Two is the beginning of the end.
[excerpt from J.M. Barrie's Peter Pan, 1911]
No matter how many times I read this book, it always sent shivers through my soul. The writing leapt off the page and sang to my heart. And every word the author says here is true. The idea of growing up terrifies people as soon as they realise it is happening.
I suppose that's one reason why I got into writing myself. The imagination is one thing that doesn't have to grow old and decay. It can remain as young as you want it to. When I held pen to paper and let loose the strange worlds hidden away in my mind, I finally felt like I could converse with my fellows. I had always been told to get my head back in the real world, to focus on my studies, to grow up. But the truth was, I didn't want to. I liked living in my own little world, where I could imagine anything, and nothing could disappoint me. In my mind's eye, I could bring to life mountains and meadows and creatures and sea monsters andstriking heroines and nothing could hinder my creativity.
I snapped the volume shut before I got too caught up in it, and stored it carefully in my purse. I grabbed my jacket and headed out of the tiny staffroom, through to the front of the library. I said goodbye to my work colleagues. I loved my job here, surrounded by books; pages and pages of mysterious worlds and fantastical lands just waiting to be discovered. I practically skipped to the door – the weatherman had promised sunshine.
Of course, he had lied.
A sheet of solid rain drowned the street in front of me, obscuring the town and washing away the colours like running paint. Not wanting to walk home in the rain, or go back into work, I rushed across the street to the little local art gallery. There was a quaint little café in there, and it was usually pretty quiet. This town wasn't particularly known for its appreciation of the arts.
I hurried inside, brushing my tangled hair from my face. It was busier than usual – a sign drew my attention to an amateur exhibition. I got a drink from the café, and headed off towards the exhibition.
I liked the art gallery. I often spent my lunch hour in here. I held a great respect for these artists – they portrayed the worlds of their imagination on paper, just like me. Although I readily admit that I was a tiny bit jealous. Sometimes words cannot describe the vivid ideas swirling around in my mind, and the cliché that a picture paints a thousand words could not be more prudent than here amongst these stunning masterpieces. I wandered from canvas to canvas, admiring the work of these budding artists. I made my way to the very end, where the wall was covered by nine square canvases, arranged in a large square, filled with splashes of colour – greens, blues, whites, purples. There seemed to be logic to it, but I couldn't quite figure it out.
"What do you think it is?" asked a musical male voice.
I turned to see who the voice belonged to, and found a tall figure dressed in grey and green, staring at the painting with a frustrated expression. His hair was a wild mass of bronze, and his eyes sparkled like the brightest emeralds.
I blinked, and turned back to the wall. "Um... I think its a field."
The man exhaled sharply and nodded, still staring at the work.
I rushed to continue, hoping not to sound particularly stupid. "I mean, that's what it looks like to me. I don't know that much about... art, and I can't see where he gets his inspiration from. Its not like any other painting I've ever seen."
The man smirked. "What makes you think the artist's a man? There's no plaque."
I blushed a little. It was at times like this that I wished I did spend more time in the real world, to at least work on my conversation skills.
"Well, the brush strokes look particularly angry. Like he's trying to find something there in the paint, or in the field, and it's evading him. It just seems like the work of a troubled man."
There was a long pause as he thought about this.
"As for the inspiration, maybe Picasso... I … I'm not sure..." I stuttered.
The man beside me shoved his hands in his pockets, his eyes tightening infinitesimally.
"Maybe he doesn't need inspiration from anyone else. Maybe he relies on his own mind's eye."
There was an edge to his voice, and I turned to question him, but he had already gone, lost in the crowd of interested passers-by.
I frowned a little. How curious. I stepped closer to the confusing work on the wall to inspect the lower corner of one canvas.
E. Cullen.
A/N: Hope you enjoyed chapter one. Please let me know what you think. Do you think it's worth continuing?