CANVAS BLUES
Vignettes Regarding the Artwork of Brendon Kotes

XXVIII: Yesteryears

Girls at the races during humid autumn nights wore skimpy shorts and loose, flowy tops. They wore hair down, letting it fly and whip when the cars zipped past. Some of them would disappear into backs of cars and come out clothes askew.

Brendon had never noticed before what all those girls did. Not even Casey’s sister remained on his mind after she’d inevitably vanish with friends or soon-to-be-friends who had something powdery or smoky to offer. But he couldn’t help but notice when that seemed to be all Robbie saw, eyes wide in a combination of fright and aspirations.

Couldn’t help noticing because Casey noticed and ragged on Robbie mercilessly. Brendon had multiple sketches of Robbie’s face from that night and a few after, and every one caught the brightness in Robbie’s eyes, the rampant confused desire burning out from within. And Casey looking on, a similar desire unhidden, yet somehow gone missed, right there to be read by anyone who knew the language.

Lewd jokes rippled through their tiny friend group. Continue reading →

CANVAS BLUES
Vignettes Regarding the Artwork of Brendon Kotes

XXVI: Present

They started locally, which wasn’t difficult as many of Brendon’s original sales had come from studio exhibitions. He sat in Orion’s passenger seat, conscious that the BMW cost a great deal more than Brendon tended to make in an average year. The leather seats stuck to his arms despite the air conditioning and Orion had paused the audio book he’d been listening to out of politeness sake.

“Thriller?” asked Brendon, randomly running a finger along his side of the center console.

“Non-fiction.”

“That sounds like you,” murmured Brendon.

Orion laughed. A quiet sound, but deep, deep in his chest, a rumbling that Brendon felt all the way to his bones. He clutched at the sketchbook in his lap. Orion had stared at the crumpled spiral-bound and graphite-smudged book, but hadn’t said a word.

“Am I so easy to read?” asked Orion.

“No,” murmured Brendon. “But when things fit, they fit.”

“And how does that…fit…with me?” Continue reading →

CANVAS BLUES
Vignettes Regarding the Artwork of Brendon Kotes

XXV: Yesteryears

The first time Brendon woke choking on an orgasm, he lay shivering in bed, limbs a twitching, Casey’s laughter ringing in his ears, Casey’s scent lingering in his nostrils. He’d sweat through his pants and his sheets clung to his skin despite the autumn gentleness. Outside, the moon had risen, bright and almost whole, as if it had delivered Brendon the sweetest of dreams on a ray of pale light.

He did not move, too confused. The mind, he discovered later, did not work as well in the midnight hours, but right then, he found in himself a growing terror that he could not put name to. This welling feeling—both physical and emotional—that stirred in his belly and took claim to his mind.

In a spattering of nights after, months and years, Brendon would wake at odd hours, Casey’s name a moan on his lips. He found himself comfortable with the idea of holding his friend, of kissing him, of sharing intimacy that one couldn’t do with superheroes who did not exist. Continue reading →

CANVAS BLUES
Vignettes Regarding the Artwork of Brendon Kotes

XXIV: Yesteryears

Why did all the boys ask for pictures, yet the girls did not? The question Mr. Wexlar had posed niggled far more solidly in Brendon’s mind than it had any right to and yet he could not shake it.

Like a bug, the question buzzed obnoxiously, so Brendon found himself drawing swarms of mosquitoes and gnats and no-see-ums, propping them on fields of tufted grass and cattails. He even presented one to Mr. Wexlar one day as a present, who looked down on it with those critical eyes and said, “Why Brendon, this is one of the best works I’ve seen from you. See here, the way you’ve given the wind character and the sunlight presence, and here, the color changes so vividly, like a flash as you’re walking by. Gorgeous. Keep this up.”

It was the first gushing praise Brendon ever received from Mr. Wexlar. And it didn’t come again for months and then only in the presence of Donna Pierceman.

Mr. Wexlar attempted to convince Brendon to submit the piece as part of his end-of-quarter portfolio, but guilt-ridden, he insisted it was a gift and that he had others in mind to complete, but that he would take the praise in stride and maybe do a few more as practice.

The insects he painted for his portfolio ended up being dragonflies on abandoned radio antennas riddling an overgrown patch around a deflated plastic pool. Mr. Wexlar liked that one too. Maybe he just liked bugs.

~~~~~~~~~

Next Chapter!

CANVAS BLUES
Vignettes Regarding the Artwork of Brendon Kotes

XXIII: Present

Mr. Livesey knocked on Brendon’s apartment door at 8:59. The minute turned over as Brendon hurried to fold the blanket he’d used all night and straighten at least the worst of the mess in a mad dash fraught with pointlessness. Dressed in only a pair of sleep pants with graphite smudges across his fingers from last night’s desperate sketch, Brendon pulled the door open, a rush of early, humid summer wafting in from around Orion Livesey’s suited figure.

“Come in, come in. Good morning. I haven’t had coffee yet—haven’t even turned it on. Are you—I mean, do you live around here? Or you’re staying at the Marriott?”

With a peaceful, and far too awake, countenance, Mr. Livesey answered smoothly as he stepped inside, easily removed the door from Brendon’s hand, and shut it behind them. “Good morning, Brendon. Coffee would be perfect. And no, I live about three hours north so I’m staying locally.”

“Right. Of course.”

Brendon spastically clutched at his pants, bunching the fabric at his thighs as he suddenly remembered the sketch. The sketch that was thankfully facing the couch and not the door. He quickly backed up and made to look as if he felt the sudden urge to straighten the piles of books on the coffee table, scooping up the sketchbook and shutting it in one move before he laid a couple other books on top of it, needing to weigh down Orion Livesey’s drawn figure so it might not come alive. Continue reading →