CANVAS BLUES
Vignettes Regarding the Artwork of Brendon Kotes

XCIII: Yesteryears

For Dmitri’s birthday (August 24th, nine days before Brendon called on Donna Pierceman), Brendon painted him on a mottled orange and green background, bright strands of Aunt Laurel’s shawls curling around like fleur de lis—or fiery threads—his arm reaching upward in a throwing motion and a waterfall of beads trailing in the wake of the ball’s trajectory.

It wasn’t his best, but Dmitri was appropriately enthused, which indirectly led to Aunt Laurel deciding the man could stick around as long as he didn’t end up becoming a leech like a few useless men she could name.

Dmitri did become a leech, but by that time Aunt Laurel was so used to him that she just put in the ramp and paid for his physical therapy bills and told him he was still perfect. Later, the jokes came quick about how he “didn’t need no cane in bed” and Brendon would pretend to cover his ears and duck before Aunt Laurel could swing her scarf at his face.

Even ten years on, Brendon was still picking beads out of the soles of his shoes and finding glittery strands on his clothes whenever he left their house, like their place hemorrhaged shiny things because they were so sweetly perfect for one another.

~~~~~~~~~

Next Chapter Coming December 22nd

CANVAS BLUES
Vignettes Regarding the Artwork of Brendon Kotes

XCII: Present

That night he dreamed of a macabre gallery where all his paintings gazed down at him.

They were countless. Crabs and carousals. Herons and homes. Forest and futurescapes. Insects and ice cream parlors. Graphic comics of half-finished panels of spiderlings. Boats cutting through the bay waves.

Dinosaurs from a younger age, where crayon and colored pencil had ruled and eyes were flattened on the same side of the reptilian faces.

And he could hear the Le Mans roaring, feel the heat of a fire lick against his heels, smoke filling his vision. Engine gunning for him.

Brendon struggled awake, sighing roughly against his pillow. For a moment he thought he couldn’t breathe, a pressure against his chest. Then Orion’s arm twitched, shifting the weight of it so it pressed more belly than lungs.

He sucked in a deep breath. Lifted slightly off the bed that he might see the shadow of the brown paper of Casey’s painting. Then he relaxed again with a shiver, the roaring of the Le Mans still singing in his ears as he fell back asleep.

~~~~~~~~~

Next Chapter Coming December 15th

CANVAS BLUES
Vignettes Regarding the Artwork of Brendon Kotes

XC: Yesteryears

A different sort of heat hit Castlebrock the summer after high school graduation. Heat index souring, air conditioning units on the fritz, the elderly suffering from heat stroke, the young suffering from too many drunken-fueled car accidents.

Casey started drifting back down more often, sleeping at his father’s house now that his stepmom had decided to give the man another chance at redemption. His father had gotten a different job, taking him away from the dour memories at the electrical company where he’d been relegated to a gopher or a “charity case” as he called it.

The two of them would swim in the bay, tugging board shorts down under the pier where no one could see. They would drive the same neighborhood they’d used to bike, taking things fast, then faster. They would talk about the future, but only in an amorphous way, like it didn’t quite exist yet, like it wouldn’t quite exist until September, when school began in earnest…but without them.

The baggies disappeared from Casey’s Mustang. The strange stops during their drives faded away. Taylor L. became a distant memory, one that didn’t get a 5k Walk/Run named after him like Dylan had. Brendon suspected it was the overdosing—the Barry family not wanting to take on any more scrutiny than the local journalists had delivered at the time of death.

That summer—that June, that July, that August—turned idyllic. Brendon painted Casey at the shore, where the sand boasted so many bugs that Casey ended up drenching himself to rid the ants from his shorts. He painted Casey at the wharf, early, before the patrons of the restaurants were staring out the upstairs windows. He painted Casey going down Grant’s Lorry Road and sitting on fenceposts outside of Castlebrock where the farmland rolled and roiled.

That September, as life crept up and jobs loomed and Brendon began to wonder if he’d lost his chance at making something of his art, it was Casey who pushed again to make that phone call to Donna Pierceman. Continue reading →

CANVAS BLUES
Vignettes Regarding the Artwork of Brendon Kotes

LXXXVIII: Yesteryears

The day after Valentine’s Day, Taylor L. overdosed at his parents’ house. Brendon found out three days later while in Art class with Mrs. Yue, a woman who was better than Mr. Reading since she actually seemed to care, though she had a tendency to gush about everyone’s work, which made her effusive praise somewhat unbelievable. Not at all like the well-won appreciation Mr. Wexlar had given Brendon’s work in middle school.

It’d been whispered by two girls in the back, one with straight black hair and wide eyes, the other with curls she kept tamed with coconut oil and a bright yellow ribbon.

“He’d always been at the races, up until he got busted by his dad.”

For a brief moment, Brendon thought they were referring to Casey. He paused, hand hovering over the lump of clay he’d been shaping into leaves.

“Oh, I don’t think he ever stopped going. He was just more careful when he raced. Did a lot of dealing though. My brother bought from him a few times.”

“Mmh.”

“You know what did him in? My brother didn’t know.”

“Heard he’d ODed.”

“Damn. He’d been a cutie too.”

“Heh, but he’d not have gone for you. Heard he was into the boys, if you know what I mean.”

A sweat broke out over Brendon’s neck. Like he’d suddenly got a chill that sucked all the heat and left him dripping ice out his pores. Continue reading →

CANVAS BLUES
Vignettes Regarding the Artwork of Brendon Kotes

LXXXVII: Yesteryears

Senior year, Brendon’s schedule at school landed him in American History and Government with a Mrs. Tallir. A Mrs. Naomi Tallir who hadn’t divorced her husband, but had separated and ended up taking over his classes now that she had to go back to work. Or so said school gossip.

She was a white lady with a roundish face who liked hats and scarves, but maudlin ones in shades of gray and chevron. Her class was mostly memorization of dates and laws, with essays on cause and effect that ignored most of the rest of the world and at least half of the cultural history of the United States. In other words, basic, repetitive and easy.

Her one quirk, that students never reported—some out of empathy and some out of self-preservation since the other teacher on the subject had awful tests—was a tendency to talk about her husband in roundabout ways.

She’d warn the girls in class about handsy males and wrote a hotline in the bottom corner of the whiteboard that stayed there all year getting more and more smudges until the 8 looked like a 3 and the 7 like a 1.

She’d talk about specific character traits and passions and link them as representing immoral tendencies. Such as an obsession with weaponry and torture implements indicating sadism. Or constant nonfiction reading on wars indicating a gross neglect for human life.

They all knew who she meant. Continue reading →

CANVAS BLUES
Vignettes Regarding the Artwork of Brendon Kotes

LXXXVI: Present

“Was Casey ever charged in Dylan’s death?” asked Orion.

They lay closer now. Orion had slid over so that their lengths pressed against one another, his hand casually laying on Brendon’s hip. Brendon had turned, just a smidge, hoping to shift that hand closer to his crotch, hoping to restart where they’d been, wanting to get off the topic of Casey, of death, of his paintings making him some sort of villain.

“No, not that I remember,” said Brendon. “But he was blamed by the court of public opinion well enough.”

“And as far as you know, Casey and Dylan were the only two people in that garage when it happened.”

Brendon made an agreeing sound.

“Emma lives alone. Doesn’t have anyone else there when she visits that boat you painted for her. As does Jennifer Craugh and her forest filled with wolves. But little Diana, she has her parents there, though if they’d ever seen that panther come to life from your carousal painting, I doubt they believed it themselves.”

“What are you getting at?”

Orion squeezed Brendon’s hip. “Was wondering whether the paintings have limits to who can see. One, two people an acceptable amount, but more than that, like say, at a gallery, might be too much, too many.” Continue reading →