Graffiti
Paddy Monroe stared at the blank wall before her and saw a world of possibility projected onto the bricks. She had never so much as held a can of spray paint before that day, but somehow she knew exactly what needed to be done. The colors in her head were simply too vivid to be ignored.
In her opinion, graffiti was the most honest expression of artistic spontaneity. Buildings were made all the better when they served as a public art forum. This was the sort of beauty she had been hoping to capture in her photo, but she realized that she didn’t actually know of a single bit of gorgeous vandalism in this pristine new city.
The revelation bothered her. Paddy didn’t like things to be too neat. Cleanliness brought to mind images that were, at their core, uninspiring. Made beds and white walls, flawless lawns and little fences painted to match the trim on the house. It all served to make her think of her home and family – memories which always carried with them a lingering sense of oppression.
Escaping that feeling was the reason why she had moved, and in that moment she felt irrationally angry that the cleanly, picture perfect bits of life had followed her. She stormed off then, not returning until the sun had set and she had the cans of paint rattling around in her bag.
First she’d take on the wall, then the city.
She worked through most of the night before finally stepping back and looking at what she had created. The mural was clumsy and abstract, but she loved it all the same. For years to come she would look at it as her finest piece, in impact if not in quality. Other people soon followed her lead, and soon the walls of the town were sprawling in rich colors and diverse designs.
It was Paddy’s first real taste of what it was like to inspire. It would not be her last. Inspiring others was one of the few things in her world that rivaled the raw exhilaration of creating herself, and it was a feeling she would chase all her life. She had found her calling.
In her opinion, graffiti was the most honest expression of artistic spontaneity. Buildings were made all the better when they served as a public art forum. This was the sort of beauty she had been hoping to capture in her photo, but she realized that she didn’t actually know of a single bit of gorgeous vandalism in this pristine new city.
The revelation bothered her. Paddy didn’t like things to be too neat. Cleanliness brought to mind images that were, at their core, uninspiring. Made beds and white walls, flawless lawns and little fences painted to match the trim on the house. It all served to make her think of her home and family – memories which always carried with them a lingering sense of oppression.
Escaping that feeling was the reason why she had moved, and in that moment she felt irrationally angry that the cleanly, picture perfect bits of life had followed her. She stormed off then, not returning until the sun had set and she had the cans of paint rattling around in her bag.
First she’d take on the wall, then the city.
She worked through most of the night before finally stepping back and looking at what she had created. The mural was clumsy and abstract, but she loved it all the same. For years to come she would look at it as her finest piece, in impact if not in quality. Other people soon followed her lead, and soon the walls of the town were sprawling in rich colors and diverse designs.
It was Paddy’s first real taste of what it was like to inspire. It would not be her last. Inspiring others was one of the few things in her world that rivaled the raw exhilaration of creating herself, and it was a feeling she would chase all her life. She had found her calling.
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About the Piece |
This was just a piece of flash fiction written for my friend's character. Paddy Monroe is the intellectual property of the very talented Alan Johnson.
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