Travel Tips

http://forum.virtualtourist.com/discussion-382844-1-1-Miscellaneous-0-0-World-discussion.html

By Ms. Deemeaner

The hand attatched to the frame belongs to the artist who originally created the picture that was once in the frame. She was a relative of Van Gogh, and refused to remove an ear because her earrings where far too beutiful to wear just one. So, she lopped off her hand as an artists statement instead. The frame is a hand job, and the convertibles driver always wanted one.
BAH HA HA HA HA HA

23 years ago Tom was hardly surviving on the merge earnings of a part-time job.
His University scores were sliding and the future held no promise.
His only friend was depression which he fed with cheap alcohol and cigarettes.
Depression which tore apart a once budding talent as a painter.

Rarely would a painting sell. The images portrayed emitted no warmth.
Any that did just fed habits that clawed away his self-respect.
Dirt and squalor inhabited his life as even house-mates found his company hard to take.
Alone, on the 3rd floor of a building deserted since the 70s, he huddled.
His nightly dreams contemplating life and death, neither of which brought either pleasure or pain.

One a cold November Monday morning, returning from scrounging bins, he was walking, in a stupor, around a corner, slap into a young hopeful hurrying to an early appointment at a Law-office.

The paper-cup split and her coffee exploded in both their faces, the plastic lid hitting him and cutting his nose.
She screamed in terror at the stained outfit she had taken so much pain in keeping spotless in her squalid room.
He bolted like a thief, leaving her sobbing and screaming uncontrollably.

Arms flailing, coffee dripping down her fingers and light brown stains spotting her lucky blouse she lost all her laboriously-built confidence.
Crestfallen she turned and shuffled her way back to the cheap apartment.
She had paid the last money she had saved since leaving Boulder Colorado and the rent ran out on the Friday.
That night, in an exhausting marathon that spanned 3 days, Tom painted his last painting. In some maniacal frenzy shadows danced around this waif. Eyes shut, shoulders roped fingers clawing and a wide open mouth emptying they body’s energy.
The result could only be called “the Scream”.

This morning, at the open-air market, Cathy pulled out this weird painting out of a mess of oddities.
The price was hardly an issue and she could afford masterpieces on her extensive salary, this...this shamble of angst and sharp strokes could hardly be called one.
The seller had no idea of its history but keenly dropped the price twice without her asking.
No one was the least bit interested in it but it seemed to reach out for her and the seller was hopeful in offloading it so he suggested another $10 off the price.

"I think I will have that" she said to John, the insipid boyfriend whose interest in life did not extend much beyond his Porsche.
"Ummm...what’s this?” he said scratching at some dried soil seeming splattered randomly over the canvas…”looks like dried blood!"
He added:
"You’ll have to hold on to it as it won’t fit in the trunk!"

"That's cool, I’m wearing an old blouse so I do not mind." said Cathy.

It was a 20 minute drive back to the apartment,
John, as usual, had nothing to say. She wondered why she bothered with him.
Really, life seems so much simpler without men she thought.

She nonchalantly picked at the frayed-hem of her old “Lucky” blouse and unconsciously rubbed at the old coffee stains some idiot had spilled on it a long time ago.
She had absolutely no idea where she would hang it.