Haphazard Colors – Short Stories on Creativity
Leela, a math-loving college freshman, stumbles upon an eccentric art shop in Chicago. Will her encounter with Fergus, the shop’s mysterious artist, unlock a secret that will change her life? Looking for Short Stories on Creativity? Read Feel-Good Stories by Jack and Kitty for free every weekday.
Haphazard Colors – Short Stories on Creativity
Leela understood numbers. She always had and always would. When most kids her age were playing with dolls and makeup, Leela was playing with the calculator she’d found on her dad’s desk.
It was fascinating to her, the way the little screen lit up with symbols that made a language. Math was the only language Leela understood.
‘Smart’ was what most people called her. But to Leela, she wasn’t smart, she simply had found a language that made sense to her brain – in a world that often felt unpredictable and scary.
Numbers never lied to her, never confused her, never changed their mind. Math gave her problems that could always be solved, with the same answer every time. Unlike most people.
Leela understood numbers, and she liked them.
This is why, as she was walking down the crowded streets of Chicago, with people swarming by her in a rush, Leela solved calculations, mentally moving the numbers around in her head. It soothed her when things were hectic.
And today was hectic.
She had just moved into the big city for her first year at college. Leela was having a hard time understanding all of the people who rushed by, perpetually running towards their next task. It didn’t make sense to her, these people who zigzagged the streets, coffee in hand, faces glued to their phones.
Someone shoved Leela. “Ow! That hurt!” Leela rubbed her arm where the aggressive man had nudged her while passing on the crowded sidewalk. The man snickered and shook his head disapprovingly. He looked back at his phone, walking quicker.
Leela was in a city of millions, with people all around. She had never felt more alone. A drop of rain hit her face, jarring her from her thoughts. Soon, it was a downpour, and everyone scurried faster to their destination.
Not wearing a proper coat, Leela ducked into a nearby shop.
A bell over the door chimed as she stepped inside. To Leela, it seemed she had been transported to another world.
It was bright and crazy. Otherworldy.
Leela’s eyes widened when she took in her surroundings. The store sold paintings and it seemed every surface was the artist’s canvas. Haphazard slashes of vibrant colors covered everything, including the light switches and door handles.
Leela looked around the room, her senses exploding with heightened awareness.
Reds, blues, blacks, and every shade in between danced across the surfaces, creating a world of chaos. The paints swirled across the ceiling and down beneath her shoes. It was like a madman had been let loose in here with a paintbrush.
A genius madman.
“Can I help you?” An elderly man with white hair and the smoothest mocha brown skin Leela had ever seen gave her a friendly smile. He sat behind a small table in the back of the shop, drinking from a mug.
Leela jumped, embarrassed. She was so distracted by the colors that she hadn’t realized there was anyone else in the shop. “Uhh, I’m sorry. It was raining and I came in here to get dry…” Leela’s voice trailed off when she saw the man’s face drop a little. She realized it was rude of her to only come inside the store to escape the rain.
Leela quickly changed the subject. “This is an interesting…” she hesitated, unsure of what to call this odd establishment. “An interesting…shop.”
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“I sell my art here.” The old man said, “But you don’t look like someone interested in a Fergus piece.”
Leela felt self-conscious. “I don’t really know much about art,” she said, laughing nervously. “But these look really cool!” Leela stepped over to one of the canvases hung on a brightly painted wall. To her, it looked like crazy stripes, symbols, and shapes, but ones that, unlike the number she loved so much, had no meaning.
This language of colors, layered in hectic movements, didn’t make any sense to her. It looked like a rainbow of gobbly-gook.
“What is this?” She blurted out before she had time to censor herself.
“That’s my self-portrait.” The old man said, approaching her.
Leela laughed, not realizing the man was serious. “But that doesn’t look anything like you!” she remarked, tilting her head to study the man and the painting on the wall.
“And what do I look like?” He said quietly, a curious expression on his face. The old man didn’t seem upset by Leela’s remark but instead looked at her carefully, as if he noticed something new.
“Um, you look like a man. A … man who runs a shop. And who paints?” Leela smiled unnaturally, unsure of how to answer his question.
The man burst out laughing, sheer joy lighting up his features. Leela thought his voice sounded like warm tea on a cold day.
“‘I look like a man.’ C’mon, now. You’re too much!” He was laughing so hard, that tears formed in the corners of his eyes. “I look like a man,” He repeated to himself, shaking his head in amusement. After his laughter subsided, he looked at Leela with appreciation. “What’s your name, young lady? I like the way you talk.” The old man stretched out his hand. It was smooth and soft for his age, with remnants of paint staining his nail beds.
“I’m Leela.”
“My name’s Fergus. Nice to meet you, Leela.”
This was the beginning of an unexpected friendship, one that would change both of their lives.
After making small talk for a while and showing her around the front of the shop, Fergus invited Leela into the back, where he had a large artist studio.
Leela felt comfortable in the old man’s presence, in a way she hadn’t ever felt with anyone. The more he talked, showing her his creative space and explaining works in progress, the more safe Leela felt. Paintings in various states of completion, propped around the room, contributed to the welcoming atmosphere.
Something about this old artist made her feel happy and cozy, the same way numbers did. It was an odd dynamic that didn’t quite make sense to Leela.
Surprisingly, Leela found herself opening up and telling the old man things she hadn’t told anyone. Their conversation flowed effortlessly. They spoke of art, Leela’s love of mathematics, and the little joys of life.
Fergus had grown up poor in the inner city but was now quite successful as an artist. After his mother died and he was passed around in foster care, Fergus was told he would never amount to anything.
Misunderstood and angry with the world, Fergus told Leela about how painting had saved his life. He now owned a gallery and his paintings sold for thousands of dollars to collectors around the world.
“Wow, you must be really good,” Leela said, looking at paintings that covered every inch of the workshop. She didn’t have an eye for art but realized Fergus must be doing something right.
“I normally don’t work out in the front. I have staff for that.” Fergus replied, studying her bewildered expression. “It seems like it was fate that we met.”
Leela began to plan her schedule around her daily visit to Fergus’s shop, the time spent with him one of her most cherished rituals. She loved to sit and watch him paint. Even though the colors didn’t make sense to her, Fergus’s warm voice and comforting presence made Leela feel peaceful.
One day, as she sat on a chair watching him paint, Fergus unexpectedly stood up and grabbed her hand.
“It’s your turn now.”
He led her to an easel with a blank canvas sitting on it. Next to it was a small end table with a spray bottle of water, several paintbrushes, and small tubes of oil paint.
“What is this, Fergus?” Leela began to panic. She didn’t know anything about painting.
“I’ve heard all about your numbers. Now, it’s time for you to try painting.”
“Oh, no – I don’t paint,” Leela sputtered, taken aback, “I can’t do this!” Her breath began to come in rapid pants, her heartbeat quickening.
“Leela, it’s okay.” Fergus smiled, “It’s just a canvas and some paint. It’s not gonna bite you, girl!” He guided Leela to sit in front of the easel.
Leela took a deep breath and picked up the paintbrush. For several moments she sat there, moving the empty brush slowly across the blank canvas, her mind racing. Leela didn’t realize she had stopped moving her hand until Fergus’s hand reached over and wiped a single tear from her cheek.
She was crying.
“It’s okay, Leela. What’s wrong?” Fergus’s deep voice was gentle and kind.
Leela sniffled, smoothing back her ponytail. It’s just … I’ve never understood how to do any of this creative stuff, Fergus. And here you are a famous painter – and I’ve never made anything in my entire life.”
Her voice sounded lost, like a small child. “This scares me.”
Fergus was silent for a moment, taking a closer look at his young friend. Finally, with a tenderness so soft, she could barely make out the words, Fergus made one request: “Close your eyes.”
Leela squeezed her eyes shut and felt his smooth hand grab hers. Together, their hands put paint on her paintbrush and lifted the color to the canvas. He guided her hand, a soft and slow dance, sweeping the brush across the blank canvas in wide strokes.
Leela was shaking and didn’t understand why she was reacting so violently towards the canvas.
“Relax,” Fergus said. “Paint what you see in your soul.”
“But I can’t see anything, my eyes are closed,” Leela remarked, puzzled.
“That’s the only way you can see. Keep your eyes closed and listen to what your soul is saying.”
Leela did as Fergus instructed, and tried to hear her soul speak. It was quiet at first, silent even. But then, as she heard the paintbrush swipe back and forth, she started noticing an entire world beyond her sight.
Leela felt the touch of Fergus’s soft hand on top of hers, the whirr of the ceiling fan overhead, and the steady beating of her heart. She kept her eyes closed and moved her paintbrush. With surprise, Leela realized she started to hear something bubbling up out of her consciousness.
Maybe there was something to what Fergus was saying?
Finally, after what seemed like several minutes of her hand making swooshes and brushstrokes across the canvas, Leela opened her eyes.
It didn’t make sense to her, but there were a few lines of movement. Some of them were choppy and hesitant, but at least she had made her mark. Looking around at all the colorful and creative works of art Fergus had painted, Leela felt intimidated.
“It’s not like yours, Fergus. Mine doesn’t look right. You have so many perfect colors in your paintings.” Leela said. She felt discouraged.
Fergus’s eyes met hers and she could see they were moist with emotion. “I’m colorblind, Leela.” He confessed. “I paint from the emotions I feel, not the colors I see.”
Leela was taken aback. The vibrant paintings, the bursts of what she perceived as color, were Fergus’s interpretation of the world through his unique lens. It was a revelation that shocked her. She felt humbled by his confession.
“But you, you … your colors are so …” Leela was suddenly quiet, a realization hitting her.
Fergus, in his own way, had been misunderstood too. And he, just like Leela, had found a language that made sense to him. Something that made him feel safe, too.
Painting was Fergus’s language. Even though he couldn’t see most of the colors, he painted whatever he felt, letting his imagination run wild and free. In a world that tried to make him live by unfair rules, Fergus had to break them.
Leela realized her language was different than Fergus’s, but it was something that made sense to her, too. She felt most at ease in a place where everything was structured, and boundaries defined.
Their languages were the opposite of each other, yet she and Fergus were more similar than she had realized.
Leela didn’t say another word, but instead took the old man’s hand and added another color of paint to her brush. Together, his hand over hers, they painted on the canvas – a comforting peace settling between them in the silence.
It didn’t matter if her painting was colorful enough, or if it made any sense to anyone who looked at it. Fergus wasn’t judging her creativity – and didn’t care about the colors on her canvas. All he cared about was Leela and the new world she had discovered.
And all Leela cared about was the joy she felt when she closed her eyes, and let her soul speak.
Together the two unlikely friends had discovered a language they both could speak fluently. The language of the soul.
Leela and Fergus had found each other, and in doing so, had found a missing piece of themselves. In Fergus’s peaceful workshop, they had created a safe space together. A mutual place in this world where everything made sense.
A place where Fergus didn’t need to scream in crazy colors to be heard, and Leela didn’t need to be boxed in by numbers to feel safe.
They could exist and just be themselves.
Here in the quiet, not saying a word, the two friends laughed and created messy streaks on the canvas, not caring what it looked like to their physical eyes.
Leela and Fergus both knew, somehow, they’d both connected to a peace that existed beyond expression – the language of Soul.
Written by Kitty Norton. © 2024 Jack and Kitty Norton. Reprinted by permission of Jack and Kitty Media Group. In order to protect the rights of the copyright holder, no portion of this publication may be reproduced without prior written consent. All rights reserved.
