Blue Crayon

It was the blue crayon that broke first.

She had guarded those crayons against falling, she had handled them gently so that they didn't crack under the pressure – but there had to be one that broke first and it was the blue one.

The sky, the sea and the berries now had a sharp edge of colour created by the jagged edge of the broken crayon. "Nature has gone discordant thanks to my carelessness."

Once one crayon breaks, the others in the pack soon follow suit. Maybe it is because the artist doesn't guard them as well anymore, or treat them as gently. Maybe it is because the crayons themselves sense that one of their number is no longer whole, and they empathise so completely that they, too, physically break.

Or maybe there is a certain freedom in being broken, in being in two places at the same time, in having one jagged edge and one smooth. Maybe it's not out of empathy but out of envy that the others break, too.

So it was the box of broken crayons that she took to her first paid assignment.

Joshua had seen her sketches and had wanted her to draw his face. He'd pay for the portrait, he insisted. He wanted to see what her shades and hues would do for his skin, what her lines and strokes would do for his eyes, his nose, his lips ...

Accept money for a drawing? But she hadn't been formally trained, it was a hobby. She wasn't quite sure how it had happened, but Joshua had cajoled her in to taking up the assignment.

Then the blue crayon had gotten broken, and the green, and the pink ...

So it was with a box of broken crayons that she walked in at Joshua's gate at the appointed hour.

Joshua was ready — he had set up a little table and chair for her, and a stool for himself to sit on while posing. He had chosen a place next to his mother's favourite rhododendrons. In a fit of chivalry, he had added a jug of lemonade and a glass, along with a plate of biscuits, to the sketch-book on the table. The portrait might take hours and she might not have eaten ...

He grinned at her as she approached, and she gave a half-smile and turned her head away. She didn't look at him as she set her crayon-box down near the sketch-book and adjusted the position of the chair. Her eyes widened when she saw the jug and plate, and then she gave him a questioning glance. He nodded. She poured out a few sips of lemonade, drank them, and then sat down, ready to begin work.

He perched himself on the stool. She adjusted her chair again, this time, with her eyes fixed on him. She was the artist now, not the girl.

But much to the artist's chagrin, what was in her head would not come down on paper. The crayons seemed to take a life of their own. The correct colour didn't come to hand until she groped around the whole box. The crayons slipped out of her fingers at odd moments. Sometimes, her lightest stroke resulted in a deep stain on the sheet, sometimes, she pressed for all she was worth and could only produce a light streak.

And when she looked at the sheet, she could not discern what it was she had drawn. Oh, she was drawing Joshua's face, and there was Joshua's face on the paper, but was it? She couldn't decide.

"May I see it now?"

Joshua's voice seemed to come from far away. She shook herself.

"No," she said. Then, "yes."

She held out the paper. Joshua reached for it.

There was a silence. A silence that stretched for minutes ... then ...

"Wow," Joshua breathed. "Wow."

"You like it?"

"I — I don't quite know. I mean, it's me, but ... am I older? Or younger? Or different? Or something?"

She took the paper back from him and looked at it. "Maybe I should be drawing only as a hobby. It feels wrong to do it professionally. Don't pay me for this, Joshua."

"But we had agreed. And —"

He took it from her and gazed at it, holding it at arms' length. "And it's fantastic. There's something about it that I can't put my finger on. I have to pay you."

So he paid her, and he had the portrait framed and he hung it in his living room. And everyone who came to visit him agreed that there was something about it, and some of them wanted to get their portrait done, too, and were willing to pay.

And each time, she took the box of broken crayons, which grew smaller and smaller as she used them – but didn't disappear. And each time the crayons did what they pleased regardless of her and each time the client said they could recognise themselves in the portrait, but there was something about it ...

Till one day, when her Grandma asked for a portrait and the crayons refused to draw. Try as she might, she could not get a single visible stroke on the paper. She took each colour in turn, not caring whether it was needed in the portrait or not, attempting to draw at least a line, or a scribble ... but nothing emerged.

The most peculiar thing was Grandma's reaction. When, after half-an-hour of posing, she asked to see what progress was being made and set eyes on a blank sheet of paper, she showed no surprise. Instead, she sighed. And then she smiled. And then she sighed again.

Finally, she spoke.

"I thought so," she said.

"You thought there would be a blank paper?"

"Yes," Grandma replied. "I knew there would be a blank paper." After a pause, Grandma asked, "You've never been to the attic, here in my house, have you?"

They went to the attic. It was dark, the window had black paper over it. She waited just inside the doorway while Grandma groped for the switch and turned the light on.

The room was full of easels. About a dozen easels. Each easel had on it a canvas. Some of the canvasses in the farthest corner were yellowing with age, but otherwise, they were all blank.

"I knew your crayons wouldn't work for you because my paints stopped working for me," Grandma whispered.

"But —"

"You and I both, we put our heart and soul in to our art. Our paints, or crayons, feel that. Our canvasses feel it, our sheets of paper feel it. They get a heart and soul and life of their own, thanks to us. Your crayons broke, one by one, when they realised the joy of splitting in to two. They overrode your judgement on colour or texture when they thought the subject of the portrait had something deeper to offer. They were holding your soul, and that spoke to the soul of your subject. That's why Joshua and the others looked the same, but different. The crayons had seen them from the inside-out, instead of the outside-in."

She took this in. She breathed the musty air of the attic and took in what the old woman whose flesh she was, was telling her.

"But then," she asked, "but then why did my crayons refuse to draw you?"

"Do you love me?"

"Grandma! How can you ask that? You know I love you most in the world!"

"That's why your crayons refused to draw me."

"My crayons refused to draw you because I love you so much?"

"Because I was going to pay you for the portrait and you didn't think it was right to take money from me."

"Well, yeah. You gave me my first box of crayons ever, and my first colouring book and my first sketch book. You sent me for art class and you ..."

"Exactly. You felt you owed me and far from taking money from me, that you needed to pay me back in some way. Your crayons and your sheet of paper felt that. They made sure there was nothing there that I could pay for."

"Is that what ...?" she asked, pointing at the dozen canvasses.

"Yes. They refused to let me paint your Grandpa. The portrait of him that hangs in the living room is done by a professional artist, I could never paint him. I tried, I tried, I couldn't."

"Why?"

"Your Grandpa and I had so many years together, shared so many memories and emotions. I think my paints and brushes were as confused as I was what to hold, to capture on canvas!"

"So I'll never be able to draw you?"

"I think we can give it another try. I won't pay you. Instead, think of the portrait as your way of thanking me for those art classes and whatever. I don't really want thanks, but as long as you feel this way, you won't be able to draw me. So you're thanking me by drawing me."

*********

Two weeks later, Grandma celebrated her 90th birthday. The family gathered from all over the world, to mark the day and partake of the feast. The feasting done, the presents were opened and Grandma smiled and oohed and aahed and cooed her thanks.

Last of all, the portrait was unveiled.

There was a whole minute's silence.

Then, the room burst with the spontaneous applause and cheers.

Grandma didn't ooh or aah or coo. She was crying.


Words: 1548

First Place - "Blue Crayon"
"Journey Through Genres - June 2022 Winners" 

For "Journey Through Genres: Official Contest"