“Nothing is at last sacred but the integrity of your own mind.” ~ Emerson

The Painter


Walls surround him, white walls, walls that never moved and stayed the same. These walls are his home, his canvas, his portal. I. M. Emerson sits with eyes stern and concentrated. He has been visited today by one of his regulars, a little girl who wished for a pink pony. Margaret Loman was her name and she always had a vibrant smile and glowed a shiny gold. Her halo, he called it. This exuberant glow and vibrant vibe is what motivated Emerson to make this painting his absolute best. He smiles, a crooked but content smile. With a frail, shaky but careful hand, Emerson picks up a paint brush with worn bristles. Like his paintings these bristles held stories, pasts and magic within them. A steady stroke of pink paint moves across the canvas.

I.M. Emerson was born Ian Michael Emerson. His mother was a house wife and father was a cook. He was not very sociable or wealthy but he had talent. This talent is what defined him, made him worthy. He painted, painted dreams. Dreams that were so crazy and seemingly impossible but he made them real, real enough to touch. He was visited by millions, some who were poor and desperate; some who had it all but wanted more and some who had wild imaginations like Margret. However, Emerson had a secret, one that only he knew and others soon found out. These dreams could not be maintained. They were, of course, just a dream, though many failed to comprehend this. When some tried to obtain the dream, the picture would become a collage of colors. “Trickery!” some would shout, but Emerson would just shake his head and simply say, “Life.”



The Three Boys



There were three boys who lived in a huge house. Each brick seemed to be made of gold as the house would shimmer in the light of the evening sun. These boys were rich and would not let anyone forget it. They were stuck up, selfish and greedy. They were only ten.

Edgar, Allan and Paul, who everyone called Poe, had it all: swimming pool in their living room, a trampoline in their room, a bowling alley for a porch and much more, however, they wanted more. They needed more, so they claimed. Bright eyed and blond haired, they would whine to their gullible parents and get more and more objects they really did not need.
“ But mama, I’ll die without it!”, whined Edgar.
“ Oh mama everyone has this! Do you really want your child to be deprived of such an important thing?” cried Allan.
“Mama, mama, this is old! I must be in the “ now”! Don’t you understand?” ,whimpered Poe. No matter what they asked for, their parents gave in. But they were never happy.

One day the boy’s friend William burst through their porcelain door and shouted, “ Come, come, oh come look!” This awoke the boys who, infuriated, came clambering down the fine wood stairs. “ What is so important that you must awaken us for?” , asked Edger, wiping his tired eyes. “ A wizard! A magic man! A man who can make dreams!” , exclaimed William. The brothers were perplexed but then looked at each other, each with the same mischievous look in his eye. “ Where?”

The boys walked together down the brick sidewalk, William in the lead. The brothers were becoming restless as they turned another corner. “How much longer?” , whined Poe. William did not reply just kept walking in a hurried pace. Poe grumbled. Can this man really create my dream, Poe pondered. Can he know what I want most in the whole world, when I , myself, do not? Poe began to doubt his friend’s story until a little shack with no windows appeared into his view. He would also have doubted that this was where a so called magic was if it were not for the large line of people exploding out the door.

“Move!” , shouted Edgar as he violently shoved a woman. “ Hey! That is not –“ , she started to say before Allan interrupted, “ We have money! Move peasant!” It was quite unbelievable to many that these boys were ten.

They made their way through the crowd and there, right in front of them was the magic man, the dream maker. He smiled a little and chuckled. This disgusted Poe. How could an old man laugh at such a rich boy? He was about to say that it is rude to laugh at such a prince when the man said, “ My, my, such temper, such power. Power fit for a prince.” Poe gasped. How could the man possibly know that he thought of himself as a prince, unless,of course, he was magic. He looked to his brothers who were shining with pride, ecstatic that someone thought they were princes. “ Now” , spoke the man, “ your dreams.” He took one last look over at the boys and lifted up a brush. Slowly and carefully, the boys’ dream came alive in front of them. After 10 minutes, the man nodded and got up.

He removed his arm from in front of the canvas to reveal a picture of three princes glowing and holding bags of money. The boys gasped and smiled. This was it, the one thing that would make them happy! The man was truly magic. The boys went to touch the painting but were stopped when the man’s frail hand stuck in front of them“ Is this truly what you want?” ,he asked. “ Don’t be a foolish old man. Of course! Now move your arm and let us have our dream.”, Edger snarled. With a frown, the man complied and the boys touched their dream. It turned into a splatter of colors.

“Liar! You are no magic man, but a fraud. Now, give me my dream now!”, Allan screamed. With a sigh and a shake of the head, the man says, “It is no lie. It is life.”


The Not So Lonely Woman


Sylvia Dickinson had a family, a great big family, who followed her everywhere. She was happy, perhaps the happiest person in the world. Sylvia loved bright colors; it was the warmth in her heart that made her love them. However, this feeling of warmth and love and the bright colors that once surrounded her life were taken away from her one terrible night. That night, Sylvia saw her world turn black.

After her great loss, Sylvia had inherited her family’s well - endowed estate. It was lonely and her life became a dismal one. She would sigh as she made her way up the massive stairs. Each step was agonizing as she felt her old life slip away from her, the farther she went up. Every time she reached that final step, Sylvia would pause and take in the blackness that now consumed her once colorful life. All the rooms were black, no sign of light anywhere. This was her life now.

With another sigh she would descend from the stairs as slowly as she went up them. The clock would strike ten as the sound of a door bell bellowed within the empty house. This was the time Sylvia’s neighbor, Miss Emily Plath, would come with fresh baked cookies and colorful flowers. Miss Plath had known Sylvia’s family for a very long time and had hoped her visits would brighten Sylvia’s life. However, she was wrong. Every time Sylvia would open the door, her wardrobe would become increasingly black. It started with black socks, as opposed to her normal rainbow. The darkness then crept up her legs, to her stomach then finally reaching her head. At the time of this particular visit Sylvia was nothing but a black, broken soul.

Sylvia took the cookies and shut the door. This was her normal ritual, open the door to a shocked Miss Plath, grab the cookies and not even take a peek at the vibrant flowers, then close the door to the outside world. One day she had enough of this routine and her dismal life. She looked at her enormous house and decided it was time to fill it.

Sylvia made her way up the old stairs and rounded one of many dark corners. She continued walking past rooms, each of which held a fragment of her past, until she came across the biggest room: her parent’s. Her parent’s room was once a room for comfort and peace, but now the room, like the rest of the house, had fallen under the dark spell of loneliness. With a short breath, Sylvia opened a dusty drawer and pulled out a phone book. This was it; she thought with a sigh, my loneliness will be no more. Threads of dust escaped the book as she cracked it open. Her plan was simple; get back the family she once had. To do so she must surround herself with people. No longer will she be a recluse. Sylvia typed into her phone the first name she saw. And so it began.

Months later her once lonely house was filled with noise and people. Her house was no longer black, nor was it bright, however. The house still had a tint of grey. Something was missing; something Sylvia would later learn was always there.

The massive amount of people which burst through her door began to overwhelm Sylvia. She wanted so hard to get back the feeling of family that she started to forget what a real on was. This “family” cared nothing about her. They came for the party and that was all. Sylvia was at first thrilled to be surrounded once more by people, but slowly she began to feel like a stranger. Among the sea of guests was Miss Emily Plath. She came to every party, hoping to see Sylvia, but she was just another body lost amongst the crowd.

One day however, Miss Plath got her chance. As she walked to her usual flower shop, hoping flowers would finally cheer Sylvia up; Miss Plath noticed an old shack with no windows. She had never noticed this weird shack before and was pretty sure that it was not always there. She was about to dismiss her curiosity and move on, when a bright, inviting light seemed to explode throughout the shack. Miss Plath was unsure if the light was real or just her imagination, but she felt it call to her and she answered.

Inside the shack were white walls, which seemed to crowd around one particular old man. It was as if the man was a god and the walls were his worshipers. This fascinated Miss Plath and she ventured further in. As she got closer to the old man she noticed he was painting. It seemed to be a pink pony. This made her let out a slight laugh. At the sound of her laugh, the man turned his head and looked into her eyes. It felt like he was staring at her soul. She shivered.
“ What a nice surprise.”, he said with a smile. “ What is it that you want my dear?” The kindness in his voice made Miss Plath feel warm and she began to think about the one person who needed this warmth more than ever. “ I need you to visit a friend.”

That same day Sylvia was having her usual party, though not partaking in it herself. She observed her new family from the top of the stairs. Well, she sighed, here it is the family I’ve always wanted. With another sigh she was about to make her way into the sea of “ family members” when the bellow of the door bell was heard through the music. Funny, she thought, no one rings the door bell anymore. I wonder want new member I will meet today. With a shrug of her shoulders, Sylvia walked through the horde of people and opened the door. When she did so, she was greeted by the smiling face of Miss Plath and an old man. “ Hello,” the old man said, “ I was brought here by your friend. She believes that I can help you.” “ Um, ok.”, Sylvia responded perplexed. What could this man possibly do?

The three made their way into the kitchen, the only downstairs room not occupied by

“ family members”. The old man slowly grabbed a chair and sat down. He then proceeded to take out his painting tools and opened a blank canvas. “ Now, I shall paint your one true desire.” With a careful stroke of the hand, the man painted a golden line, and then another and another until the golden lines came together.

With a smile and a nod of his head, the old man revealed his work. It was Sylvia’s family, just the way she remembered them. Sylvia started to cry and slowly placed her hand on the painting. It vanished. “No!”, she cried. “ Please why must I lose them again?” With a sad smile, the old man said, “ It is life. Life is right before your eyes. You just need to take the time to see it.” “ I, I need my family.” “ Oh, my dear, you have always had it.” With a sniff, Sylvia turned to see Miss Plath’s smiling, bright face and at that moment she knew the man was right.

The Painter Revealed



White walls surround him, cared for him, gave him a home. It had been three years since Ian Michael Emerson was admitted into the Rockville Mental Institution. It had been two years since he started art therapy. No one was really sure what was wrong with him. Ever since the day he was admitted, I. M. Emerson had never left his little corner. This corner became his world, the white walls his canvas.

I.M. Emerson was a great mystery to the nurses. He seemed content in his corner, although nothing was there. It was just him. “ It must be lonely,” said one nurse. She was young, too young to understand the beauty of being alone. “It must be boring,” yawned another. She too was naive.

Emerson had been listening and smiled. He then closed his eyes and let the white walls consume him. After a year of watching Emerson stare blankly at white walls, one nurse decided he needed a way to express himself. That was how I. M. Emerson got his paintbrush, his magic wand. When a brush, paint and a blank canvas was placed in front of him, he smiled, his eyes shining. He picked up the brush and carefully dipped it into the red paint. The painter was born.

The day is May 14, the day that Nurse Plath was hoping Emerson would open up. She had watched him from afar, marveled at the man’s quiet demeanor. Too quiet, Nurse Plath thought. After a year of painting, Emerson had filled his corner with canvases splattered with paint. “How peculiar”, thought Nurse Plath. Today she was determined to make the mysterious man talk. She took a breath and entered the room.

Once in the room she was greeted by bright, untouched white walls. They were so free and unworn, she suddenly felt happy. As her eyes made her way into Emerson’s corner, that happiness faded away. The walls in his corner were filled with canvases, smudges and scratches. Her eyes glided toward each canvas. They were filled with mixed colors, splattered like a child painted them. She noticed the man, eyes transfixed on his current painting. This made her feel uneasy. Why would a man be so concentrated on a splatter of color? There was simply nothing there. Nurse Plath looked away from Emerson and her eyes fell on a canvas sitting in the center of the room.

This canvas had an actual painting on it. Unlike the others it shone due to the vibrant, untouched walls. As she got closer, she noticed it was a painting of Emerson painting. “That is my dream.” Nurse Plath jumped. She turned and saw Emerson. No one had really seen him before. He looked old, as he was draped in darkness from the corner. However, as he came toward the canvas in the middle of the room, he lit up. Youth and ambition exploded from him. He smiled crookedly.

“ It’s nice,” Nurse Plath smiled. “Would you like to put a painting on the other walls?” Emerson hesitated and looked back at his corner. After a moment he looked back at Nurse Plath and gave a slight nod. He went toward the painting of himself and put it up. “ It’s a little left of center,” Nurse Plath pointed out. Emerson smiled and said, “I know.”

“Do not go where the path may lead, go instead where there is no path and leave a trail.” ~ Emerson