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Sella

The story of a lost artist

By Veronica SummersPublished 3 years ago Updated 2 years ago 8 min read
10
Sella
Photo by Andrea Cau on Unsplash

May 3rd, 2026

“If you do not open your eyes, you will never realize what possibilities are in store for you,” exclaimed the announcer.

“...What?” Aziel questionably muttered.

The loud shrieks of his morning alarm ring in the still air, it is 6:22 a.m. as he turns over and lazily hits the snooze button. Aziel reaches out to stretch, as gold and orange flecks of light beam through the blinds, illuminating the dusty nightstand next to his bedside. He stumbles out of bed as he gets dressed for the day; the same pair of black slacks, as usual, compliments his grey V-neck and a gray jean jacket. He rustles his shaggy dark brown hair with his fingertips and carries on with his day. He grabs his tattered, creased black journal and shoves it into his back pocket.

6:45 a.m.

Aziel’s studio askew with his unfinished paintings, he mindlessly walks to the coffee shop down the block from his apartment. Nutty aromas of beans brewing grace his senses and he embraces the sweet nostalgia of a time when he would draw with his mother, Sella. He sits at the booth in the back of the café as the brown-haired, green-eyed waitress approaches the table. He orders a small black coffee with 2 sugars and a blueberry bagel with cream cheese. As he waits, he whips out his journal and messily doodles the cityscape outside of the window; a strip of Victorian-styled buildings, as civilians, wander along the broken sidewalks. As he gazes captivatingly through the panes of the windows, he notices the small television echoing in the distance. He turns to see a local newswoman speaking about the first annual community art competition that is going to be held in a Washington State Park. He scuffs and murmurs to himself, “Yeah right, I’d be lucky to even be able to get a way there, let alone enter any paintings.” He looks back down at his notebook and begins to scribble endlessly, carelessly intersecting black ink lines across the page. 30 minutes have passed, as the barista walks back up to Aziel’s booth, curiously gazing at the ink-filled pages. “Wow… that’s beautiful” she murmured. Aziel looks up towards her, those bright green, emerald eyes always seem to put him in a trance. He finishes his coffee and bagel, leaving a $10 bill on the table with a note written “Possibilities are endless.”

7:20 A.M

Walking down the cracked sidewalk, tickled with curiosity, he grabs a flyer that is stapled to the fence outside of the tavern. In bright colorful letters spread across the page, it reads “1st Annual Art Competition. Do you love fine arts and theatre? Join us on Poplar Ave, May 4th at 2 P.M to enter in your submissions to be judged by world-renowned artists from across the world.” “..That’s only one day away,” he whispered to himself. He crumples up the flyer messily and shoves it into his back pocket.

Aziel makes it to the entrance of his apartment building, beginning to unlock the door as the waitress from the café approaches. “Aziel!” she yells, “You forgot this” as she hands him his black book. “How long has she been behind me and how does she know my name?” he asks himself. He smiles, followed by a sweet smirk. “Thank you,” he murmured. “I knew it was yours because your name was etched into the leather.” She smiles sweetly, her soft, blushed lips caress his cheek. The scent of jasmine and rose lingers in the wind as she hurries away back towards the coffee shop.

Confused, he heads back up the stairs to his humble abode. He throws his jacket on the top of the couch and kicks off his shoes. He checks the time and it is now almost 8 A.M. He grabs a large canvas, an unfinished painting that lies underneath new layers of messily painted gesso. He gets his disheveled tote full of an array of colors and sporadically puts every color of the rainbow onto his palette; reds, yellows, blues, purples, etc. Traffic outside blares as he begins smearing colors around the canvas with his fingers; streaks of red complimenting hues of purples, blues intersecting oranges. Dipping his brush in the stark black paint, he swirls the bristles melodically atop the pigmented mix of hues that lie beneath. Erratically, Aziel places pieces of gold leaf with his brush. He takes a step back and gazes upon his newfound piece of art. He has never painted such an abstract piece before.

The day has come and gone as night falls, it is now 11 P.M. Aziel opens his journal and begins to write about his long day. He noticed that the last page is dog-eared and flips to the last page. “Has that girl written something in my book?” he said irritably. It read, “Never forget, you’re a black coffee with two sugars: Sweet, with a bit of a kick. Use your passion and put it to good use.” He chuckled, laid his book on his stand, and drifted to sleep.

It is 11:30 A.M the next morning, Aziel awakens to the ring of his cell phone going off. “Happy birthday, Aziel!” his older sister Gabriella chimes. Aziel grunts and laughs, as his nieces and nephews sing happy birthday. “What are your plans for today?” asks Gabby. “Well, I heard about this annual art competition that’s happening off of Poplar Ave at Washington State Park. I was hesitant at first but I spent hours painting last night,” said Aziel. “Are you going to go? Do you have a ride?” Gabby questioned. “Yes, thank you,” he said. Aziel hung up the phone and got ready for the day, his normal morning routine en route. He got dressed, grabbed his notebook, and headed down to the café. “Where’s the waitress at?” he questioned. She was nowhere to be found. He still proceeded to order the usual and took out his phone to look up ways to get to Washington Park. “It’s an hour away, maybe I can catch the bus to head out that way and hopefully make it by 2:00. The last time to catch the city line is at 12:45” he said to himself. He sips his coffee as he asks the owner if they know where to catch the city bus at. The owner points in an offset direction out the window, “About 3 blocks that way, kid,” he said. Aziel finishes his coffee and heads out the door.

“3 blocks away,” Aziel murmured. As he walks about half a mile east, he notices a sign that says “Bus stop” with an arrow pointing down past the local tavern.

30 minutes have elapsed since he passed the sign, it is now 12:30 P.M. Aziel finally made it to the bus stop. The waiting area is packed as Aziel waits patiently, the bus arrives early. As he gets on the crowded bus, Aziel carries his painting above his head, trying not to disturb anyone. Two men begin bickering, Aziel sitting quietly in his seat towards the front of the bus. One man yells, shoving the other man into Aziel’s seat, knocking his painting. The painting falls to the ground, as the man being shoved, steps a little too hard. Aziel yells, “No! My painting!” It is ripped, right down the middle. A tear he cannot fix without proper supplies. “Great! Now it’s ruined! See, this is why I don’t even try to bother pursuing anything because it always gets ruined!” he cries out. The two men were escorted off of the bus as Aziel angrily returned to his seat. An hour passed by, the trip was merely redundant. He arrives at the park a little early, observing the colorful, mesmerizing art pieces as he passes by the tables. “Hailee’s Arts & Oddities” he reads aloud. A variety of clay sculptures, small paintings, and handmade jewelry sit atop the stand. He notices the waitress and murmurs, “Hailee... That’s her name.” He smiles to himself and keeps walking. He finds a trash can nearby and throws the torn canvas into the bin.

Hailee approaches Aziel and says, “Hey! I didn’t think I would see you here! Did you bring a piece of art to submit? I’d love to see it,” she says excitedly. “Yeah I did, it’s over there,” he says as he points towards the trash bin. “Oh no, what happened to it?!” she asks shockingly. “Long story,” says Aziel. “Come on,” she says as she grabs Aziel’s hand and wanders around.

The two walk around as the judges observe, gazing intently at each piece of art. 10 minutes pass, and the judges congregate to tally their votes for 1st, 2nd and, 3rd prize winners. The announcer gets on stage, “Hello” he says into the microphone. “Welcome everyone and thank you for coming. My name is Marc and I will be the announcer of the winners of this year’s competition.” Marc begins rattling off the names of the winners, none of which were Hailee or obviously, Aziel. A bit melancholy, Aziel heads back to the bin where his painting lies. The guests are gathering their things and starting to venture out as Marc approaches Aziel. “Hey, is that your painting sitting here?” he asked. “Yes, it is. It got ruined on the way here,“ explains Aziel. “A bit of defeat does not mean that you have completely failed.” Marc gets closer to Aziel and says “Listen, I am also a gallery owner and I think that painting is exquisite just the way it is. Ripped or not, I am captivated by it.” Aziel is shocked as if this is all a fever dream of some sort. “May I ask what this painting is called?” Aziel has barely given thought to what the name would be. “..Sella,” says Aziel. Aha, that is it. Sella. Marc excuses himself for a moment and Aziel ponders for a moment. His phone starts to vibrate. It is an unknown number that has texted him. “Check your book.” Aziel reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his journal. “Okay..? Weird?” It looks like the normal pocketbook he carries around every day. A tiny piece of paper falls out of the back that says, “If you do not open your eyes, you will never realize what possibilities are in store for you. -Marc.” Within that note was a check for $20,000 and in the memo was written, “Sella.” Aziel begins to tear up as his voice breaks, quietly he whispers, “We made it, Mom.”

humanity
10

About the Creator

Veronica Summers

A 25-year-old who is an aspiring writer, poet, and freelance artist trying to make her way around this crazy world.

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