The shock of turquoise attacked her eyes when she turned the same corner she took every day on the way to work. She was used to the peeling plaster, the little weeds that lined the creases between the building and the dusty ground – hell, even the brick that shamelessly exposed itself and the stubborn weed that she promised herself six months ago that she would spray next weekend became commonplace. But this… this was atrocious.
The door was always white. Well, recently it was white with streaks of brown where paint had flaked and yellow where it hung on for dear life and weathered. She would paint it white again next weekend but she loved those little nooks and crannies that formed from afar. But this… it was painted over inconsistently in a suspicious tone of blue and green.
Down the street, splashes of turquoise, blues and greens dotted bits of the old street’s fondest memories – windowpanes, benches, clay roof tiles, storm drains, planters. It’s Friday and as wandering travelers from near and far trickled into the town’s bed and breakfasts, someone who believed they were more creatively talented than others thought it would be best to “elevate the aesthetic” of the quiet town without notice. No one who lived here actually knew who that person was, but they sure as hell wanted to find out now. And this… This was vandalism.
Her cheeks warmed and reddened. The door was always open, with the orchestra of tools at work by the hands of the very first man who loved her and whom she loved back with everything.
Her mind swam in a flood of memories of endless summers playing on the floor of the little workshop with her toys strewn about, the humming of old tunes, her father’s hands working quickly on delicate things like clocks, locks, and jewelry. Sometimes he would tell her stories about families who grew old in the town, sometimes stories about those who left one day to never return. But one day, a dragon snuck into their home and into her father’s body. It injected venomous pain into his legs so he could barely make it up the tall step. Then it took his eyesight and focus. Later, it twisted its claws around his body and dragged him into bed, holding him there until he was too tired to fight any longer. Then one day, holding her hand in his, he left town too.
But not her. She would stay here and flake and weather and peel apart until there was nothing left.
“Because there is nothing left,” she said quietly.
The turquoise, blue, green, whatever it was, had started to settle behind her eyes like a slowly pulsing promise. Glints of purple caught her eye – someone manicured and shaped the weed, now elegantly stretching upward and over, framing the door and adding a touch of mystery. For the tourists, of course.
She took two cautious steps forward as it beckoned to her again. “Look,” the door said. “Someone else came and made me beautiful.”
A deep inhale that caused her sternum to pop. Then another step forward until her toe almost grazed the tall step, greeting it like an old friend.
Somewhere behind the door, she was sure she had left a few building blocks and a beloved plush giraffe to watch over the orders her father had to finish.
She placed trembling fingers on the small knobs. It was probably time to take them home.
What a striking take on turquoise—street art elevated to the protagonist of a flash‑fiction piece, questioning the very act of vandalism that sometimes turns unexpectedly creative. Erin, this is great!