Chapters: 1
|2
|3
|4
|5
|6
|7
|8
|9
|10
|11
|12
|13
|14
|15
|16
|17
|18
|19
|20
|21
|22
|23
|24
|25
|26
Twisted Tales of Time Travel – Chapter 5
“Rose,” Michael deadpanned. “Define ironic.”
“What?” I asked.
“Define ironic.”
“Well, irony is when words are used to express something other than the true meaning of a situation. Sometimes it’s even the opposite of the words’ literal meaning.”
“Wrong. Ironic is that while we can travizzle the world in a blink of an eye, this drive to the Museum of Fine Arts in Houston has taken us three hours. If that isn’t the definition of irony, I don’t know what is.”
Michael had been complaining nonstop since we left Austin. If ever a person could be spoiled by travizzle-travel, Michael was surely a prime example.
“I’m not sure that I even care to see 209 works of art on loan from the Museum of Modern Art in New York.”
“It’ll be fun Michael.” I sighed. Once again, I questioned my decision to invite him along. “In these 209 pieces, you will learn about all the major stylistic developments that define the modern painting era.”
Michael joined me in reciting the last eight words of my sentence. Perhaps I had been going on and on about the exhibit, but I was excited.
“Regardless,” I said ignoring Michael. “It was generous of my mom’s friend to give us a ride.”
A grand total of three hours and 17 minutes later, the car pulled up in front of the museum and we climbed out.
“C’mon” I said to Michael. “It won’t be that bad, and if you’re nice to me, I’ll buy you lunch at the café afterwards.”
“Well,” Michael smiled at me, indicating he had decided to make the best of the afternoon. “Let’s Gogh and get this Van over with.”
I groaned at Michael’s humor wondering, not for the first time, if he could be related to my dad as they seem to possess the same bad sense of humor.
“Since you brought up Van Gogh, and you love him so much, let’s start there. Starry Night is my favorite painting.”
Michael and I wove through the museum until we found a knot of people clustered around a painting.
“I think that’s it!” I said to Michael as I pointed toward the obstructed picture.
Michael politely but confidently dragged me through the crowd to the front of the group.
“Wow.” I said, awestruck. “This is even more amazing than I had imagined.”
“Yeah,” Michael admitted begrudgingly. “It is pretty amazing looking.”
“Why do you think that there are eleven stars in the painting?”
Michael and I asked this question at precisely the same moment. One minute later we opened our eyes, looked around, and saw the eleven stars shining brightly over our heads.
“Did we?” Michael asked.
I nodded my head.
“Yep. We travizzled right into Starry Night.”
“Now this is the way to check out a painting huh?” Michael remarked as he surveyed our surroundings. “Rose, come here! Is this a cypress tree?” Michael had already started to climb the tree in question.
“Don’t climb that cypress tree,” a loud male voice bellowed out of nowhere.
Both Michael and I looked around fearfully.
“In fact,” the disembodied voice echoed sounding far less menacing and far more pleading. “Please don’t touch anything in my painting. I completed it just the way I like it.”
Michael and I looked at each other and mouthed in unison, “Van Gogh?”
“Yes it’s me you silly pair! Who else would be talking in my painting?!” Van Gogh boomed sounding irritated.
Michael slipped me a this-man-is-crazed glance.
“And don’t mistake the cypress tree as a death or mourning symbol, even though it can be in other paintings” the voice droned on. “For me, death is simply a pathway to eternal happiness and heaven. The cypress tree is large and, as I have just witnessed, climbing-inviting because it is reaching toward the highest star in the heavens.”
“I don’t get it then,” Michael said having finally found his voice. “Why is the cypress tree so large and, as you phrased it, climb-worthy while the olive trees in the village look so small and frail.”
“Good question Climber Boy,” the voice of Van Gogh intoned. “The olive trees in the town symbolize simple, everyday life.”
“And the sky? Why is it so vast? And why is the church steeple so long and tall?” I asked, having decided that if I’ve travizzled to Van Gogh I had better take advantage.
“Ahh. The sky. It swirls and winds around the stars to display the vast powers of the heavens and the infinity of the universe.” The voice paused briefly. “And the church steeple? That one is about me. I painted the long, reaching steeple to symbolize my own striving for higher achievements.”
“Ooooh.” I responded unable to articulate anything else. “I used to paint, too, but I never had anything to do with my paintings except slap them up on the fridge.”
“I can’t ever think of anything cool to paint,” Michael muttered as he peered wistfully overhead at the stars.
“I have two things for you to remember and then I beg you to travizzle away and leave me be. Rose, a good picture is equivalent to a good deed. Remember that. And Michael, paint anything! I dream my paintings and then I simply paint my dreams.”
With that the colors spontaneously became more vivid as Michael and I were drawn and twisted into the swirling sky. Instinctively I reached for his hand and grasped it in mine until we touched down.
The idea for this week’s chapter of Twisted Tales of Time Travel was submitted by Nicolet LaVeau of Bailey Middle School.
Chapters: 1
|2
|3
|4
|5
|6
|7
|8
|9
|10
|11
|12
|13
|14
|15
|16
|17
|18
|19
|20
|21
|22
|23
|24
|25
|26