Pale striations cover my face, so white and smoothed by a thousand fine sandpaper strokes. Subtle curves grace my edges, my corners so carefully
formed by his hands. I give myself up to his loving touch. The crude chainsaw cutting of my mother and the subsequent rough treatment of planer and
nails has slowly receded in my memory.
I am now perfected.
But wait... what is this watery wash of white with which he slathers my face and sides? It has a peculiar scent not unlike my memory of pine. Each
coating is allowed to dry completely before another is applied. Over and over, the white is applied until it becomes thick upon my surface. What is
this human doing? Hiding my face? Does he, after all that he'd done to make me feel loved, now no longer wish to see me?
I feel slighted.
And yet, once more the sanding begins. The little wrinkles hold the white wash while my hardier winter grain is reduced. Even the slightest warp and
woof of my face is being levelled to a uniform consistency. I am becoming impersonal, my character eradicated. Oh, woe is me!
The process is repeated over and over... sanding, white wash, sanding, white wash, until there is nothing left to show what I once was. I am nameless.
A void. A nothingness in shining white. A *sob* ZERO! This cannot be my ending! A nameless sham, an obliterated birch panel now remains of what was
once a proud tree shining white against the darkness of the pines.
Wait... shining white
birch bark trees! I still have that little bit to tell the world what I once was. Perhaps this human has at least a tiny
bit of respect for me yet. For this I am somewhat grudgingly grateful, although I cannot completely forgive him.
But then I feel the tickling of a pencil as it scurries back and forth on my face. Gently it goes, careful not to indent my white surface. I sense it
all over, much gentler than the sandpaper and a only little rougher than the quick strokes of the brush. I hear the human muttering and groaning as he
works. I see his eyes squinting. He is all worked up for sure, that I know. He reminds me of squirrels.
What the hell is this nutcase up to?
A white eraser becomes a constant companion of the pencil as he struggles with me. They are happy, I can tell, these two. Rub, rub, scribble scribble,
rub and scribble some more. The humans face is intense, bearing down until his long sweaty stinky nose almost smudges the grey marks he'd made on my
Days go by like this and I wonder if I'd fallen into the hands of a lunatic, but no-o-o-. Finally he smiles as if he admires his frenetic handiwork
and then it was another half dozen thin white washes over the pencilling he'd done and I knew this would be a permanent defacement.
Next thing I knew, he was whistling happily, albeit a little tunelessly, and mixing pots of paint while staring at me intently. There were deep indigo
and bright orange paints being created, curiously in catfood tins with plastic covers. There also was a selection of brushes... big ones and little
What in tarnation was this idiot up to?
OMG... No way... It can't be!!!
He's putting his own ugly face on me!!!
Aaaaaargh!!!! Look at this monstrosity! Oh, the shame of it all.
Note: This entry into the contest will not be for in the running for a win. I can't applaud myself anyway, ya know.
edit on 2/8/12 by
masqua because: (no reason given)