READ THE STORY

They were both stopped dead in their tracks. He by it- a tiny spot of brightness breaking the monotony of cold gray concrete- and it by something unknown. If not for its unnatural positioning and lack of movement, he would have thought it still alive. No blood, nothing out of place, just a small, lifeless yellow bird. The sky had been threatening rain all day. A threat it now made good on. Drops of water splashed off his uncovered head. He stared at the tiny, motionless aviator. Frigid rain streamed down his face and began to mix with tears when he realized this whimsical symbol of freedom would never again take to the sky. His stare was broken by the impulse to scavenge the immediate landscape for materials. Several minutes later he had fashioned a tiny box of fallen twigs. He used the pocket knife his uncle had gifted him decades ago to gently coax the bird into the handmade coffin. He used the same knife to dig a small hole in the wet earth. He stood at the tiny grave for a moment before pulling a hat from his pocket, flipping his collar up to the wind, and continuing on his path.

He reached a tarnished brass knob on a door in desperate need of realignment and a fresh paint job, which he turned. He ascended the three flights of questionable stairs between he and his destination. A turn of a key later he was in a large room. Its furniture was sparse but it was replete with flat surfaces; tables- both standing and sitting, makeshift shelving, and desks were all occupied by myriad colors of paint and various tools. Nearly a hundred canvases were strewn about the room. These canvases were of diverse sizes, some of which faced outward, toward the viewer. Others purposefully faced away. 

He hung his coat on a nail in the wall near the door and grabbed his apron from another. He synched it about his waist, utilizing the protectant just as a beloved teacher had done, and began to sift through a small pile of wood. He found a few mismatched pieces he knew he could mill down to fashion what he needed. He exited his studio and climbed a fourth flight of stairs. He knocked at a door almost identical to his. The sign on the window-paned door read “the doctor is out.” He knew this side of the sign to sometimes mean his friend simply did not want any unwelcome visitors. He was always welcome. They had said so. Upon receiving no answer to his knock, he took out his keys and used one to open the door. He flipped the lights on and dozens of woodcrafting machinery twinkled against the illumination. His friend was an expert in her craft. She was sought after for all manner of endeavor spanning this country and many others. They’d become friends at a holiday marketplace seven years ago and were surprised to find their studios in the very same building. He had been more than surprised to find such incredible tools and a thriving artisan just one floor above his own. After learning of his passion for woodworking, his friend, Abigail Kind, had given him a key to her studio and invited him to use it whenever he need.

He donned protective glasses and flipped on the table saw. A couple of deliberate passes later he was at the mitre saw. Some glue, clamps, and screws after that he’d locked up Kind Woodworks and was back in his own studio looking for a bit of fabric to stretch across the wooden frame he’d just crafted. He cursed himself for building a stretcher bar before looking at what size canvas he had on hand. Nothing big enough. It was either go back out to the shops for more fabric or cut down the framework he had just made. Neither sounded enticing. An idea entered his head, there was a chance Ms. Souster was home. 

::Knock, Knock, Knock::

“Baxter,” his knock was greeted by a venerable woman with a mismatched youthful voice.

“Ms. Souster- I was wondering if you might have a needle and thread I could borrow?”

“Of course, dear! But you’ll have to stay for a cup of tea and tell me what you’re working on.”

“You’ve got yourself a deal.” 

With slight caffeination and the warmth of a loving hug coursing through his veins, Baxter returned to his studio to stretch the two pieces of canvas, now one, across the wooden rectangle he had made earlier.

Now primed, he stood in front of his newly constructed canvas listening to a small voice from within. It questioned the point of starting a new painting. He cast a slow glance around the room, taking in all of the unsold works. The voice was telling him to stop, this was a terrible idea. It said lay down the pencil, don’t even try. He looked toward his hand, limp at his side, and watched it rise to begin a sketch.

Now midnight, Baxter was frustrated. A frustration far outreaching his current circumstance. It was a frustration born of many years. Everyone knew of Baxter Harper, yet he remained unknown. He constantly fought to not compare his work and success to others’. He fought thinking too much about the monetization of a passion, to simply paint for creativity’s sake, to paint in order to communicate and share with others. But right now he couldn’t do any of that. His paint wouldn’t dry as fast as he wanted to work. If he kept going now it would ruin what had come before. “Coffee,” he asked the painting in front of him. The bar on the first floor of the building would still be open. Keeping his apron on he turned the lights off and took a look at his work from the light of the hall before closing the door. 

“Bax! Was wondering if we were gonna see you tonight,” came a deep voiced and hearty welcome from behind the bar. “Get you a pint?”

“Just coffee, Tate.”

“Just coffee?… you workin’ tonight?” 

“Yeah, I got a little something going on… I actually had to bug Ms. Souster for a needle and thread to sew two pieces of canvas together. I didn’t have one big enough to work,” Baxter chuckled at the notion. 

“I never would have thought to do that,” the bartender affirmed the artist’s ingenuity. “When Bax gets an idea- ain’t nothin gonna stop him,” he declared to the whole room as he slid a steaming mug of coffee across the bar top. 

By the middle of his second cup, Baxter could feel the caffeine’s reinvigoration and decided the paint would just have to be dry enough. He threw three dollars down on the bar which Tatum Yates, who was not the proprietor of Axe & Pine, but might as well have been for all the care he put into the place, covered with a brown paper bag. 

“Sandwich for ya. I know you’re gonna be up all night on whatever you got goin upstairs. And keep the money- its just a sandwich and some bean water.”

Baxter smiled, “thanks man.”

He took back the three dollars which Tatum saw and replaced it with five, which Tatum did not see. Baxter Harper went back to work. 

Roughly six hours later the artist sat the farthest he could across the room from the painting he’d just completed. His back rest against the wall. One of his legs was fully extended, his arm rested on the other which was pulled tight to his body. “There you are,” he whispered to the massive canvas, who's still drying parts twinkled in the dimly-lit room. 

His fingers and apron were coated in a fresh layer of primrose and saffron. “Dead no longer,” he continued his whispering to the newly birthed imagery. Baxter had given life back to the little yellow bird, depicting it in flight, grasping a twig of its coffin, the sun its aim, far in the distance. He sat on the floor a bit longer until his stomach called. He wiped his hands with mineral spirits and checked his wallet, which had previously belonged to his late grandfather. The mere three dollars he had swapped out earlier. He untied his apron and hung it on the empty nail, took his coat from the adjacent, and opened his door. A small basket with a note taped to the handle sat on the ground before him.

“Saw your light on when I went to bed AND when I woke up- didn’t want to disturb you. Can’t wait to see what you’re working on! -Binx”

His neighbor across the alley had nicknamed herself ‘Binx’ one evening when Baxter had introduced himself as Bax. He had been slightly put off when she declared his name ridiculous. They became fast friends when she continued that she’d like a ridiculous name as well. Baxter had never known her real name. In the basket was a thermos of soup and half a loaf of still steaming, homemade bread. Baxter stared at the food just as he had the bird the day before. A welling in his eyes grew as a ring of the phone interrupted his thoughts. 

He walked across the room and picked up the receiver, “hello,” he sullenly offered.

“BAX! I GOT AN ALBUM DEAL,” came a herald of jubilation from the other end. “I’m in town for the next two days- let's get lunch today! I’M BUYING.”

Baxter, rendered speechless by the contrast of joyful news to the downhearted mood he’d been experiencing, finally eeked out: “That’s, that’s incredible, man… Yeah, yeah! I can’t wait to hear about it- DEFINITELY, let's get lunch. Where?”

“Downstairs of course! Axe & Pine. I’m about three hours away, bus is making a pit stop.” 

“Okay, I’ll see you soon!”

Baxter went back to the door, picked up the basket and when he turned around, the first rays of light began to poke through his windows. They were vividly illuminating the bright yellows of his newest work. The tears the phone call had disrupted began to fall. They fell downward, but then slightly upward and out across a smile. He felt pride, joy, and love as an epiphany almost warm as Ms Suster’s hugs embraced him. He grabbed a marker and feverishly scribed across the back of his new work.

“Between.

Between here and there. Yesterday and tomorrow. Memories made and those yet to be. Waiting. Sleeping. Between life and death. Most of everything is the time spent between. Give that time its due. Pay that it’s mind. The people, places, and everyday occurrences that comprise it. See that time and value it. Fly, little bird. Betwixt everything is the meantime- make certain you live that too.”