6 comments/ 16346 views/ 1 favorites Painting Sarah By: WmForrester Painting Trees, Painting Flowers, Painting Sarah Sarah finally celebrates what she paints by instilling how she feels. Sarah Simoni-Laughton's favorite holidays were obscure ones compared to those who loved the bright, colorful lights of Christmas or the explosive fireworks of the Fourth of July. The theme of her art befitting her favorite season, both of her holidays were a bit more than a week apart in April. They were Earth Day and Arbor Day. Except for the fictional characters of Robin Hood, who lived in Nottinghamshire's Sherwood Forest, and, perhaps, Rubeus Hagrid from Harry Potter fame, who lived somewhere deep in the enchanted mind of J. K. Rowling, not many people celebrated Earth Day and Arbor Day in the way that Sarah celebrated them. Without parades, lights, and fireworks, without people wishing her happy this day or happy that day, she celebrated them quietly and privately by painting landscapes of the Earth and by painting trees. Ever since she was a little girl she felt a quiet connection to the Earth and that connection inspired her art, so much so that she seldom wore shoes, that is, of course, unless she was walking the dirty city streets. In tune with nature, it wasn't unusual to find her with her arms outstretched and her head tossed back allowing the cool breeze to float her long, curly hair so much like the loose leaves of fall. While she watched the clouds float by and listened to the gentle rustle of the leaves of the trees, the warm kiss of the sun on her face was one of the things that grounded her. The juxtaposition of the Earth, the moon, the sun, and the stars made her feel so much like the ant that walked across her toes; one infinitesimal part of the whole. Much like an American Indian asking her God to smile down upon her this day, this was the preferred posture she took prior to painting and this was how she focused and connected with the earth to inspire her art. "I love the feel of the brown, soft earth beneath my feet and the deep, green grass between my toes while staring up at the white, puffy clouds in the big, blue sky," she said smiling and ready to share her love of life with anyone there watching her enjoying nature before setting up her easel in preparation to paint. An easygoing, happy, free spirit, she was a nice girl. Most artists she knew were moody, volatile, self-absorbed, and angry. They captured so much of their angst in their paintings that their art was too violent for her to enjoy. Unlike Sarah, they weren't very nice people. Generally, they were too angry to paint landscapes and still life or so she thought. Certainly, how can you paint something as beautiful as a flower or a tree if you are so angry with the world? What was a struggle for them was easy for her. She loved to paint and wasn't tortured by the experience of it before, during or after painting what she saw and what she imagined. Unlike so many struggling artists, she never stared at a blank canvas wondering what to paint and unlike so many artists she knew, she finished every canvas she started. Imagining trees with angry faces and branches that threatened anyone who passed nearby, she imagined hostile flowers with teeth that bit the shins of those who dared trounce them as they walked. Who would and why would a painter want to paint an angry landscape when nature was so very beautiful? Besides, she'd laugh, she didn't want angry paintings of the beautiful landscapes of the trees and flowers that she painted. Certainly, that would contradict what she was trying to paint and counteract the peacefully happy mood she was intent on instilling in her art. Yet, even though, oftentimes, angry, emotion filled art is better than nice, emotionless art, because of what she painted, her art didn't require that kind of hostile emotion, or so she thought. Anger was detrimental to her style of painting, she assured herself. Instead, she worked at meditating and remaining calm to clear her mind, focus her energy, and to channel her creativity from her brain to her fingers, before even picking up her paintbrush. She wanted nice paintings and what she lacked in angry emotions and what her paintings lacked in fire and intensity, she more than made up for it with her raw, artistic talent. She loved painting pretty landscapes with healthy trees and colorful flowers, especially trees. She loved trees. Trees supported live. Trees produced oxygen. Trees gave shade. Trees offered themselves up to make houses and furniture and the paper she used to create her paintings of trees. Inspired as a little girl when having to memorize and recite James Kilmer's poem, Trees, she's had a love affair with trees and has been painting trees ever since. Trees by Joyce Kilmer I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree. A tree whose hungry mouth is prest Against the earth's sweet flowing breast; A tree that looks at God all day, And lifts her leafy arms to pray; A tree that may in summer wear A nest of robins in her hair; Upon whose bosom snow has lain; Who intimately lives with rain. Poems are made by fools like me, But only God can make a tree. Equally inspired by the impact that Joyce Kilmer's poem, Trees, made on her, modern times showed the necessity of people to take more of an active role in ecology and conservationism to save and protect the planet. Her art was just as inspired by a stanza she read from Ogden Nash's poem Song of the Open Road that parodied Joyce's famous poem, Trees. I think that I shall never see A billboard lovely as a tree Indeed, unless the billboards fall, I'll never see a tree at all. She had hundreds of canvases of trees, of flowers, and of flowers and trees. Everyone who saw her paintings loved her landscapes. Yet, after buying her art, living with it, and staring at it for a while on a daily basis, if there was one common constructive criticism about her work, it was that it lacked movement and motion. It lacked emotion. Her art didn't shock the viewer by grabbing them, pulling them in, and moving them with the scene. Her artworks weren't paintings that viewers couldn't stop themselves from staring at nor were they paintings that every time the viewers looked at them they noticed and felt something different. That wasn't her intention to paint scenes that were so intense, so moving, and so touching that they hypnotized the viewer making the viewer unable to look away. Her inspiration was to paint calm, relaxing and nice landscapes. Only, her paintings were stagnant and didn't invoke the curiosity and interest of what else was to the right, to the left, or behind what she painted. Much like a one dimensional photograph taken by an uninspired photographer, her paintings represented a moment in time, a snapshot of what she saw, and nothing more. Imagine Claude Monet's paintings, especially his famous Water Lilies, without movement and without emotion. His ghostly images of trees and the colorful lilies that the shimmering pond water reflected back gave depth to those otherwise flat landscapes that Sarah so enjoyed painting. That is not to say that her work was not good. It was very good. Her paintings were marketable, as the colors she painted somehow always complimented someone's living room furniture or contrasted someone's grand design plan. Yet, as marketable as her work was, it was unremarkable. Her paintings were much like her. Without provocation, they were nice, too nice to be considered of importance. The type of person who always saw the glass as half full and who only saw the good in people instead of the bad, her character and how she felt about people and life colored her landscapes, as much as her paintbrush. Painting landscapes relaxed her and made her feel as one with the Earth, yet those emotions of serenity and inner peace were those that came through and derailed her paintings from spectacular to just good. Certainly, her paintings would look great in a bank, a doctor's office, and/or in someone's home. Yet, even though the beautiful scenery she painted was good for her soul and the souls of others, it did little to spark the flame of interest for her to be more noticed. Her paintings didn't stoke the fire she needed to have internally lit inside her for her to be a successfully renowned painter. To take her to the next level, her art needed more agitation to not only set it apart from the others but also to draw the attention necessary to make her work great. In juxtaposition of the beauty and to the tumultuous turbulence that was the earth, instead of being so complacent and nice, she needed to be more like so many of the angry artists she knew. Before she painted her beautiful landscapes of flowers and trees, she needed to feel the rage that came from the Earth's inner turmoil when it created the lands from the depths of the vast oceans. She needed to enliven her spirit with fire and explosiveness, as would a volcano erupt spewing out lava and an earthquake rumble and breakup the ground from below. There seething in the background of her mind's eye, much like the dormant volcano ready to erupt at any moment or that threatening earthquake that occasionally rumbled and vented on the Earth's surface from deep down below, is the rage she needed to capture, possess, and to transform her paintings from nice to spectacular. To color her artistic creations with vibrant feelings and the power of pure passion, she needed her strokes to show the sideways rains of a gale force hurricane. She needed her brush to be an extension of the wind of a cyclone to show the power of movement and rage of motion. Her paintings, as flat as the canvas they were painted on, lacked depth. Not depth of field or depth of perception, they lacked the depth of the behind the scenes and inner thoughts of the artist, combined with the violent mood, that is the backdrop of the earth that she paints so well and that supports all things living that are bad and good, but seldom nice. As a writer must have a back story to ground and develop his or her characters, her paintings needed foreshadowing to make them come alive. Then, once she feels the rage that is the Earth and that explosive environment that is the universe, with those feelings in her mind, in her heart, and in her soul, before she paints with her brush, she can put those feelings aside, let them go, and continue to paint her nice paintings. Much like the masterpieces of the great artists, now her innermost feelings will show through her trees and color her flowers. Alas, much of the emotion she needed to harness and use to benefit her art came with age and from living life, no doubt. At only 29-years-old, she was still so very young. Obviously, she needed to live and experience more of life. Her life had been too nice for her to feel those emotions she needed to enliven her paintings for the viewer to remember them. Notwithstanding her talent as an aspiring artist, and typically what colors an aspiring artist for the good or for the bad, Sarah didn't have any money, but she had something more precious than gold. She had Michael, 6, Ashley, 3, her God given talent as a painter, and Domenic, her Maine Coon cat. Domenic loved her children nearly as much as she did. She named him Domenic because she was Italian and she always thought that was a strong name, even though she didn't know anyone named Domenic. Living up to his Italian name and perceived heritage, Domenic preferred pizza, spaghetti, lasagna, and ravioli with meatball and sausage to canned cat food. He even had a fondness for olives. Playing with them before eating them, rolling them around the floor and swiping at them with his big, dog sized paws, he loved olives. The size of a Cocker Spaniel, Domenic weighed a hefty 35 pounds and had a disposition as mean as a junk yard dog. Yet, around her and her children, he couldn't be sweeter. Never has she seen a cat so protective of the kids, so much so that she had to leash the cat whenever a stranger ventured near her children. Strangers, especially men, brought out the worst in him. She figured something must have happened to him early in his life. Domenic was a feral cat and a killer cat that learned early how to hunt to eat. A voracious eater, judging by his weight, he must have been was a successful hunter and killer. When she was painting her landscapes in the hills of Vermont, this strange looking animal appeared from out of nowhere one day. She figured he lived in the abandoned barn that sat in an overgrown field a quarter mile away. Whenever she was there painting, he ambled along content to sit by her side for hours purring and licking his fur while she painted. In conflict to his enormous size, scary appearance, and wild instincts, his gentle nature surprised her. She found the odd companionship of him soothing and rather enjoyed talking to him as she painted. Knowing he was there by her side somehow relaxed her and helped her to paint better. The wild, untamed nature of him contrasting with the gentle nature of her gave her a more daring brush stroke. He inspired her. He'd stare up at her with his big, green eyes making her feel she was under the watchful and critical eye of the Cheshire cat from Alice in Wonderful, and, in that regard, by the beautiful, lush, and enchanted scenery of the Vermont Hills that she painted, she felt a bit like Alice. Certainly, when she first met Domenic, before she had any kids; thus far, her life had been fairytale like in being able to sell enough of her art in neighboring New York to support herself while pursuing her passion of painting. Never having seen a Maine Coon cat before, her reaction was the same as everyone's reaction who sees this type of cat for the first time. She was afraid. She didn't know what it was. It was so big and with its wild, puffy and fluffy fur that it appeared even ferociously bigger that it was. Approaching her through the tall grass from a distance with its bushy tail peeking up over the overgrown flora, she thought it was a raccoon, only bigger. Yet, as it neared with its multicolored brown fur, it resembled more a fat, albeit taller beaver. Except for the immense size of it, once she brushed and untangled its matted hair, he was an extraordinarily beautiful cat. It wasn't until he came right up to her and wrapped himself around her legs purring, that she realized this monster was merely a cat, a giant cat at that. After the third consecutive day of his appearance, with the promise of a rainstorm for the next three days in the forecast, she couldn't bear to leave him out in the elements to fend for himself. She coaxed him in her car with her leftover lunch, pasta with meat sauce, and took him home. That was seven years ago and they've been together ever since. Only, never having had a cat before, she didn't know that he was the one who adopted her and not the other way around. At the time, having just graduated from art school, young and carefree, at 22-years-old, she thought her life was perfect, especially now that she had Domenic, the perfect, albeit super-sized pet. Mice had a liking for gnawing on the bottoms of her canvases, that is, until the arrival of Domenic to her loft. Consumed by her art, she had no time for anything or anyone else. There was an Earth Day show at the open air market coming up next month and she needed to make ready her paintings to attend the huge fair. She had already paid her deposit and reserved a booth and was hoping to earn enough money to get her through the slow summer time and leave her enough money, until she showed her art at the big holiday fair beginning in November and going on until January. She was doing what she loved to do. She'd wake up early each morning and make herself some coffee and a light breakfast of toast and strawberry jam before she started painting and before heading off to setup for her art show. Sometimes, she'd forget to eat. Except for momentary bathroom breaks, she could paint twelve hours and when inspired, longer without stopping. Her life, she imagined, couldn't be any better. It was at the Earth Day show where she first saw him. She was successfully selling her paintings and, as so many customers had that first fateful day, he had walked into her booth. He was as beautiful as one of her paintings. With the sight of him, she wished she had taken as much time and care with her appearance, as she had taken with her artwork. Dressed in a paint spattered, flowered peasant skirt and a paint spattered, white peasant blouse, as every piece of clothing she possessed was paint spattered, her long, curly brown flowing hair appeared so much like an extension of the leaves of trees she painted. Poised against a man of substance, an iconic symbol of business, greed, power, influence, and industry, suddenly made her feel Bohemian. As much as she laughed at her attraction to him because of their obvious opposite ends of the spectrum, she laughed at her sudden insight because, certainly, in her lifestyle, in her appearance, and in her chosen profession, she was as Bohemian as he was Mister GQ. He was wearing an expensive suit with a tie that cost more than all that she was wearing, no doubt. She pegged him for a lawyer. Normally, she's attracted to more of the creative types, writers, artists, and musicians. More than his good looks, there was something about him that not only made her notice him but also that made her want to know more about him. Only, she knew someone like him would never be attracted to someone like her. Notwithstanding their obvious class differences, that didn't stop her from fantasizing about him. He had thick, blonde hair that she imagined running her fingers through before removing his Harry Potter style black, frame eyeglasses and kissing his full, red lips. Catering to his every sexual whim, exploring every part of his manly body with her hands and mouth, his bright blue eyes would make her sacrifice her life for his. Tall and thin with rosy cheeks, she couldn't help but imagine him naked and, being the visualizing artist that she was, she could tell that he had a hard, muscular, and toned body beneath his business suit. Standing there so smartly dressed, he appeared so much like a Ralph Lauren Polo advertisement. When he was flipping through her canvases, she noticed his long, graceful fingers. His fingers reminded her of the fingers in Michelangelo's painting, "Creation," that he painted of God's fingers touching Adam's fingers and she immediately transposed her fingers with his. Reaching out and touching fingers with one another, imagining the electricity of their first touch, a believer in love at first sight, she imagined this day as the creation of the rest of their lives. Then, sacrilegious in thought, she imagined his long fingers exploring every inch of her naked body and touching her where no man has touched her in so long. Locking herself away in her loft, content to paint day and night, it had been awhile since she had been with a man. She's been so involved with preparing for this show and busy making a living with her art that there hasn't been time for a relationship sexual or otherwise. The only male in her life was Domenic. His hands were as big as they looked strong. She assumed that he was probably a runner or a rock climber. She imagined them climbing the hills of Vermont together before stopping to have a picnic and before making love at her favorite spot, by the hill that was crowned with the big, old, oak tree she so loved to paint. Only, he'd never be interested in someone like her. She pictured him being with a woman who graduated from Wellesley or Barnard or Bryn Mawr College and who lived a charmed life and having as much idle time as her Daddy had money. "Hi, I'm Jeffrey," he said interrupting her sexual daydream. When she looked up at him, she couldn't believe he was standing next to her. He was even taller now that he was standing beside her, at 6'2" or 6'3"; he dwarfed her 5'3" frame. Painting Sarah "Sarah," she said staring up at him and allowing him to take her hand in his. As she imagined Adam's fingers touching God's fingers, her whole being came alive with his touch. "I now pronounce you man and wife," she imagined her priest proclaiming. "You may kiss the bride," she imagined hearing before Jeffrey scooped her up in her arms and gave her a deep, long, wet kiss. Obviously, there was something about her that made him return to her booth every day the entire week she was there. Every day she was giddy with anticipation wondering if he'd return and then when he did, she'd act so coyly disinterested in him that she'd practically ignore him. Nonetheless, he'd spend his entire lunch hour roaming her booth more interested in the artist than in the artwork. It was obvious by his daily visits that the more he knew about her the more he wanted to know. With her big, honey brown eyes that resembled the varying color of a Tiger's Eye gemstone and her wide, sincere smile, she was pretty in a unique way. What some saw as happiness and openness, he saw as sultriness and mysteriousness, he confessed to her later. It was obvious to anyone who saw the way that he looked at her that he felt a deep attraction for her, but playing her game of hard to get, of cat and mouse and hunter and huntress, she appeared aloof to his advances. Their backgrounds and ideologies as far apart as their social classes, fortunately, love knows no boundaries. Only, no doubt, he figured, someone like her would never be interested in someone like him. Accustomed to dating taller, thinner, and stiffer women, who had perfect skin, perfect hair, perfect teeth, and perfect genealogy, culture, manners, and education, she was different in a captivatingly sensual way. Based by the curvature of her full breasts, the silhouetted indentation of her waist revealed by the transparency of her blouse when she stood in direct sunlight, and the gentle movement of her round hips, it was obvious that there was a voluptuous body of a shapely woman hiding beneath her loose fitting clothes. Unlike any woman he had dated before, no doubt, she was real. She was sensitive. She was genuinely happy. Instead of the spoiled, rich bitch debutants he was accustomed to being around, she was sincerely nice and he bought her paintings. Every day he took a part of her away with him and every night he tossed and turned in a disturbed sleep while dreaming about her being naked in his arms, he confessed to her later. Already owning half a dozen of her canvases, it wasn't until the last day of the open air market that he summoned the courage to ask her to dinner. "I love your paintings," he said looking at her as if they were alone in a hotel room. Even though she was busy with people who continually visited her booth commenting on her art, buying her paintings, and asking her questions, when they looked at one another it was as if they were alone. "Thank you for coming," she said to a customer before turning her attention to him. "I'd like to see you again," he said anxiously fingering the side of a canvas. She imagined what he meant by seeing her again was that he wanted to see her naked. The imagined thrill of her showing him her naked body, before he touched her for the first time, consumed her with desire for him. He made her so horny every time she saw him. She watched his long piano fingers playing with the corner of the canvas. Obviously, he was nervous. She imagined that his fingers were toying with her nipples and exciting her clit. "Thank you, I'm so pleased you like my work, but I won't have another showing until the end of the fall season," she said. "I need time to paint more canvases," she said with a giggle while making prolonged eye contact. She gave him an encouraging smile. "Here's my card," she said and wanting to add, I'd be happy to paint you in the nude before we roll around the paint spattered floor of my studio while making love. He looked down at her card before looking at her and, based upon the duration of his stare, he appeared to have lost himself in her soft, brown eyes. "Sarah..." In the way he said her name made her think of him whispering her name in her ear while they were making love or when he told her he loved her the for the first time or fell to his knee and proposed marriage to her or when she presented him with their first baby, a son. "Yes," she swooned but covered it with a nervous laugh. "That's my name." She refrained from saying, 'don't wear it out.' "I meant, I'd like to take you to dinner," he said with nervousness. As if looking at a scene before painting it, she regarded him with a long look before answering him. He was beautiful. He looked like no man she had ever been attracted to before. He could have been a model, he was so handsome. Although she seldom painted people, she couldn't wait to paint him. Maybe tonight, she'd put his face to canvas. Maybe tonight, she'd imagine more of him and paint him in the nude. "I'd rather eat out," she said with a sly smile. "Yes, of course, that's what I meant by asking you to dinner," he said with a nervous chuckle. "I didn't mean that I wanted you to come to my apartment or was trying to get an invitation to your apartment. What I meant was that I know of a great restaurant—" "And by eating out, I meant a picnic," she said giving him a sexy smile that promised him more than potato salad and roasted chicken in a basket. "Wednesday is Earth Day, my favorite holiday, but I'm busy with the show until Saturday. We could have a picnic Sunday. A picnic would be a great way to celebrate the holiday rather than eating in a noisy and smelly restaurant filled with too many people talking at the same time." "A picnic? I don't think I've ever been on a picnic. Yeah, sure, that would be fun," he said with a wide smile. "I've never celebrated Earth Day before, for that matter." "I'll make us something special to commemorate your first Earth Day celebration." "Do you cook as well as you paint?" "I'm Italian," she said talking with her hands and giving him a shrug. "We're born knowing how to make tomato sauce." Now that the show was over, Sarah had time for herself. Instead of wearing her Bohemian clothes of peasant blouse and skirt or jeans with a paint splattered top, she bought a new outfit, a white button blouse and a feminine free flowing skirt. She even had her hair, make up, and nails done at the salon. She hardly recognized herself when she looked in the mirror. That next Sunday, she had Jeffrey pick her up at her place in Vermont. Although it was a bit of a drive from New York, where he lived, she took him to her favorite spot, a grassy hill crowned with a giant three-hundred-year-old oak tree. She had painted this spot dozens of times in all four seasons and she never tired of returning to it. This is where she found Domenic or more appropriately, Domenic found her. She imagined being married beneath her favorite tree. Now, this spot was made even more special because this is where Jeffrey kissed her the first time and this is where they made love. He was as stiff making out as the crease in his designer jeans and as gentle making love as he was with his words not to offend her or anyone. More vocal, more athletic, and needing to talk dirty to enflame her mood and unleash her passion, she was more emotionally charged making love than she was when painting her landscapes. In the way that she shocked him and encouraged him along, it was obvious that he had never been with a woman so sexually proactive. Never had he experienced a woman who knew what she wanted and wasn't afraid to take it, he admitted to her later. Certainly, she'd be a better painter if she could harness some her emotions, sexual energy, and lustful desire and put it to canvas. It was important that he had to be a good kisser and he was. It drove her wild when he felt her full breasts through her blouse while kissing her. Pushing her back on the soft grass and putting one of his legs over hers, she had no intention of going this far with him so soon, especially on a first date, but it felt so right and it felt so good. As much as she needed to know how he truly felt about her, she needed him to know how she truly felt about him. Alone in a grassy field with no one around for miles, she couldn't wait for him to strip her naked, but he was taking his sweet time about it, so she started stripping him. She unbuttoned his shirt and felt his chest, shoulders, arms, and stomach before reaching down to feel more. Then she unzipped his pants and reached her hand inside feeling the head of his cock through his underwear. He was hot and hard and she was hot and wet. She was attacking him in the way that most men attack women. She was horny and he was beautiful and it had been quite some time since she had sex. "I love feeling your cock through your pants," she told him. "Do you like my tits?" "I love your breasts." "Feel them. I want to see you touch them and watch you feel them," she said excited by telling him what it was she wanted and needed to get her even more aroused that she obviously was. "Twist and pull my nipples through my blouse and bra." Obediently, he followed her direction in whatever she wanted. He felt her body through her clothes as they kissed while rolling around and flattening the soft grass. "I want to show you my body," she said making sensual eye contact with him with her fingers poised on her blouse button. "Do you want to see my body?" She loved teasing him. "Yes," he said staring at her fingers while watching her about to unbutton her blouse. "Undress me, then," she said removing her hands from her blouse and allowing him to take over. In an instant, he had two buttons of her blouse unbuttoned and was working on the third. "Slowly," she said. "I want to savor the moment before showing you my body." He deliberately removed her blouse and skirt. "You have a beautiful body," he said feeling her tight stomach and moving his hand around her to feel her round ass through her panties. "I'm already wet for you. Touch me through my panties. Feel how wet my pussy is for you." "Yes, you are so very wet. I love touching you and it excites me to hear you talk dirty," he said reaching down and touching her while making eye contact with her before peeling off her panties. "Wait, let me see your cock first." He started removing his clothes, but she stopped him. "No, let me do it." She felt his prick through his boxers again. Then, she reached her hand inside and pulled out his cock. He was already erect and he felt so good in her hand. "You have a beautiful cock," she said wrapping her hand around it. She stroked him while staring down at him. Then, still holding his cock in her hand, she looked up at him while stroking him. With her still stroking his cock, they kissed while he fondled her tits and fingered her nipples. "Would you like me to go down on you?" She whispered in between kisses. "Yes," he returned her whisper. "Would it make you excited to feel your cock in my mouth," she whispered again, now more breathlessly while he fingered her nipples through her bra. It was a game she loved to play, talking dirty. She hoped that by initiating him to her little game that he'd want to play, too. "Oh, yes, I'd love to feel my cock in your mouth." "You have to promise me something though," she said with a sexy laugh. "Oh, don't worry, Sarah, I won't cum in your mouth. I promise. I'll tell you before—" "That's not what I want you to promise." "What then?" "You must promise you will cum in my mouth, but not now, later. I want to taste you, of course, but first I want to make love to you first. Then, after, I want to experience all of you." "I promise," he said before kissing her deeply. She lowered her body to his and took his cock in her mouth. She could feel him tense before he relaxed with the warm, wet sensation of her mouth sucking him. Still clad in her bra and panty, she couldn't wait until he stripped her naked. Once he was finished fumbling with her hook and removed her bra, once he removed her panty, she loved kissing him while he fingered her nipples while fingering her clit. She loved it how he went from her lips to her neck and to her breasts before starting the cycle all over again. He gave her goose bumps everywhere. She could orgasm just by having him pay extensive attention to her breasts while she felt and stroked his cock. Only, he was slow to tell her what he wanted and was a bit too reluctant to take what he wanted. She figured he was shy. She figured he was inexperienced. She decided to take more of the lead and to show him how to make love to her. As it turns out, he was more than deeply enamored with her. He was already in love with her. He told her later that from the time that he first saw her at the open air art show that it was love at first sight. "Make love to me. I need to feel you inside of me," she said throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him. His slow movements revealed, as he confessed to her later, that he didn't want to ruin anything with her by rushing her. He didn't want to make her feel pressured. He didn't want her to think that he was only after one thing. He wanted more than that. He wanted everything she had to offer and more. "I've never had a lover like you," he said stopping her from answering by kissing her lips. His cock was still buried deep inside of her and he returned her slow humps with his. "In the way you allow me the control, I thought this was your first time and I thought you were a virgin," she said with a coy laugh. "Being here with you now is like being with a woman for the first time. You make it feel all so new and exciting. Every women I've been with before, not that there were a lot of them, but they were all rich bitches and Daddy's princesses. They took the fun out of sex. They made it too serious. You make it fun." "Thank you," she said "I like sex, but only with a special someone." She made eye contact with him. "I hope that special someone will be you." He had a beautiful cock and she loved fondling it and staring at it before taking him deep inside her, as he was now. He was a beautiful man and with his blonde curly hair and deep blue eyes, she imagined that he'd make her beautiful children. She loved the feeling of running her fingers through his thick blonde hair while kissing and kissing him. Although she didn't paint people in the way she painted flowers and trees, now that she knows what he looks like naked instead of how she imagined he'd look like, she couldn't wait to paint him in the nude. She imagined them making love before, during, and after she painted him. She imagined him painting her body with watercolors. Just as he confessed that he had never met anyone like her before, she had never met anyone like him before either. It was a whirlwind romance that lasted three months before they started talking about marriage and children. Of course, his parents didn't want him to marry her, an artist who sold her paintings in the street. "She was a dirty girl. She had dirty feet. She didn't even wear shoes," said his mother. "With or without your blessing, Mother, we are getting married. I love her," said Jeffrey. Their only child, he had always been a pampered boy, especially with the health issues that he had as a child. He was never allowed to run and play games with the other children. Without ever having met her, his parents already knew everything they needed to know about Sarah to jump to the wrong conclusions. Even though she wore shoes to walk the city streets, she kicked them off once she reached her spot to sell her paintings. Their private investigators gave them a full report on her with erroneous details and unflattering photos. Jeffrey's parents had hoped it was a just Spring thing, a fling that he'd get over once he sowed his wild oats and once he was ready to settle down and be part of the family's successful real estate business. Back then, she was just a free spirit who loved to paint and never having met anyone like her, Jeffrey was taken with her. He was amazed by her dedication to her art, as much as he was astounded by her painting talent. Head over heels in love, they married, and had children. It wasn't the big wedding that Jeffrey's parents wanted him to have, albeit with another woman more his kind. It was a wedding that Jeffrey and Sarah wanted, exchanging vows before a small gathering of family and friends standing upon a Vermont hill, beneath her beloved oak tree. Only, as a last, unsuccessful effort in hopes he'd reconsider his mistake; his parents declined the invitation to attend the wedding of their only child. In loyalty to his wife, the love of his life, Jeffrey severed any contact with his parents. Growing up in a close Italian family, Sarah didn't want him to do that. Nonetheless, Jeffrey abandoned his family's real estate business and took a job with a competitor. Now, out from under the grasp of his controlling mother, it had been seven years since he saw his parents. Then, tragically one day, suddenly and unexpectedly, at only 32-years-old, the sole heir to the family's fortune, Jeffrey died. A non-smoker, thin, fit, and in the prime of his life, no one expected the worst to happen. When he was born the doctors said that he had a heart murmur and with the best of medical care, it was something that he had learned to live with by modifying his daily routine of diet and exercise to pamper his condition. Nonetheless, on this fateful day, after a rousing game of racket ball at the club, his competitive spirit instilled in him at an early age by his parents is what killed him. It was reported from the coroner's autopsy that a massive heart attack was the cause of death. From death do you part and for better or for worse, that was when everything changed for the worse for Sarah. After her husband died, the love of her children and the passion of her work as an artist was what sustained her. His parents were of no help to her. They had never even met. Only now, mourning their son's death and once Jeffrey's parents saw photos the kids, after refusing to even acknowledge their birth, the spitting image of Jeffrey, when he was their age, platinum blonde, blue-eyed, and rosy cheeked, they wanted them in the same way that they wanted to build another mega real estate development. Sarah would cut off her hands and never paint again rather than give up her kids to the state's court ordered custody decree delivered by her late, husband's rich family. Powerfully influential in the New York community where they lived in Manhattan, the father routinely played golf and had real estate business dealings with the judge. Even though the honorable judge excused himself from the trial, that didn't excuse the positive, political climate of favors that were unfairly given to the family behind closed doors in the decision found by the court against her. They said she was an unfit mother because she left her children with friends while she earned the money she needed to support them by selling her paintings at the flea markets. They said that she not only couldn't properly care for her two children but also that she couldn't support them. Truth be told, she wasn't an unfit mother and somehow and someway, she always managed to support them. She loved her children. She'd do anything for her kids. Only, with her family living so far away and unable to go there anyway because she absconded with the children and was in violation of the court order, it was impossibly difficult to be the sole provider and sole caregiver when her deceased husband's wealthy family refused her their help. His parents, Robert and Emily Laughton, never having met her, didn't even give her a chance to like her. From a black and white photo taken on an overcast day from the parked car of a private investigator, she was as dark as an Arabian stallion, a bit too full in the hips, too short, and as foreign appearing as a terrorist they said. They figured she was a heathen and a gypsy, but she was a God fearing Roman Catholic and a third generation Italian-American whose ancestors came from Florence, Italy. As it so happened, she was a direct descendent of the great painter and sculptor Michelangelo. Painting Sarah Just as she never understood their hatred of her, she never understood their inability to like anyone who wasn't just like them, white, Anglo-Saxon and Protestant. Their way of closed minded living was so unlike Sarah's open and accepting way of life. She loved all people no matter their race, color and creed. "She wasn't one of them. She'd never be one of them. She wasn't good enough for my son," she remembered the conversation she had with her husband when he confessed the words of his mother to Sarah after being asked why his parents didn't want to meet her. "Well, they are right that I'm not one of them and never will be one of them, but they are wrong that I'm not good enough for you," she said in an unaccustomed angry tone that suddenly made her want to paint a nice landscape of flowers and trees to calm her mood. She wasn't one of the blue blooded, fair haired, socially connected, tall and thin, rich debutants that they wanted their son, Jeffrey, to marry. They had hoped that he would have married Carolyn Jorgenson, daughter of George and Jessica Jorgenson, the construction tycoon or Anne Williams, daughter of the billionaire Wall Street financial genius Mark and Samantha Williams or Tara Martin, daughter of Michael and Christine Martin and heir to the great textile fortune. Hoping to use their handsome son as a pawn to connect them higher up the social ladder, they couldn't believe he abandoned their privileged way of life for a Gypsy. As cold as his parents were rich, as insensitive to the plights of the poor and to the green goodness of the Earth, Jeffrey rejected his parents' lifestyle for Sarah. He found all that he wanted and all that he needed in Sarah. Filled with life, she was full of love not only for him but also for every living thing that lived on the planet at the same time she did. When they had sex, it was real. It wasn't rehearsed. It wasn't expected and preplanned, it was magical and it was natural. Friends first who had become lovers; they committed their love for one another by taking their vows of marriage. It was as if they were one with their bodies and one with the Earth. She truly loved him and now she truly missed him. The deep sorrow she felt for the loss of her friend, her lover, and her husband was worsened by the mean spirited position that his parents' took in trying to take children away from their mother. Her children were all that she had left of him and she couldn't allow that to happen. Yet, more than that, they were her children. Aside from having plenty of money and connections to win any lawsuit they brought against her, what right did they have in taking her children from her? If they took her children away, it would be as if Jeffrey and their love had never existed. That's when she realized the intention of his parents was to plow their lost love in the ground like so much dirt moved with a bulldozer and bury it beneath the foundation of another family. Sarah spent all the money inherited from Jeffrey's life insurance, savings, and investments on legal fees fighting court custody battles to rightfully keep her children. His parent's were intent on taking their grandchildren away from their mother. It didn't matter how much money Sarah had or didn't have because his family had more than enough money and the free time to spend to insure that they won. When she showed up in court with her one overwhelmed attorney, his family didn't even take the time to make a court appearance; they just sent their four family retained attorneys Paul Meyer, Gary Peterson, Norman Clark, and John Daley of Meyer, Peterson, Clark, and Daley. Just before the decision was given, what money she had left, she bought a used minivan, loaded up her possessions worth taking, and drove southwest with the kids. With warrants for her arrest, amber alerts posted, charges filed for parental kidnapping, and private investigators skip tracing her every confirmed and unconfirmed move, she moved around and backtracked until she accidentally found a friendly and peaceful spot, miles from the main road, in Hopedale Valley. She had a flat tire and flagged down a passing motorist to help her. Fortunately for the man changing the tire while making small talk with the kids, Domenic was locked away in the cat carrier, which was, really a large dog carrier. "What is that," said the man upon hearing the cat growl and peering in the minivan before jacking up the van. "A cougar?" "That's Domenic," she said with a laugh. "He's a Maine Coon cat. He's very protective of my children. He doesn't like strangers, especially men." "A cat? That's a cat? I've never seen a cat that big in my life," he said taking another curious but cautious look before changing the tire. She moved her kids out of the van and away from passing cars. There, perched upon a plot of tufted grass that grew out of a ledge of rock, she overlooked Hopedale Valley. The vista made her want to paint it. It was beautiful. She couldn't imagine this sight at sunrise or at sunset. It must be spectacular. She was tired of running and tired of driving. When the stranger asked about her paintings in the van, she told him that she was an artist looking for a place to live and work. He directed her to an apartment in town he knew was vacant. Knocking at their door at suppertime, the homeowners welcomed her with an invitation to dinner and a place to call home. One big room, it was an oddly difficult to rent space, long and narrow and except for the half dozen support beams, it had a glass ceiling. Not a good space for a family to live, it was a perfect space for her to paint. Accepted with open arms, she disappeared within this small town and lived in a third floor artist's loft that she could barely afford. Always behind with the rent, Mr. Morris, the landlord, accepted more than one of her paintings in lieu of her rent payment. A retired couple without children, he and his wife, Maureen, adopted the kids, as if they were their grandchildren. Whenever Sarah asked them to baby-sit, which they were always happy to oblige, they fattened the kids with food, nurtured them with love and attention, and spoiled them with sweets and toys. The apartment gave her plenty of light but not much else. Running space heaters and believing in the premise that heat rises and sharing what little heat made it up to them from the two floors below before escaping through the roof, they all shivered and huddled in one, big room. Besides, with her kids bundled up in their jackets and blankets and with Sarah's passion to paint and create keeping her warm, they were seldom cold enough to notice the frigid temperatures outside that frosted their windows and curled their toes. Domenic, with his raccoon like tail and long haired, thick coat, did his best to keep everyone warm. She made what little money she could selling her paintings of landscapes and still life pictures of flowers and trees on E-Bay and at the fairs they had in surrounding communities. She was no Rembrandt nor did she have pretensions to be, but she was an accomplished artist who may have success, one day. If only she could put more emotion into her work, perhaps, then she'd encourage the interest of a patron of the arts, someone who believed in her talent as an artist and someone who would arrange to show her work at a gallery. Yet, with two hungry kids to feed and clothe while trying to satisfy her passion to paint, it was a juggling act that routinely had her dropping balls and missing opportunities. The holidays were always good for her. From mid-November through mid-January, people bought most of what she brought with her to sell and occasionally some commissioned her to paint something special and something that always offended her sense of size, shape, color and style, but she did it for the money. Only, it was difficult for her to lug around two kids and her canvases without the help of a man. There weren't many men eager to take on a woman with two kids, especially in the frightfully disheveled state she now looked. Since the death of Jeffrey, she had let herself go. Not getting enough sleep, burning the candle at both ends caring for her children, painting, and working to sell what she painted, she had deep bags under her eyes. She couldn't remember the last time she had her hair done or had enough money to buy a new piece of clothing. Going without food to make sure that her children had enough to eat, oftentimes she skipped a day or two without taking a shower. Unless she considered the dried paint that collected beneath her fingernails, she didn't have the time, inclination or money to waste on nail polish and on painting her nails. With her heart still belonging to Jeffrey, it wasn't men who held her interest or sparked her desire. It was her children and her art. Typically attired in t-shirt, jeans, colorfully speckled sneakers with a loose flowing paint spattered smock, it was visually obvious that she cared more about her children and her artwork than she did her appearance. The minimum amount of furnishings she had in her loft were unwanted items that were discarded at the curb or from dumpster diving. Up three flights of stairs and carrying the load alone, one man's trash somehow found its way to her tree top height sanctuary. Too warm in the summer and too cold in the winter, but besides the light that flowed in the huge wall to ceiling windows of her loft, she loved the view. The views were breathtaking. She had a commanding view of the whole valley from her crow's nest perch and her newly inspired landscapes benefited from her birds eye view. On a bedroom community street where most homes were one story ranches and two story split levels, her three storied Victorian that was built higher up on a hill gave her the best view of the landscape miles in every direction. Except for the church steeple, a water tower, and the fire tower in the distance, there was nothing blocking her view. Apparently, the original builder of the house was an artist and because this house was one of the first homes built in the neighborhood, the three story structure was grandfathered in the zoning laws of the town. It could only be rebuilt should it burn down. Enforced to dissuade developers from buying up cheap land to spoil their landscape with three and four story townhouses that would disrupt their quiet community with people and cars, no other homeowner could build a house more than two stories. Of course with the long arm of the law and the money that the Laughton's had at their disposal to spend to find and claim their grandchildren, it was only a matter of time before Sarah and her children were found. It was a day like any other when the private investigators parked their car down from where Sarah lived. Photographing her waving good-bye to her kids from the front porch of the Morris's, they followed her to the flea market where she sold her paintings. Once, there, they summoned the police to arrest her for violating her court order and for kidnapping. Carted off to jail, they then showed them a copy of the court order and directed the police to take custody of the children. Last on the agenda was to photograph Sarah's apartment to prove that she was inadequately caring for the children, should they need more evidence in court to remove the children from her custody and place them with the grandparents. Tom and Ed of Secured Investigations climbed the stairs that led to Sarah's apartment. The crying of the children could be heard in the distance as the police quickly loaded the kids in the squad car. Domenic was upset that his babies were crying. "Meow," purred Domenic from behind the closed front door. "Meow, meow." For such a massive cat, no one would know how big this monster was by his polite, petite meow and cute purr. Tom and Ed didn't need a key to open Sarah's front door. The door wasn't even locked. This was Hopedale Valley after all. No one locked their doors here. Everyone knew everyone and there was no crime. There was no need to steal anything when your neighbors would gladly give you whatever you needed, whenever you needed it. "She's got a kitty," said Tom before opening the door. "I love kitties. What should we do with it?" "The landlord will take care of it," said Ed. "Leave it for them. That's their problem," he said with a wave of his uncaring hand. "Remind me to put some milk down before we go," said Tom. "Remind yourself. I hate cats," said Ed. The men entered the loft and snapped on the light. Tom looked around for the kitty while Ed snapped off photos. "Here kitty, kitty, kitty. Here kitty, kitty, kitty," said Tom. "I don't see the cat anywhere." "That's because he's over here," said Ed. "What the Hell kind of cat is this?" Domenic launched himself at Ed's face. With fur flying, claws scratching, and cat biting, Ed did everything he could to remove the cat from his face, but Domenic was too big and too strong. It was an accident he said later to animal cruelty charges filed against him by the Morris's when he flung Domenic out the open window. Living out in the wild for so long, the cat must have already expended its nine lives because this time, free falling from three stories, the cat looked so much like road kill on the street down below. Only, when the men emerged from Sarah's apartment, Domenic was there waiting in ambush for them and now he was really mad. Again, he launched himself at Ed knocking the expensive digital camera from his hand and crashing and smashing it to the ground. It took all the strength that Ed had left to run to his car. Only, Domenic was right behind him and launched his fat body after his prey. For a cat so large, he could move and he beat Ed to the car and taking a bite out of his fat ass. Out one door and in the other, finally Ed was safe from the cat. Only, the cat had done its damage. His face and neck were a bloody messed. He looked as bad as Roy Horn did from Siegfried and Roy fame when Montecore, Roy's white, pet tiger nearly mauled him to death. Domenic's victory was short lived. He succumbed from the injuries suffered from his three story fall. As if having returned to protect his master, Sarah found him lying across the welcome mat at her front door when she finally arrived home. Not knowing that all the blood on the cat was from Ed, the private investigator, she thought he had been hit by a car, until the Morris's told her that Domenic had attacked the men. With tears in their eyes, her neighbors told her how the ever so protective and fearless Domenic defended himself to his death. Once arrested, Sarah was transported back to New York and imprisoned over the weekend before the judge released her on bail that Monday with a restraining order not to see or contact her children or hers. With no where else to go, she returned home to Hopedale Valley and to her life as an artist. Only, this time, still mourning the loss of her beloved husband and without her children and without her beloved cat, her life was different. Her paintings were different, too. They were no longer nice. They were angry. She painted angry trees and angry flowers with angry landscapes. She painted Domenic in the field where she first met him. She painted him strong and fearless. She painted him wildly bigger. She painted him as a ghost cat that necessitated that you look long and hard at her canvases before discerning the eyes of the cat and then the body. Finally, she painted him perched on the biggest branch of her beloved oak tree looking so much like the fat Cheshire cat in Alice and Wonderland, but so much bigger and so much meaner. She was sad. She was heartbroken. Still mourning the loss of her husband and now the loss of her children, as well as the loss her loyal, beloved cat, she was angry. Never having painted people before in her paintings of trees and flowers, she painted her children, as she remembered them blonde, beautiful, and happy. She painted them in the field of dying flowers standing by the oak tree. Now, all of her landscape paintings were not only of flowers and trees but were of flowers, trees, children, and ghost cats. Suddenly, her artwork came alive with the activity and the deep imbedded meaning, albeit more than a bit turbulent with torment from an angry artist, ala Jackson Pollock. Every scene was as windy as it was stormy. Every scene was an inside look of the artist's soul and how she felt when painting it. Every canvas captured her raw emotions of rage. There within the beauty of Hopedale Valley landscapes were the inexplicable and inescapable scenes of real life filled with death, tragedy, hurt, and hate. So counter to the beautiful landscapes that she painted, the depth of emotion gave her artwork a deeper dimension. Although they were disturbing images of an impending storm, there was so much motion of emotion there that it was difficult for the viewer to take their eyes away. No longer did they only see pretty flowers and trees when they looked at her landscapes. Within the beauty of nature, they saw all the fury that was the Earth. Needing to look again and again, there was always a new element that they hadn't seen before. Then, as her passion for art calmed her and her need to express herself through her painting overtook her, she began painting what she was meant to paint, nice paintings. As months turned to seasons and the seasons turned to years, with kidnapping charges dropped and her old life behind her, she no longer painted her beloved tree in Vermont but only painted Hopedale Valley. Scenes of Hopedale filled her entire loft. Only, as quickly as she painted them, she sold them. Each painting sold for more, until her large paintings were fetching five figure fees. People of wealth, power, and influence commissioned her to paint for them. With every picture she painted, she told her customer her sad story. With every painting she sold, she made more new friends. It was the photos that the private investigators took of Hopedale that encouraged the interest of hers. Only, their interest didn't pique until Sarah made the town famous with her paintings and it wasn't until her in-laws saw some of her paintings of Hopedale that they realized their dream. There was money to be made in Hopedale Valley, lots of it. Suddenly, there were tourists in a town that wasn't even on the map. Now, there was talk of building a new bridge for better access to the highway and posting more signs to direct people to the town. The diner and café never did so much business and had to hire two more full time people. The country store bought the larger vacant building across the way and the school approved a new budget for the people with children they expected were coming to buy homes. Only, behind the scenes, the Laughton's in their speculative real estate business had already bought up much of the land that surrounded the area. It took them five years to do it and that was five long years that Sarah did not see or have any contact with her children. It was five years of Sarah moving from painting her angry paintings of trees, flowers, children, and ghost cats to painting pretty landscapes of Hopedale Valley that possessed her soul of emotion. The Laughton's had big plans, plans so big that they invested much of their fortune and borrowed more to buy the land, pay the permits, hire the surveyors, pay the architects, plan with the designers, and ready the heavy construction machinery to break new ground. Not ones to put all their eggs in one basket, this time they did because, this time, they knew they'd make a killing. This was their last venture capitalist deal. This was the one that would allow them to retire with enough money to pass on to the future generations of Laughtons. Yet, the people of the small community didn't like that an outsider was destroying their utopian community with cars, people, and industry. They enjoyed the business of the tourists but they didn't want them to stay. Once they were done visiting and depositing their cash in their small town, they wanted them to leave. Painting Sarah Sarah heard through the town grapevine that the Laughton's had bought thousands of acres to build townhouses, a mall, and even an industrial complex center for the nuclear power facility that they had convinced the power company to consider building to supply power to the newly emerging valley. This was a deal that could easily make the one hundred million dollars that they invested a multi-billion dollar dream. They wouldn't even have to do anything else but buy the land, create the drawings and scale models, and with all the permits in hand, sell it at a huge profit to a developer, who would build their dream and sell it off in parcels to the highest bidder. Everyone was perched to make money, from the speculator to the realtor to the developer to the buyer to the business to the town. Yet, it was their dream to maximize their profit by doing it all. There was plenty of money to go around, but they were greedy. Instead of passing off and retiring their debt and tripling their investment, they wanted to make billions more. Alas, all good plans are just that, plans and not every dream comes true. Fortunately for Sarah and unfortunately for the Laughton's, not every story has a happy ending. Sarah, now a very wealthy woman in her own regard from painting her landscapes of trees and flowers called upon every powerful and influential person she knew and every person who had bought one of her paintings. There in Hopedale Valley, they all gathered appropriately on Earth Day to protest the destruction of land and the cutting of trees that Sarah had painted in her now famous paintings. Permits were revoked and the Laughton's were denied to break ground to begin construction. Now, the Laughton's were stuck with all that land that did nothing but grow beautiful flowers and support tall trees. Now, it was the Laughton's that were the ones unable to defend the custody suit that Sarah brought against them to take back her children. Sarah and her children made Hopedale Valley their home. She created a pet adoption center in Domenic's name and planted an oak tree in the front lawn of the three story house she bought from the Morris's when they retired to Florida. She even adopted a new cat, another Maine Coon cat that she named, Mr. Green because of his big, green eyes. His green eyes were a reminder that all of her paintings encouraged a greener world and put forth Earth Day as a holiday not only to celebrate once a year but also as a reminder to do something good for the planet every day. Happy Earth Day The End