A Starry Night

A Starry night

Warning* may contain a few choice words some might not find suitable for younger ages.

Ellen Hunt was anxious. She gazed aimlessly across the blackboard, her mind consumed by the faint scent of disinfectant. 9th-grade Creative Writing wasn’t her favorite class, she would have rather been in the Art room, holding a chunk of clay or charcoal pencils. Ellen tried to pay attention to the lesson, but the soft beeping of machines lingered in her memory. Her long, curly brown hair fell around her face like a veil, shielding her from danger. Behind her stiff, melancholy demeanor were glossy green eyes that radiated with sorrow.

As she slouched at her desk, Ellen's thoughts drifted back to her mother who was discharged from the hospital just days ago. The silence within those barren white walls, its sterile smell and eerie silence. She watched her mother's strength and vitality slowly ebb away as she fought the sepsis, and then kidney failure; all a tragic side effect of the Chemo. Ellen's heart ached each day, knowing the only remaining option. Hospice.

The classroom door swung open as Mrs. Johnson, her English teacher, strolled in, flashing her warm smile. The floral skirt she wore swished across the floor, oversized for her petite frame. "Today, class, we're going to be outlining our mid-term assignment," she announced, her voice breaking Ellen's reverie. "You’re going to write a short tale, starring your greatest hero. "

Ellen’s face contorted in disgust as she took the assignment tool from the front table. “two thousand words?!” she whined. Whimsical writing was the bane of her existence. She stuffed the paper into her bookbag and shuffled to her locker, Holding eye contact with the concrete as she weaved through the stampede of reckless students.

Ellen's feet carried her home on autopilot, not even bothering to stop and pet Mrs. Miller's dog, who waited anxiously at the fence. The front door creaked open, revealing a scene that made her heart flutter. Her mother sat amidst stacks of paint-splattered canvases and half-finished art projects, a massive recreation of Van Gogh's "Sunflowers" bursting forth from the wall in vibrant yellows and oranges.

"Hey, sweetie! Come see what I'm working on!” Ellen’s mother, Margaret, was a small woman with a ton of personality. Once a middle school art teacher, Margaret could draw the creativity out of anyone. Even Ellen’s father could be found smearing paint on a canvas, despite his accountant personality.

"It's beautiful, Mom," she gasped, feeling the warm rays of her mother's infectious enthusiasm. She wrapped her arms around her bony shoulders, noting how small she felt. Her fragile physique felt foreign as she held her longer, swaying in front of the masterpiece. Ellen pulled her fingers through her mother’s hair, her wild red mane, thinned from toxic medications.

They both jumped as the front door slammed. Abigail, Ellen's older sister, marched through the dining room. On a mission, she sifted through every rickety drawer in the antique hutch, gathering supplies. Within minutes, the wooden table was covered in trinkets, spreading sparkling sunrays across the walls. Candles, crystals, and questionable artifacts were all placed with confident precision. "This one is going to work!" she ensured. "I can feel it!”

Ellen rolled her eyes, predicting the future disappointment. But Abigail just smiled, confident as always. She had been practicing her craft for weeks, leading to multiple accidents. Between the frisbee-sized burn in the living room carpet and the decapitated garden gnome, the distrust was warranted. She began to chant, her voice rising and falling in a hypnotic rhythm, the words meaningless to Ellen but seemingly powerful to Abigail.

The three of them surrounded the makeshift altar. Margaret and Ellen watched supportively as the spell repeated 5, 6, 7 times. Ellen had little patience for her sister’s necromancy bull shit, but remained quiet, not needing another reminder from her mother that Abigail was grieving too.

Abigail’s voice grows deeper and louder with each redundant loop. In a blink, her deep blue eyes turned silver as a miniature storm cloud appeared in front of her. Ellen rubbed her eyes in disbelief, Its presence was both mesmerizing and terrifying. Lightning shot from the cloud, illuminating the room in brilliant flashes, striking down in the center of the table.

Margaret hugged the wall, pleading, "Abigail, stop! This is getting out of control!" She gripped Ellen’s hand tightly as the wind began to twirl around them, whipping their hair into a frenzy.

But Abigail's gaze was wild with excitement as she shouted back, "I did stop! It's the spell doing its own thing!"

Ellen watched a glass bottle of shimmering blue liquid spilled onto the table, pooling around the open copy of ‘The Vincent van Gogh Collection’ that her mother had been using for inspiration. The ruthless wind whipped harder, as lightning struck the spell runes in unity. Sparks of light shot from the pages, dancing around the room like fireflies on a summer night. They reunited, forming a funnel, spinning faster and faster until they resembled a swarm of agitated bees.

The air felt electric, causing goosebumps to sprout on Ellen’s arms. Fighting to see through the chaos, she spotted feet, and flaming orange hair, as a figure began to materialize from thin air.

After a blinding flash of light, it was over. Ellen looked over at her mother, who was shell-shocked at best. Abigail inched her way back to the table, assessing the damage. They all froze, hearing a ‘cough’ from the lingering fog. Before them a small man holding a wooden paint palette, waving it as he pushed the fog around him away.

“Holy shit!” Abigail squealed, clapping her hands “I just conjured Vincent Van Gogh!”

Vincent Van Gogh studied each woman carefully as he stood up and wandered through the cluttered space. His gaze locked on the modern fluorescent bulbs above their heads, muttering in a thick Dutch accent, "Wat in de naam van de Heer...?" ("What in the name of the Lord...?")

The artist folded his arms across his chest as he analyzed the air fryer on the kitchen island. He leaned over the counter for a closer look, witnessing the digit clock flashed to 5:07 PM. His eyes widened with shock, “Heksen?” He scoffed. He was remarkably calm for a man who had flashed 150 years into the future.

Soon, his bare feet danced between the canvases, swirling his brush like a baton. Conducting the shaded evergreens and roaring waterfalls to a vibrant melody. He clapped his filthy hands with delight as he approached the wall, running his hands across the globs of acrylic paint. “Fascinerend” he gasped. Van Gogh massaged the yellow paste in his fingers, turning his attention back to the girls.

Margaret stared in disbelief at his familiar features, mesmerized by the accuracy of his self-portraits. Single tears of joy glistened as they fell from her tired eyes, like diamonds scattered across her cheeks. She approached him cautiously, holding out her right hand. “It's really you," she whispered.

“Ah, English” Van Gogh exclaimed, flashing her a playful smirk. “So stunning”

She blushed as he pulled her hands to his lips, her complexion matching her Auburn hair. His brow furrowed in confusion, glancing back at the plasma TV in the corner "I do not understand.”

Abigail’s face lit up as if the realization itself was illuminating her from within. "I was trying to summon Mom’s inner power, I didn't think I'd resurrect Van Gogh himself!" She glanced back at the table, the famous artist's face still lying in a pool of slime. “The book must have changed the spell!”

But Margaret paid no attention to her daughter's epiphany. Her eyes locked onto the artist, her lifelong inspiration, afraid that one blink would cause him to vanish. She held her hands, clasped, in her lap as if praying for the moment to last forever. Ellen hadn’t seen her mother this happy since their last family vacation to Myrtle Beach, she’d always loved the ocean. It would be the last time before her diagnosis of stage 4 breast cancer, just 3 months later.

Sill as a statue, Van Gogh stood quiet, observing the commotion his entry had caused. He galloped to a stack of blank canvas, tossing the largest onto a wooden easel. The easel had resided in the center of the parlor Ellen’s entire childhood, only put away for major holidays or reckless teenage sleepovers. He turned to his palette, still held in his left hand, frantically mixing yellows, oranges, and browns. And with a flick of his brush, he painted.

Abigail tugged at her sister’s shirt, pulling her back to reality. “I figured it out." she panted, her voice barely above a whisper. "The spell only lasts until sunrise. We have to make the most of it."

“Come come” he ordered, assisting Margaret from her chair. He led her to the field of sunflowers, scattered onto the plaster.

“You?” he inquired, waving his brush at the mural.

Margaret nodded, anxiously combing her hair with her fingers.

“Perfection!” he gleamed, unaware of the validation his words held. His eyes darted to a tray of art supplies on the coffee table, fumbling through the layers, and pulling out a liner brush dressed in royal blue. “Paint” he commanded, holding it out for her.

Margaret shook her hands “Oh, no... I couldn't... I'm too”

Van Gogh interrupted her with a disapproving ‘tisk’. Shaking his head slowly, he placed the polished wood handle into her palm and carefully curled her fingers around it. “You paint,” he ordered.

For the next few hours, the graceful duo danced in unison, appearing to have performed together for centuries. His eyes locked onto Margaret and a soft smile spread across his face. He seemed to understand the depth of her emotion, his own eyes welling with tears.

The boundaries between reality and fantasy began to blur, as Ellen found herself lost in the magic. Abigail, on the other hand, was exhausted from the emotional intensity of the evening and nodded off. Her tired head lay peacefully in her sister’s lap, the rest of her, curled into a ball, shielding herself from her harsh reality.

Ellen cataloged each moment, watching her mother dance with her preceptor as they stole inspiration from each other.

She stroked Abigail's cheek, burying the unbearable thought that they would both soon lose their hero. She closed her eyes and focused on the oh-so-familiar smell of drying acrylics and turpentine, replacing the traumatic sterile fumes that lingered in her hospital memories.

“Well. It’s been two decades since I pulled an all-nighter,” sighed Margaret, causing Van Gogh to spit out a short giggle. As the night sky started to lighten, the artists stood together, examining their hard work. Ellen shook Abigail awake, knowing time was limited.

Van Gogh gifted Margaret with an elaborate bow, as he cupped her hands in his. “Thank you” he beamed, wrapping his rainbow speckled arms around her. Over her shoulder, he grinned ear to ear, glancing one last time at her immaculate mural. He held her close, whispering three final words into her ear. “My forever inspiration”.

As the sun's golden rays crept into the room, Van Gogh's form began to shimmer, enveloped in a soft blue light. He lifted his painting from the easel, admiring the still-damp detail of the leaves.

The forgotten crystals began to rumble, sending vibrations through the table. He approached the copy of his portfolio, still open to his infamous sunflower series. He smirked bashfully as he read the caption, ‘Vincent Van Gogh’s Sunflowers, a world-famous masterpiece’.

The familiar blue lights shot from the biography, engulfing him in a gentle breeze. He stretched out his arm, handing Margaret his palette, still damp with oils from his legendary landscape.

The girls surrounded their mother, holding her steady. Margaret gasped, clutching tightly to her chest, as she watched her lifelong hero dissolve in a flash of white light. Vincent Van Gogh was gone, as quickly as he arrived.

"She passed away just 5 days later, surrounded by her biggest fans. Her hospital bed aligned with her newest masterpiece, which she titled ‘A Night with Van Gogh’. Even though we ache in sorrow, we find comfort in knowing her story was complete. She had finished her life's work, sealed with approval from her lifelong hero.”

Ellen stood shaking before her audience, her heart pounding. A large sigh of relief deflated from her chest before she scurried back to her desk, fleeing from the undesired spotlight. She shoved the paper back into her bookbag, as her classmates erupted in applause, affirming her mother’s pure authentic beauty.

Mrs. Johnson beamed behind her glistening lashes, not bothering to wipe the tears falling from her narrow cheekbones. "That was beautiful, Ellen," her voice sang with compassion, "Your mother would be so proud of you."

Ellen nodded, feeling a sense of overwhelming peace as she imagined that night, watching her hero meet her own. Her soul ached as she wished for one more day, one more painting, even one more hug. Nevertheless, she was grateful. Knowing her mom no longer suffered, and for the chance she had to continue her legacy. A legacy of art, love, and inspiration.

She raced to her next class, Art, her favorite haven. She filled her cup at the sink, adding a handful of various brushes, before strolling through the storage room in search of her latest project. Her demeanor softened as she located it on the top shelf, admiring the layers of acrylic as she leaned it against her assigned easel.

The glossy white paint glugged as she shook the bottle, preparing to spend the next hour letting her mind wander while shading hundreds of miniature yellow pedals. She could almost see her mother running through the familiar field of sunflowers that glowed by the dozens across her canvas. As the Bell rang, she paused, taking a moment to lean closer to the scenery. “My forever inspiration” she whispered, picking up that same weathered palette, still stained in shades of yellow.