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Huda Orfali

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Member Since: Before 2003

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Dancing With The Angels
By Huda Orfali
Tuesday, November 23, 2004

Rated "G" by the Author.

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Was it really a painting?

Is this my cause? Should I have a cause in life or can I just paint because I want to paint?” he thought staring at the unfinished portrait. An old woman with noticeable wrinkles on her face was bending down to pick up a piece of bread.

He decided to change the bread into something smaller but less valuable, a coin maybe.
“This stirred the French Revolution,” he thought. “I need something to stir the heart. Perhaps a drop of rain! A pill maybe,” he tittered as the alarm went off reminding him that it was time to take one of his anti-cancer pills.
“I’m ordained dead, perhaps I should act dead. This is the cause, or is it the result?”

He poured a glass of wine, sipped it slowly and lit a cigarette. He watched the smoke spiral in white circles, took a deep breath and puffed the smoke. The first puff caused a bout of coughing.

He stood in front of the mirror and watched his sallow face; wrinkles were beginning to form. He was too young to have wrinkles; he was too young to die.

He picked up the brush and changed the painting again; he drew a match. The old woman lit the match. He watched the smoke spiral in circles and engulf the room. The smoke caused a bout of coughing until he couldn’t breathe. Bread, rain, smoke and fire!

The flames danced around the room in circles. The colors looked enchanting and he dropped the brush; they were the colors of revolution, the colors of life.

The flames looked like Angels dancing to a divine tune.
“This is a beautiful painting,” he thought.
Nevertheless, was it really a painting?

The smoke overwhelmed him and he fell to his knees gasping. There he saw his pills lying on the floor. Pills and Fire!

The angels were still dancing closer, beckoning him to join this celestial Waltz. He reached out to touch the dancing flames; the flames licked his hands. The brush felt hot, the old woman faded away and the painting started glowing with colors, so beautiful and radiant like the French Revolution, like the colors of life and the colors of death.

“I’m too young to die,” he screamed.
“I’m too tired to live,” answered the old woman and reached out to dance with the angels.

© 2001

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Reviewed by Nolene Dougan 7/26/2006
An exceptionally touching piece. Again phenomenal writing.
Reviewed by Peter Paton 5/23/2006
I would say it was a surreal dream...:)
Love and Peace
Reviewed by Michael Wells 7/20/2005
Was it a painting?
You certainlly painted a very painful image of this person's last moments in life
Very painful moments indeed when a person knows he is dying
Thanks for sharing
Reviewed by Regis Auffray 4/1/2005
Dear Huda, You write very, very well. There is so much meaning in this story that I am quite overwhelmed. Thank you for sharing this literary gem. Love and peace to you, my friend. Regis
Reviewed by Scott Anderson 11/24/2004
It is a painting, a very beautiful one. However, you sill have the brush to paint more. It's not burnt; it's full of colors.
Happy Thanksgiving
Reviewed by Karen Lynn Vidra, The Texas Tornado 11/23/2004
Nice write, Huda; so nice to read you again! Well done!

(((HUGS))) and much love, your friend in Tx., Karen Lynn. :D

Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours!
Reviewed by Chris Archer 11/23/2004
Wonderful writing. Powerful, emotional and full of colors: the colors of life, Huda not death.
Keep up the great work and God bless.
Happy Thanksgving
Reviewed by Michelle Kidwell Power In The Pen 11/23/2004
A great piece here, keep up the great work
God Bless

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