The Art Gallery
August 28, 2010 § 6 Comments
As you may know, last week I took part in Red Writing Hood, a meme courtesy of The Red Dress Club.
This week’s prompt is: An art opening at a lavish downtown gallery. A car crashes through the plate glass window. The driver’s door opens, and an eight-year-old girl steps out.
I was a little confused as to how to use this in context, but after reading some other entries, I understood completely and after a while (again, with the help of my daughter… I must pay her for this, really) I finally thought it all up.
The Art Gallery
Kelly held her bag over her shoulder as she pulled the door open to the Summerdale Art Gallery. She was excited about the grand art opening. The artist, Juliet Brentwood, was her idol. She’d never seen her before, nobody had. That was her mystique. There were no photographs, no videos, as cameras were strictly forbidden at any of her events. This did seem unusual, but so was her work.
“Welcome to Summerdale Art Gallery, how may I help you today?” the receptionist smiled, her register in front of her, filled with A-list names.
“I’ve come for the Juliet Brentwood event,” Kelly replied, almost unable to hold in the excitement. She had to clench her fists to contain her energy, and her nails were digging into her palms painfully, but she didn’t care. It was worth it, she thought.
The receptionist smiled again, ticked Kelly’s name off the register and was given directions to the gallery room.
When she entered the room, there were more people in there than she’d have thought. She wasn’t really expecting a lot of people to be there, especially in England – Juliet was American after all.
The atmosphere was warm, welcoming. Kelly smiled at everyone and sat down, looking at her watch and grinning when she saw the time was nearing for Juliet’s arrival.
20 minutes passed, 20 minutes full of anticipation and excitement, and Kelly was actually starting to get a bit impatient. Juliet was supposed to be there as soon as Kelly had arrived. She didn’t think Juliet would be the sort to be fashionably late – she didn’t seem the fashionista, diva type. Her art was mysterious, dark, shadowing, and yet enjoyable. Kelly could stare at one of her canvases all day and boredom wouldn’t even cross her mind.
Suddenly, a loud shattering sound awoke everyone from their boredom. Everyone stood up immediately and ran to find the source, the whereabouts of this.
Kelly had led the way, and was the first to see the front half of a silver BMW, windscreen cracked, shattered glass surrounding the front wheels in a million tiny, ice-like pieces.
“What the hell is going on here?”
All sorts of enquiries were being called, out loud, to nobody in particular, as none of them expected an answer.
What happened next shocked every one of them, even more than this.
The driver’s door opened, a hand gripped onto the top. They all saw someone jump out, a small figure. The door slammed shut, and the person faced the broken window, and everyone gasped. An 8-year-old girl was standing before their very eyes, a grin on her face. She opened her mouth, uttered 11 words, 11 words that would change everything, everyone’s thoughts, everyone’s views.
“Hello, everyone. I’m Juliet Brentwood. I believe you’ve been expecting me?”