• This is the very first part in a story that I began writing back in January called "Chelsea". It's about a very complex relationship between a washed-up musician and a on-the-rise artist. Set in the New York City art world, this story is written in first person reflective and jumps from memory to memory. The narrator is never specified as male or female so the reader can fill in that blank themselves. Thank you, and enjoy. Hopefully soon I'll come up with the other chapters.

Warm colors trickled down the rough surface of the once blank canvas like a single raindrop would make its way down a pane of glass. With crossed arms, her slender build pressed back against her left foot, and a delicate set of fingers tapped against her bicep in such an exhilarating, rhythmic way that her chest rose and fell with a single exhale that sent her sugary breath toward her new masterpiece. On her canvas was a single sun alone in a white abyss. That's how she described it, at least. To me, it was more of an off-center collage, a thick combination of orange and yellow swirls that blended with splashes of red, causing the so-called "sun" to look careless and unbalanced. The underside of her "sun" dripped with long strands; all of the colors colliding into three various nonidentical tendrils that desperately stretched toward the bottom of her canvas. The simplicity and disorder of the piece is what drew me to it.
"Chelsea," I whispered her name although I knew she didn't want to hear my voice. Other than the silent motors of the casual cars on the city streets outside and below her top-floor studio, the tapping from her fingers and the sounds of our breathing, pure silence was the reply that she gave me. Side-by-side we gazed at this piece, so many memories seemed to fill my mind to the brim, but I forced my expression to remain as focused and as frigid as hers. My chin still quivered. The memory that shook my insides more violently than an earthquake ever could occurred five years previous to that exact night.
The Redwood Coffee Shop was owned by my best friend, Amelie, and it was the last place I performed before my music career slowly plummeted over the years to come. Now, Redwood wasn't just that small little coffee shop that is always in those cute love stories; Redwood was the base of a flourishing art and music franchise. This specific coffee shop was the next big thing in the New York art world. Artists and musicians from the entire east coast would try with every ounce of their strength to perform or to get their personal masterpieces auctioned there. Very few would succeed, but those who did were instantaneously recognized by a wide variety of record producers and stingy, rich art-buyers. At this particular time in my life, I was one of the most talked about performers on the coast. Redwood records was only a few signatures from taking me under their wing, I thought I was unstoppable. Bitter jealousy was the match that started the fire. The feeling that swept over me the moment I stepped out on that stage, and made my way to the lonely microphone with my guitar, was one of those feelings you never forget. As I stood there with my lips parted against the microphone, I noticed the pieces that were being auctioned off.
My eyes set on the displays of art that every one's attention was adverted to. All the individual decorated canvases seemed to tell a different story of various emotions through such simple, carefully splattered shapes that resembled, in your mind, exactly what the artist had intended it to be. It was as if the artist had only projected their feelings and ways of expressing them flawlessly on a canvas for our visual pleasure. The art spoke unlike anything I had ever seen, and I was jealous that those beautiful creations were getting more recognition than I was. At the time, I was the definition of selfish and egotistical combined.
All of the lights dimmed, glasses and mugs clinked delicately together while the two or three hundred people hushed themselves and faced the stage I was on. My lips were still pressed lightly against the microphone whenever the stage lights slowly came on. Fingertips against metal strings followed by a soothing melody, harmonizing with the soft, jazzy vocals emanating from my throat suddenly relaxed me; This was the moment that I woke up for every morning. The way I had felt at that instant tingles through my body as I write this. It was pure ecstasy.
When my first song finished, every one's faces were fixed in the sort of, 'I-didn't-expect-her-to-be-that-good,' expression, which fueled my ego and created a smirk across my lips. Hands joined in applause as I drank from my water bottle. Just as I had set the bottle down, and turned back to the mic, I adjusted my guitar strap, then my eyes met with hers. Strikingly short platinum blond hair was the very first thing I had noticed about this tall beauty in her simple, black, knee-length dress. My eyes closed to break that contact. I had felt like I knew who she was and everything she had seen in her life, it was so strange. Tension rose from my chest to my throat as a million eyes watched me impatiently. This sort of feeling never usually occurred to me on stage, but then again, that night was turning out to be a very unusual night and it wasn't even close to a conclusion.
After I sang my last songs, I slid the guitar strap over my head, and glanced one last time at the coffee bar where platinum blond had been standing... She was still there. Aggravation swept through my body while my eyebrows furrowed. Although there were several people trying to get her attention for whatever reason, her intense, yet serene gaze was set on me, and I hated it. Quickly, I set the guitar in its case and hopped off of the stage. I wanted a better look at the artistic splendors that were so captivating to everyone, including myself. The first piece I approached was an oil on a black canvas. Green and aqua splashes seemed to create the illusion of rain falling into a space of black nothingness until it faded. Off to the right, near the edge of the canvas was a dab of white paint. It was small and feeble. At the bottom, in the left-hand corner, I read the artist signature, 'C.England' followed by the date, which caught and sparked my already brewing curiosity.
"The white resembles the light in us," a silky female voice coated in vanilla and an accent I couldn't distinguish was observing the piece beside me. My head turned curiously, and the image I saw in that moment will never cease to linger in the back doors of my mind. Platinum blond stood next to me with her creamy, slender arms crossed over her chest as her blood red nails tapped casually against her skin. Seconds after the anger began to boil in my gut, her head turned from the masterpiece to my face with an intellectual smirk, and my anger subsided.
"My name is Chelsea England," her eyes were a shimmering pool of slate-gray rocks that captivated me as her smooth words rolled like a lullaby off her tongue, "I really enjoyed your music, would you like to join me to a caramel latte?"
My expression towards her blunt introduction was that of a deer caught under blinding headlights, and she noticed. Suddenly all of the puzzle pieces had clicked in my mind. The reason I felt like I had known her was because she was 'C.England.' I felt like the most naive person in the world for not fitting it together quicker. This charming girl would make me and break me. Chelsea England had just started the new chapter in my life.

Hours and caramel cream lattes passed quicker than milliseconds as Chelsea and I lounged in the VIP room. As the night had progressed, all of Miss England's art sold, leaving the main room bigger than it was previously. Around 11:30, the older people had migrated out, leaving a still, very large group of caffeinated and slightly intoxicated party-goers. Redwood wasn't just known for the extremely original art-work and the Indie-acoustic music that followed, it was also known for the late night parties that lasted until the last person left.
"Beautiful ladies and charming gentlemen," Chelsea and I looked behind us and over the rail. Below us on the dance floor we watched the excited group of men and women gather around the stage, where my friend Amelie stood in her flashy violet dress with the microphone to her lips, "Good evening. Now that our respected old-timers have gone to bed," her speech paused while the crowd cheered and whistled, "I think that it's time we introduce our guest who will lead us to the sunrise... DJ Sophie Love, everyone!!" Amelie's arm swung behind her where the turn-tables had been discreetly set-up. Chelsea sat up on her knees beside me on the couch and yelled a few excited words that I couldn't comprehend. The excessive amount of caffeine and alcohol in my system caused me to laugh hysterically anyway. Amelie handed the microphone to Sophie, who was now beside her. Chelsea did a very loud, obnoxious wolf-whistle and yelled, "Uyy, papiii!!" at the top of her lungs. Sophie must have known who it came from, because she flashed her pearly whites and laughed into the microphone, "That's my England!"