Stardust // Portrait in the Sand
Title: Portrait in the Sand
Author: Sarah
Rating: PG
Words: 275
Characters: Tristan, Dunstan
Summary: Tristan draws and picture and wants to show Dunstan.
Disclaimer: Still only own the book.
A young Tristan sat cross-legged in front of his father’s tiny cottage with a mangled stick in his tiny hand. Near the front garden, there was a small patch of soil made of sand and dirt, similar to the nearby field where the other boys played ball. He carefully maneuvered the stick to form shapes in the dirt. Settling for no less than perfection, Tristan’s white sleeve had become the color of peanut butter from wiping his makeshift easel clean.
At last, he was satisfied with his work: a self portrait, painted in sand. It was exact down to his slightly pointed ear. He stood up quickly, yet carefully, eager to show his father.
“Father, father,” he called, running to the window. “Come, I’ve something to show you.”
Dunstan stood up from the kitchen table, placing his book down, careful not to lose his page. “I’ll be out in a moment.”
Tristan, his back turned to his artwork, anxiously watched his father slip on his shoes and open the front door. “Look,” he grabbed Dunstan by the hand and led him to the small patch of sand.
“What?” Dunstan looked down.
Instead of Tristan’s portrait, the patch had been wiped clean with only something resembling a footprint near where the grass started.
Tristan looked down, a lump forming in his throat. “I… uh. Nothing, I’m sorry, Father.” He stared at his feet, defeated.
Dunstan sighed and gently put his hand on his son’s shoulder. “Let’s go inside and get supper started, okay?”
Tristan only nodded. He allowed his father to lead him inside, not even bothering to look back. He thought he heard someone snicker.
Author: Sarah
Rating: PG
Words: 275
Characters: Tristan, Dunstan
Summary: Tristan draws and picture and wants to show Dunstan.
Disclaimer: Still only own the book.
A young Tristan sat cross-legged in front of his father’s tiny cottage with a mangled stick in his tiny hand. Near the front garden, there was a small patch of soil made of sand and dirt, similar to the nearby field where the other boys played ball. He carefully maneuvered the stick to form shapes in the dirt. Settling for no less than perfection, Tristan’s white sleeve had become the color of peanut butter from wiping his makeshift easel clean.
At last, he was satisfied with his work: a self portrait, painted in sand. It was exact down to his slightly pointed ear. He stood up quickly, yet carefully, eager to show his father.
“Father, father,” he called, running to the window. “Come, I’ve something to show you.”
Dunstan stood up from the kitchen table, placing his book down, careful not to lose his page. “I’ll be out in a moment.”
Tristan, his back turned to his artwork, anxiously watched his father slip on his shoes and open the front door. “Look,” he grabbed Dunstan by the hand and led him to the small patch of sand.
“What?” Dunstan looked down.
Instead of Tristan’s portrait, the patch had been wiped clean with only something resembling a footprint near where the grass started.
Tristan looked down, a lump forming in his throat. “I… uh. Nothing, I’m sorry, Father.” He stared at his feet, defeated.
Dunstan sighed and gently put his hand on his son’s shoulder. “Let’s go inside and get supper started, okay?”
Tristan only nodded. He allowed his father to lead him inside, not even bothering to look back. He thought he heard someone snicker.