Free to Read: "The Free and Sorrowless Sky"
“The Free and Sorrowless Sky” was one of those stories I always knew was going to be a hard sell. However, it was something I needed to write, a way to say ‘thank you’ to so many people who are no longer with us. That being said, I hope you enjoy this story.
The Free and Sorrowless Sky
By Thomas Broderick
“Hey, H, your paint’s getting everywhere.”
Sitting at his desk, H roused at the sound of T’s voice. He looked down. The brush in his right hand was dripping red paint on the cel - a watercolor of placid green hills against a cobalt blue sky.
“Thanks.” H wiped away the errant drips with a tissue.
“No problem.” T watched H’s eyes. The older man was scanning the room as if it was unfamiliar.
T bent over slightly so he could whisper. “You got a minute to talk in private?”
“Sure.” It took H two tries to get to his feet.
They walked up the spiral staircase to the third floor, where there was a narrow passage to the roof. H hesitated there before following T outside.
It was a pleasant summer afternoon. Low office buildings and houses extended for miles in every direction.
The two men leaned against the waist-high rail.
“It’s your sky,” T said.
“My…”
“Like the ones you always paint. Lately, all I think about when I come up here is that I’m looking at your sky.”
“I guess.”
“H, you think I’ve been working the team too hard?”
“You never have before. Something happen?”
“Well, I was talking with R about her storyboards last week. All of a sudden, she stopped speaking mid-sentence. The only thing she could do was stare at me. Her face, it was like she was looking at a ghost. I was just about to call for help before she snapped out of it. She had no idea what had happened.
“Something similar happened to N two days later. He’s the new kid we hired on from the animation school. He was standing at the window, the one near his desk on the second floor. Just like R, he had that same look in his eyes. I asked him what was wrong.”
“What did he say?”
“He said that he had shattered his hand when he jumped from the window, and that it had taken him fifteen years to pick up a brush again. Ten seconds later, he was back to normal. He looked at me like I was crazy when I repeated what he told me.”
T turned to H. The color had drained from the illustrator’s face.
T took a deep breath. “You seeing ghosts, too? Something I should know, H?”
H stared at the ground. “Other people in our field, they called this place a sanctuary, a utopia, even Heaven. It felt that way, working here every day. And now, it really is Heaven, just a manmade one.”
H raised his hand, fingers pinched as if he were holding a brush. With a flick, he conjured a small cloud into what up until that moment had been a clear sky. He sighed. “They said you wouldn’t be able to tell.”
The cloud grew and darkened.
His eyes still wide from what he had just seen, T struggled to speak. “They?”
H turned and pointed north. “Mathematicians from the university. At first, they just wanted the server data. They said they had something called a predictive algorithm, and it could finish what we started. Then they asked for more – diaries, emails, even schoolwork – anything we had ever written, even from the half of us who made it...” He stopped himself before continuing. “They built this place, somewhere we could all keep telling stories together. You know what the bosses always said - we deliver dreams to people living in a sad world. Here, we can do that forever.”
Rain began to fall on nearby buildings.
“I don’t get it. What happ…” T stopped when he saw H’s hands, usually so steady and precise, trembling despite grasping onto the metal rail. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to tell me.”
The cloud, now black, blotted out the sun. Lightning struck the mountain range in the distance.
“R and N?”
“They came up with a way for us to leave a more permanent impression. R and N visited just long enough to transfer their talent and experience. I’m an old, old man, T. I asked them if I could stay until the end. I want it to be here.”
H reached out and embraced the younger man as hard as he could. “I wasn’t a director. I wasn’t a writer. I just drew pictures. It should have been…” His voice, barely audible over the torrential rain drenching them, cracked.
The unfinished confession sent H to his knees. Like a child begging his father’s forgiveness, he pressed his head into T’s stomach.
T rested his hands on H’s shoulders. “H, whatever happened to this place, whatever happened to us, I’m sure you couldn’t have done anything. It wasn’t your fault.”
The rain subsided, and H stood with T’s help. “Thank you.”
In just a few seconds, the ground and men’s clothes dried, and the world returned to unimaginable splendor. T looked back out over the now peaceful horizon. The view was more magnificent than anything he had ever seen.
T turned to H. The illustrator was grinning slightly. T wondered. “It’s your sky.”
H chuckled. “Maybe if I had another thirty years to practice! Look, we’re wasting daylight up here. I’d like your feedback on my latest before I scan it in.”
“Sure, H. Go on ahead. I need a minute.”
Alone, T returned his attention to the scenery. Without warning, a single tear rolled down his left cheek. Smiling, he wiped it away.
As he walked back inside, T was certain that H’s work would be better than ever.
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