A Battle Raging

By

Sharon Cullars

Copyright © July, 2013 by Sharon Cullars

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference may be made to actual events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Warning

This e-book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language. The author's e-books are for sale to adults ONLY, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase
.

I want to thank my special friend and reader Desireé Dawson who encouraged me throughout the process of writing this book (and putting together the cover). She kept me honest (and more importantly, she enjoyed my book; we can remain friends).

Maya sized up t
he new students as they strolled into the art studio, their excited chatter reverberating against rough cement walls and exposed pipes. The group consisted mostly of women ranging in age from early twenties to late sixties, which was the norm for most of her classes. The only two males present appeared to be in their late fifties and seemed a bit Bohemian by their dress. All together the class numbered twelve although there was supposed to be thirteen students. Someone was either late or had dropped without notice. Still, she figured twelve was a decent number. Just enough to make the class interesting and bring in enough income to cover overhead, utilities and supplies.

She
stood near one of the three large plate windows through which the midday sun fell onto the thirteen easels she'd set up. A sunny day was a boon this early April. She waited for each of the students to situate themselves at an easel before she walked to the back of the studio to shut the door. She then walked to the front again and began the usual spiel.

"
Welcome everybody to Introduction to Still Life Study. In this class, I'll take you through the basics of sketching still life objects. During the ten weeks, we'll be dealing with various media such as charcoal, ink and even some crayon and hopefully by the end of the semester all of you will at least be able to draw a straight line. And let me just say how nice it is to see such exuberance on the first day. Good energy usually translates to an exciting class. First thing, let's get the formalities out the way. My name is Maya Temple…"

A
couple of snickers broke out; she'd half expected it. She smiled.

"Yes, my mother did me
no favors by practically naming me after a tourist sight. Anyway, again my name is Maya Temple and I will be instructing this class. My main goal as your instructor is to make the class fun and interesting no matter your skill level. Most of you are probably new to sketching and I'll be here to help you along and teach you the basics. And there may be a few of you who may be a little ahead of everybody else, and that's OK. I'll challenge you a bit more to get your skills set up. So, right now I'm going to take a roll call to see who's here…"

Just then
the door in the back opened and a man in a wheelchair pushed through.

Curious heads turned to watch his progress as he rolled past them to
ward the one remaining easel at the front of the class. Hands encased in fingerless gray gloves maneuvered the wheels with fluid ease. The newcomer slid into the empty space next to the empty easel. He then set startling gray eyes on her. Dark hair escaped the gray knit hat on his head and a dark stubble covered his firm jaw and chin.

The artist in her saw
how planes and shadows would translate to a canvas in charcoal, in oils. Those translucent eyes would be a challenge to recreate on paper but it would be worth it. Not that she would get the chance.

"You're just in time for roll call," she
addressed him directly.  "As I just told the class, I'm your instructor Maya Temple and I'll be teaching you the essentials of still life study."

He didn't
say anything, simply nodded his head in acknowledgment. Slightly irritated at his non-response, Maya picked up the list with the names of the registered students.

"OK, when I call your name, please stand…"
then remembering the late arrival who just looked at her blankly…"or sit if you choose…and tell us what you expect to get from the class. First off, Mary Abramson."

"Here…
here I am," a voice called from the back as a large, 50ish woman in a gypsy blouse and maxi skirt stood. Her blond hair was somewhat windblown and her red lipstick was stark and smudged.

"
Yes, Mary, tell us a little about what you're hoping to get from the class."

The woman's
skin flushed a bit as she began, "Well, to be honest, I've never drawn anything but stick figures, and I thought it'd be nice to draw handmade birthday cards for my grandkids. I'm a bad drawer, but I hope to become better. And…that's…it." She sat down again with an expression of relief that she'd gotten her mini presentation over with.

"Well, Mary, I'm going to do my best to
help you improve your skills so that you'll at least feel more comfortable drawing. And don't feel ashamed about your ability, or lack thereof, because every artist starts somewhere. The most important thing you'll need for this class is a simple desire to draw. OK, moving on…" checking the next name on the list, "…next up is Robert Borneo."

One of the bohemian
dressed gentlemen she'd noted earlier stood. Both men had chosen adjacent easels and she wondered casually if they were a couple. Mr. Borneo's salt and pepper hair was pulled back in a shoulder-length ponytail and was in odd contrast to his dark grayless beard. Far from boho chic, he wore a large caftan designed with Native American patterns that draped over basic stone washed jeans. She knew the type: vegan, eco-zealot, someone her late father would have called a "liberal leaning tree-hugger." But then again, her father had been a staunch black Goldwater conservative, which had made him a talking point himself, especially when she was out with her friends.

"
Well, me and Jesse here always wanted to get into the arts," Mr. Borneo said with a raspy voice. Maya suspected his hoarseness might be due to a cigarette habit, past or present. "We plan to go to New Mexico later this year, capture some of the scenery, you know like the mountains and clouds and all of God's beauty."

She checked
the roster. "Is that Jesse Ramirez?" she asked the man's partner who was still seated.

"Yes, ma'am,"
Mr. Ramirez answered somewhat shyly. Unlike Mr. Borneo, he was clean shaven with dark hair. Although he had no gray, his face was weathered, indicating that he was up in years or had spent more than his fair share out in the sun.

"
What a wonderful idea. Capturing nature in art instead of just using a camera can elicit an emotional response to a degree that an ordinary photo may not. Thank you for sharing."

She continued
down the list of students, each one giving his or her reason for signing up for the class. As she suspected, most were first-timers. Only one student admitted to having taken a previous art class but she declared that the class had been a couple of decades ago.

Finally
Maya called the last name on the roster; Zachary Yarborough.

"
Just call me Zach," the man in the wheelchair said. His voice was tight, as though he resented the attention. Inwardly, she sighed. There always had to be one in the class. She just hoped he wasn't going to be too much of an asshole.

"OK, Zach, tell us what yo
u hope to get out of this class," she said.

"Nothing
," he answered matter-of-factly, piercing her with an unwavering stare.

"Nothing?
Seriously, you must have some reason for taking this class." Now it was her voice that was strained.

He didn't answer, and she felt an anger rising.

"Then why are you here
, Mr. Yarborough?" she asked, unable to keep the irritation out of her voice.

He sighed and at first she thought he was going to refuse to say anything, but then:

"I'm here because some whack psychiatrist thinks I have anger issues and wants me to
express
myself to work out my anger."

The way he said
"express" was full of contempt and he obviously felt that same contempt for the class, and by extension, for her as well.

"If you prefer not to be here, you
can simply drop the class. You will be refunded your full tuition. Let me just say Mr. Yarborough that I want students who can appreciate this class. Your presence here would only be a disruption to those who want to learn about art."

"
Since this class is mandatory to my therapy, I'm not going to drop. And don't worry, I don't plan to disrupt your class. You'll hardly know I'm here."

Fuck, she thought to herself. She'd so hoped that this semester would
be smooth and drama free. She rarely had difficult students and the couple of times she'd had to deal with some malcontents, in the end they had dropped. She had a feeling that Mr. Yarborough would be more difficult to get out of the class. She could only hope that he was a man of his word and he'd keep his shit to himself.

She could te
ll that the other students had already lost some of their enthusiasm and were even a little apprehensive now. She had to take matters into hand, get some control. She was just going to have to ignore Mr. Yarborough for right now.

"OK cla
ss. Our first assignment will be to sketch this orange."

As she spoke, s
he walked over to a small table on which sat an orange. Its color was particularly vibrant which was why she had chosen it.

"
Now you may think this is a simple matter of sketching a circle and filling it in. But to truly recreate what you see in front of you, you have to give the viewer a sense of texture. Later in the course, I'll take you through exercises in light and shading. Now, don't be intimidated by any lack of skill. This is just to get you used to putting charcoal to paper, to get you to truly visualize the object, to denote its shape and texture. I don't expect any masterpieces. I just want to see where you are at this point. OK, I'm giving you half an hour to complete the assignment. As you can see, there's charcoal on your easel holder. I'll be walking around to see how you're faring and to give you some suggestions as needed."

Everybody seemed more relaxed now that they had something constructive to do. The drama from a minute ago was already forgotten. Even Mr. Drama himself was even attempting to sketch, although unlike the other students he was not looking at the subject. Maybe he was drawing from memory.

She moved to the rear, walking from easel to easel, working her way toward the front. Each of the students seemed to have at least a small measure of skill. But her work was cut out for her in getting them to a level where they could actually make objects that looked lifelike. She stopped by the one student who had taken a class twenty years ago and was surprised that the woman had retained some ability. Her representation of the orange was on point, including the shading. What was her name again?