"Sunflowers" First Chapter - A Vincent van Gogh historical fiction.

Before this chapter begins, I want to clarify something. This is a story I've been working on for a while and have been very unsure as to whether it's any good. A lot of things may feel off but to me it feels like a step in the right direction. Feedback is very much appreciated, and I do apologise for any confusion this may entail as it is all written in notepad, so there will likely be spelling mistakes.

Lastly, this is a Fiction about Vincent van Gogh, starting from late into his life, years before his unfortunate end, in hopes to give him a far better end to his life while still reflecting his actions as to how I perceived him to be as a person, though I'm sure many people would disagree with how I've wrote him to be. Anyways, I hope you enjoy! This will be the only chapter I post. I don't wish to spoil everything.

Chapter One: The Edge of Colour

*Scribble, scratch.* The pencil grazed the canvas fabric, each flick of Vincent's wrist bringing his vision to life.

Vincent spent a lot of his time sitting in his studio, sketching and painting whatever spoke to him, for he wished for the world to see the truth through his art.

Gentle rays of light shone through the panes of the studio's window, beaming warmth onto the floor midnoon.

Spring... It's the season, the one for painting. Blooms, bittersweet colours, and shadows-all waiting to be caught. But something just wasn't right.

*Snap* went the tip of his pencil as it broke under the pressure of sketching. With a brief sigh, Vincent gazed upon his art, sitting beneath the window. 'Potato Eaters' he calls it.

"It's no good." Vincent grumbled under his breath, barely audible but thick with irritation. "Incomplete yet shows truth, but what does it lack?"

Gazing deeply at the painting, he tapped his foot impatiently, pondering his next move. "Perhaps more oils are needed, best hurry 'fore the sun sets."

With a sigh, Vincent rummaged for his coat and the few coins left in his pockets. A meagre handful-but it would do. Art was worth every last guilder, and there was no time to waste.

As Vincent steps out, he's immediately greeted by the sounds and scents of spring: birds chattering above, the faint, earthy aroma of freshly turned soil, and the occasional burst of colour from early blooms.

He draws his coat close, walking quickly yet observing everything with a painter's eye-colours, textures, the light shifting over cobblestones, capturing details most would overlook.

Walking down the narrow streets, he watches the people who work for little coin, the cracks in the buildings from years of neglect, but most of all, the expressions and words of those passing by.

Though some people nod in greeting, others avoid his gaze or mutter about him under their breath. He's aware of their glances and their harsh tongues but remains unfazed; for his focus sticks to the painting forming in his mind like oil to a canvas.

His shoes scuff the path, and his steps become almost a rhythm, propelling him forward as he imagines each brushstroke he'll add to The Potato Eaters.

Approaching the square, Vincent weaved his way through the gathered crowd of townsfolk at the bustling daily market. Amidst the mingling colours-some bright, others subdued-a flicker of sunlight caught his eye, reflecting off strands of golden hair.

His gaze followed instinctively, landing on a young woman with vibrant blonde hair and striking green eyes, busy arranging flowers and goods for sale. A silence befell him for her presence was like a sudden burst of life amidst the familiar greyness of the town.

For but a moment, Vincent stood frozen, captivated. He took in every detail: the way her hair seemed to shimmer in the light, the graceful way she moved, and the soft vibrancy of the blooms surrounding her. It was as if she embodied the hues he longed to capture-warmth and colour he'd only ever imagined.

But like a fleeting brushstroke, she vanished behind the crowd. The spell broke, and the market's clamour returned, pulling Vincent back to his senses. With a faint shake of his head, he proceeds onward, pocketing the memory of her image as a reminder of the colours he wants to paint.

Pushing through the throng, Vincent arrived at a small supply shop. A painted sign in the window read: "Fabrics, Pelts, Paints, and Brush." The bell above the door jingled as he stepped inside.

From the back, a familiar voice rang out. "I'll be with you in just a moment!"

Madam Adrie. Her shop was a sanctuary for Vincent-a place where his need for supplies met the warmth of her company. She had supported his artistic endeavours countless times, her steady encouragement a quiet comfort.

A clatter of pots and pans interrupted his thoughts. "Is everything all right?" he called, stepping toward the back.

"Worry not! Just my husband's poor stacking skills," came her reply, followed by a gasp as she turned to see him.

"Ah, sweet Vincent! Come for more oils again, have you? You know, you really should let me display your work in the window-people would love it!"

"As much as I wish that were true, Madam Adrie, I'm afraid no one will ever accept my art."

"Nonsense!" she exclaimed. "Your work draws people in, even from the next town over, I'm sure of it. But why do you speak so bleakly, Vincent? Tell old Aunt Adrie your troubles."

Vincent hesitated before sighing deeply. "None of it feels right, Aunt Adrie. The strokes, the colours-they're all wrong, dull and lifeless. If I can't create something pure and true, where do I go from here?"

Madam Adrie placed her hands over his, her expression soft but resolute. "Sweet Vincent, inspiration isn't always found where you expect. Sometimes, it's waiting in the most unlikely places-if only you're willing to look."

She raised her hand and pointed to the window. "Look there, Vincent. Tell me, what do you see?"

Vincent turned his gaze, peering through the murky glass at the bustle of people outside, their chatter blending into a distant hum. "I see... a bleak collective of people, none brighter than the colours they wear," he murmured, his tone heavy with disinterest.

"Close your eyes," Madam Adrie said gently, her voice soft but commanding. "Picture that which you seek-the colours that call to you. Do you see them?"

Hesitant, Vincent allowed his eyes to flutter shut. At first, his thoughts were clouded, but then, as if summoned by her words, a faint glimmer of light flickered in the darkness of his mind.

"Now, my dear, open your eyes and look again."

Vincent obeyed, and within that brief moment, it was as if the world had shifted. The murky glass seemed clearer, and the once dull, lifeless scene outside now brimmed with subtle vibrancy. The colours of the market-once so muted-seemed to speak in their own language, weaving stories he had overlooked before.

And then, just as his eyes scanned the scene, he saw it again. A flicker of golden hair moving through the crowd, catching the sunlight like a beacon.

His breath caught, his eyes widening, and his lips parted in awe. "The colours..." he whispered. "There is life."

Madam Adrie's warm chuckle filled the air, and she placed a comforting hand on Vincent's shoulder. "There it is," she said with a knowing smile. "That spark. It's been there all along, Vincent. You only needed a nudge to see it for yourself."

Vincent turned to her, still caught between awe and uncertainty. "But... what if it fades? What if I lose it again?"

"Ah, my dear," she replied, her tone soothing but firm. "Inspiration comes and goes, just as the seasons do. But the artist-you-must learn to chase it, to nurture it when it arrives and seek it when it hides. And when it does hide," she said, gesturing toward the bustling market beyond the window, "remember that even in the simplest things, there is beauty waiting to be found."

Vincent let her words settle, nodding slowly. There was comfort in her confidence, a quiet reassurance that perhaps he had not lost his path after all.

Madam Adrie clapped her hands together, her eyes twinkling. "Now then! You didn’t come all this way just to let an old woman prattle on, did you? Tell me, Vincent, what is it you need this time?"

He blinked, momentarily startled out of his reverie, then reached into his coat pocket, pulling out the few guilders he had found earlier. "Oils," he said, glancing at the shelves behind her. "And perhaps a new brush. Mine are wearing thin."

"Ah, oils and brushes. The lifeblood of your craft," she said with a grin. "Let me fetch you the finest I have. And don’t you worry about the cost; for you, Vincent, art is payment enough."

"Madam Adrie, I couldn't possibly-"

"Aunt Adrie," she corrected with a wink, already bustling toward the back of the shop. "And nonsense, dear boy. Every great artist deserves a patron, and I'll happily play the role until the rest of the world wakes up to your brilliance."

Vincent couldn't help but smile, a rare warmth spreading through him. He stood quietly, watching her sort through the supplies with practiced efficiency, her movements a testament to her belief in his craft.

As she returned with the items, she placed them gently in his hands and leaned closer. "Remember this, Vincent: you have a gift. The world may not see it yet, but I do. Keep painting, keep searching, and one day, they'll see it too."

Vincent nodded, clutching the supplies to his chest. "Thank you... Aunt Adrie. I'll do my best."

"Your best will change the world, mark my words," she replied with a wink. "Now go, my dear, and remember, don't keep the world waiting for your next work of art."

As Vincent reached the door, Madam Adrie's voice, warm and knowing, called after him. "Vincent, one more thing."

He turned, his hand resting on the doorknob.

"Promise me you won't keep your brilliance locked away in that little studio of yours," she said, her eyes sparkling with sincerity. "The world is dull enough as it is. It needs your colours, your truth."

Vincent hesitated, the weight of her words pressing on him. He managed a small smile. "We'll see, Aunt Adrie. One step at a time."

"That's all I ask, dear," she replied, her voice softening. "And if you ever feel unsure, you know where to find me. My window's always open for your work-and my kettle's always warm for your troubles."

Vincent gave a faint nod, the edges of his lips curving upward just enough to show his gratitude. With that, he stepped outside, the bell jingling softly behind him as the door closed.

Madam Adrie watched him through the window, her hands clasped together. "One step at a time," she murmured to herself, her gaze lingering on his retreating figure. "You'll see, Vincent. You'll find your colours yet."

Vincent stepped out of the shop; the door creaking shut behind him and paused on the threshold. The afternoon light spilled across the cobblestones, painting them in golden hues that seemed richer, more alive than before. He clutched the small bundle of supplies close, feeling their weight not as a burden but as a promise.

Madam Adrie's words lingered in his mind like the melody of an unfinished song. He looked toward the square, where the market still bustled with life. Colours swirled in his vision-not just in the fabrics of the vendors' stalls or the ripe produce on display, but in the faces of the people.

A laugh rang out from a child chasing a kite. An elderly man, weathered but smiling, bartered with a baker over loaves of bread. A young woman, golden hair gleaming like sunlight, handed a bouquet of sunflowers to a customer.

His breath caught. It was her again-the fleeting figure from earlier. She was closer now, her movements graceful but unhurried as she arranged the remaining flowers on her stall.

Vincent felt the inexplicable pull once more, a compulsion to step forward, to say something, though the words had yet to form in his mind. Instead, he lingered at a distance, observing her with the reverence of a man standing before a masterpiece.

But before he could act, a sharp bark interrupted his thoughts. A scrappy brown dog darted between his legs, chasing after a boy who yelled apologies over his shoulder. The moment passed, and the woman turned her back, her golden hair swaying as she adjusted her wares.

Vincent shook his head, a rueful smile tugging at his lips. Perhaps it wasn't time yet.

Tucking his supplies under one arm, he started back toward his studio. The street grew quieter as he left the square behind, the noise of the market fading into the distance. The path ahead felt less daunting now, as though he carried a fragment of the light he had glimpsed.

The door creaked open as Vincent stepped back into his modest studio, arms laden with the supplies he'd purchased. The late afternoon sunlight filtered through the windows, casting long shadows across the room, accentuating the chaotic scatter of canvases, brushes, and tubes of paint.

He set the supplies on his worn desk, his fingers lingering on the vibrant hues of the new oils. With a determined breath, he placed a fresh canvas on the easel, the possibilities it held igniting a spark of excitement within him. Yet, as he stared at the blank surface, doubt crept in, an uninvited guest that seemed ever-present.

Vincent closed his eyes to ward off the thoughts, Madam Adrie's words echoing in his mind. "The world is dull enough as it is. It needs your colours, your truth."

Opening his eyes, he glanced at his sketches of rural life-faces etched with hardship yet alive with spirit. His gaze lingered on a faint outline he'd begun earlier-a figure in a field of sunflowers, bathed in the warmth of an afternoon sun. The golden light reflected in her hair, soft and radiant, flashed across his mind.

Vincent reached for his pencil, the weight of it familiar in his hand, yet hesitated. He held it above the paper, his heart caught between the urge to create and the fear of falling short. The vision in his mind felt vivid, alive, but could he truly capture it?

"Who are you?" he murmured to the incomplete form, his voice low, the question feeling oddly personal-as if the figure might respond.

But inspiration refused to come, slipping through his fingers like sand. The more he stared, the more the lines seemed to mock him, shapeless and incomplete.

Frustrated, Vincent exhaled sharply and set the sketch aside, the faint rustle of paper mingling with the creak of the chair as he shifted. He picked up his palette, its weight grounding him, the dried paint smudges a testament to past attempts.

"I need to see it," he muttered, almost to himself, his grip tightening. "The colours... the light. Out there, it's waiting."

He reached for the door, supplies in hand, stepping out in search of colour.