Chapter 1

The sky dimmed, and the earth was shrouded in an abyss of shadows that sent shudders down the spines of all who witnessed the frightening sight.

The moon. It sat pitch-black in the sky, glaring down at the earth and its population with venom and lust. The suns blinding rays were reaching around it, trying to break its impenetrable surface, to light up the land once more.

A man sat looking up from his garden in the country, peacefully viewing the awe-inspiring sight. The light from his candle lit up his wrinkled face, eerily deepening the lines that carved their way into his skin. He gently began drawing the explosion of colours and shades that poured from the sky above. A deafening silence enveloped the world, cocooning it into isolation from the rest of the universe. The man sighed; smashing the hold the silence had on him, and continued to drag his pencil across the paper.

When the moon finally retreated, the warm, blazing sun lit up the land once more, showering it in golden sunshine and freeing it from the cold shadow that hugged the earth.

The man looked down at his drawing and smiled.

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The museum was reasonably empty when they arrived, their commotion the only noise in the respectful surroundings. Pablo Stanfeild, a regular 19 year old boy was among the group of art college students, eagerly exploring the many rooms which were brimming with genius. As he always did when searching through the masterpieces that hung from every wall in the museum, he looked for one name; Pablo

He wasn't selfish or big headed; he was looking for his great grandfather, Pablo Picasso.

He could easily tell what his grandfather had painted, and knew the meanings behind his work without having to think upon it. But every museum he went to had different pieces of his work, and the trips he took with his college were the only opportunities he had to see them.

Rushing around the gallery, he eventually found a section with Picassos work in, neatly lined up along a six metre corridor, and began scanning over the paintings with complete concentration.

One piece caught his eye. It was unusual for his great granddad to do pencil drawings, but here in plain sight was a genuine Picasso sketch.

The paper was black, no doubt homemade, and dyed with squid ink. Flames raged in a circle, their hands reaching and grabbing, tied by an invisible force. The more he stared at it, the more it made sense to him.

Underneath was a description. Which was wrong; as usual.

'this sketch by Picasso is symbolising the pain and hatred in the earth, showing the flames as hands to describe the suffering souls.'

But Pablo knew otherwise

He knew it wasn't, in fact, symbolising anything, but was an interpretation of a solar eclipse.