colors of the wind ~open~

[LOGAN ANNE FELL]

Logan knelt down quickly, one knee hitting the floor with a sickening crunch. She winced but tied her shoe laces back up. She stood, biting her lip as her knee straightened. She was sure the pain would wear off soon. It was a windy day and she couldn't wait to get in the warm, and to sort her hair out.

She walked down the street, a bag over her shoulder, which had paints, pencils and a pad full of paper. She also had a few canvases. She brushed a strand of blond hair from her face, and tied back her unruly curled locks. She had her daddies hair. She was often told that she looked like a female version of her father. She was always proud of that.

Seeing the inn, she walked in. Usually she'd sit in the front and ask the travellers if she could paint them. Some said yes. Some told her to f*** off. Others just ignored her. She liked painting. She was good at painting.

Getting in her usual seat in the reception of the inn, she opened her bag and pulled out the small easel she carried with her. Setting it up she opened up her painting kit. She stopped the first person she saw, and got a rather rude signal back.

She chuckled not affected by the rudeness. She picked up her phone as it buzzed in her pocket, when she looked at the screen she missed someone walking past. Cursing to herself she turned her phone to silent, forced it into her bag, and then waited for another person.

Logan was glad that the Inn gave her permission to paint. She enjoyed painting, and they even gave her a little money when they could for entertaining some of their clients. Plus some of the people she painted gave her a little tip at times, so she was making a little nest egg for herself.

She tapped the dry brush against the paper stuck to her easel, and pursed her lips, she was never good at waiting.