The canvas set.
Every stroke vivid.
Every line drawn, nuanced.
Painting with deep, resonant colors.
The tones shift, the lighting rewrought.
Building in layers upon layers, each subject meticulously captured.
Standing back, we look again before changing direction.
Every subtlety intentional.
The canvas complete, the critics arise.
In painted prose—a novel.
Out across the sea, the beam of light sweeps, searching… guiding… waiting for someone to see. The rain pelts the windows, hammering in sheets and droves. The storm rages. His coffee… different… a slight hint of salt and iron. He had emptied the last of his bottled water yesterday, so he was using water from…
The map of the United States filled the wall above the desk and like most, Hawaii and Alaska are included in the corner to complete the image. At the bottom of the map are scrawled the words, “No real destination.” Sprawled out on the couch, a heavyset old main snores lightly. Occasionally his snoring stops…
The intricacies… independent and unique. He sent the order in this morning. The letter next to her only specified: “Something intellectual and creative.” He often let her have the reins with the eggs, long ago realizing she was more than capable. She sighs, but a smile spreads across her face. She loves this… sort of…
The fog-laden evening chilled him to the bone as he stood beneath the street lamp. “I am getting too old for this,” he mutters. The juxtaposing hard-soft glow of the lamps created an eerie duality of light on the street. The longshadows dancing in the wind-blown lamplight. The headlights shine on him briefly as the…
The anticipation of the launch filled the room as everyone waited with bated breath. The tanks of the rocket were full, and the countdown had begun. This damned rickety control station, hastily constructed, rocked to and fro as everyone concerned focused on the impending launch. Somewhere, two solid objects of the control platform were thumping…
“This damn clock—why are they always so difficult when he is around?” The old, haggard clockmaker hunches over a bench. The man in the dark cloak sits in the corner, waiting. The clockmaker struggles with this piece. He must get it working. It is no longer a matter of payment, but one of pride. He…
