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.
The plateau, a mesa of warmth and woven shadow, beckoned to the benefactor and watcher alike, promising sights heretofore unseen in a mystical dance never beheld before, and in dreams never to be viewed again. Forgoing the temptation, the benefactor sat briefly on the edge of the plateau, legs dangling, then slid over and slowly…
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 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…
Dressed in leather and gilded in gold bling, the teacher sat on the edge of the desk. Not the usual uptight teacher, her intricate tattoos proudly illustrated a deep, reverent understanding of the importance of knowledge. The concepts presented were of a depth that few could succinctly follow, let alone completely comprehend. Running up her…
The light flickered… the landscape, reflected and mirrored, stretches out, filling the expanse. The little pieces are placed—trees and bushes set, and then adjusted perfectly. The intricate details were difficult to manage, but these… miniature, small… diminutive… I am not even sure anymore what to call them. They are detailed and seem perfect for the…
Reviewing the painting, I smiled. “No,” Timmy said, looking me square in the eyes. “I would rather you didn’t.” “You seem to be my perfect subject, though.” “Yes, and your first painting came out perfect, did it not?” “I suppose it did.” Timmy reached up and poked at his cheeks and twisted his fingers, exaggerating…
