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.
“Excuse me, excuse me. Excuse me!” Aida repeated in ever-louder tones. Protect and deliver were his instructions, and… as Billy was wont to say… “by God, that’s what I will do!” Jetting down the hallway, he skated around various people and automated delivery units. Not as efficient as one might expect, but they do the…
The sounds have clicks and ticks and various inflections that I just cannot recreate. Ever since I arrived, the natives… let’s call them benefactors… have been incessantly hovering, though, odd enough, their attention is erratic. My food, normally provided regularly, is sometimes forgotten. This means I have to sidle up to the bars of my…
Rhythmic and regular, the click and swish continue incessantly.Each thread woven in sequence, layering side by side.Slowly the colors emerge, interwoven amidst the threads designed to strengthen.The cut of the fabric is shaped and molded.Every stitch, meticulous; every fold, crucial. The narrative robed in cloth.
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…
A yellow butterfly flutters and lands on the dedication sign for the forest green bench. Mother sits on the bench, handkerchief in hand, wiping the tears from her eyes. For weeks, Mother has been angry at me, ignoring me almost completely. Mother looks over and mutters my name. “Sarah.” I look up, grinning. Maybe she…
“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…
