Short story: The Artist

My art space is a smooth, flat, white space with a dent right in the middle, where, in a fit of pique, someone may have rammed their fist. Or chucked a silver goblet. Or screamed emphatically so the sound bounced and ricochetted and finally bruised my canvas.

I pick up my brush. I choose a large, one to suit my mood. I decide on a rich, glinting sapphire, close my eyes, and brush at my face with the bristles, being tickled as the wet flecks fly up my nose. I don't skip any part of my features and even, in the name of art, push my tongue out between my lips and colour that too.

I dip my hands in the paint, step out of my pants and paint the entire front of my body slowly with the brush, feeling every moment like a modern day Michaelangelo, a man who's name will be remembered for the rest of time for the beauty of his art.

I press my palms, face, and torso against my canvas.

I breathe against the wall.

I slowly roll, from side to side, leaving the imprint of my body as the beginning of my statement.

The screaming starts.

I pick up my paint can and run through the short suburban grass, jumping over clipped hedges, avoiding tidy wheelie bins, flying past small, irritated dogs and racing up the road in my new, sapphire blue sneakers.

I'll finish tomorrow night.

This is the result of a fifteen minute writing exercise. The only constrictions were the time limit and five randomly selected words from the dictionary. Today the words were: michaelangelo, sapphire, skip, impacted, and chucked.

Image courtesy of z e n.