Nov 26, 2011

Oil, on canvas

She had her paint box out again.  She had left the easel in the closet though; I doubt that it had ever been used.  Instead, she often painted her masterpieces on the floor, polished mahogany with a dark stain, a color approaching burnt fuchsia.

Purple was her favourite colour.  She used it on her dolls hair and her mother's toe nails.  Her brother John's sense of appreciation met, chaotically, his just as equal sense of indignation when her creative talents turned themselves onto his bike seat.

Today's color was black.  Canvas abandoned on the table, she instead applied her paintbrush to every living thing within her reach.

The pet terrier, Jake the yardman, Melissa her friend from fourth grade, Dennis who messaged her on Facebook yesterday, Elizabeth her mother, Dad, Robert the boy from school with the corduroy jeans.

From afar, they blended in to the background hues of charcoal gray, but up close you could see the whites of their eyes, their gleaming, sharp, teeth, displayed between tight, glossy black lips.

It would be her masterpiece.

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