I leaned my head against the wall, with my back to the room, staring at the corners’ cobweb lightly waving with the rise and fall of my breath. The tears had long dried, the damn hiccups had gone and my lower lip had finally stopped quivering. I didn’t mean to be bad and I hadn’t meant to be cruel, but yet here I was, for some reason, being mete with the usual punishment.
They at first said it was an accident, the cans of paint long sitting on the rotting shelf, was a disaster waiting to happen. But I knew better. Those shelves held lots of secrets and were meant to be climbed and explored. Bits of colors, still pliant brushes all waiting for the next famous artist to pick up and go for it. Dali, if not living in my house was surely there in my soul.
A living canvas was all that was needed, something that would bring life to my work. Something portable enough to go with me wherever I should care to roam. I’d be famous and they would be proud. My model however was somewhat reluctant, but because of his love for me, he tolerated having to lay still while I stroked him like the fine canvas he was to become.
Opening the back door and carefully pushing my canvas before me, the gasp from the room was at first, I was sure, shock in stunned amazement. It was just that in fact, but oh so not in a good way.
Dixie, my ever faithful puppy, stood there with his green head and his ecru tail. Teal blue highlighted his once before drab brown spots and vibrant red accented his tail. Ms. O’Keeffe had nothing on me. Ha.
With the acrylic speckles in my hair and the entire utilized palate worn on my clothes, I held my brush high, so they would recognize a great artist in their midst. Truth, that rapidly became apparent, was just under four feet tall.
Being a great artist would always be a challenge, have them laugh at me, have them not understand my work, have them shake their heads in wonderment…..just don’t have them make me stand in the corner much longer.
Modified Rule: somehow fit the below sentence/phrase into your story (first sentence, somewhere in the middle, last sentence—your choice). Take it away Tuesday: