The Painter’s Doom

The walls shifted inward, squeezed against his shoulders. Twisted in solitary confinement, the artist couldn’t escape.

He frowned at the seedling that shared his doom. The yellowed note taunted, “Painting makes free.”

A bitter laugh turned to cries. Anguishing back spasms blinded him.

He held up his hand. The hologram walked his palm, her white skirt rippling. Seeing wasn’t touching, feeling, knowing. His eyes blinked; the image muted, blurred.

“What can I do?” he asked.

The sapling said nothing.

The paintbrush dabbed in black; he started anew. His time narrowed to a close.

He imagined her searching, forgiving and innocent.

Picture is linked via Sprinkled With Words.



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