Dirty Brushes

He denies his voice, keeping his own counsel. A bitter light comes through the window. Outside, colors surge and pulse like a kaleidoscope of butterflies in mystic patterns.

What muse speaks to her son? His hands jerk, fingers fling outward. His head tweaks to the right, always to the right. His mouth moves as if pantomiming a lecture.

She has completed her part. The easel, brushes, and his favorite paints are exactly where he needs them. Does he notice the time passing?

There is never a sign. He picks up a brush, like a delicate instrument, and begins to paint.

Picture is copyright by Jim Green.

Daily Post prompt.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s