Prompt: Write about the act of painting.
Response: The Painter
Carving self and emotion into canvas with a blunt brush and vibrant pigment the boy painted. Seeing shapes just out of reach - just beyond the visual - and wanting to tear the result to confetti pieces he struggled.
The image burned in his mind's eye - a tumor to be removed and set in bright color. How he longed to tear it from inside himself and paste it, splattered, to the blank surface.
The inside of his lip bled with bites the red of carmine beetles in patterns like animal interlace - a red intricacy he longed to duplicate on canvas.
Setting the palette down, he surveyed his work with a dejected sigh. The anger left his body, leaving only a heavy desolation. He glanced at the clock and sighed again. His eyes burned from lack of sleep and his back felt as though it was being twisted in giant hands.
And still it was not what he wanted. The painting was a pale reflection of his vision. Discouraged, he left the studio. As the door slammed, the canvas slid to the floor, facedown.