Artiste the Untalented

A Short Story on Great Delusion

The nightmare comes again for her/ her lifeless body lay in a pool of spilled paint. The smell of death outweighs the scent of old lavender in her hair. She jerks herself out of the dream and finds herself huddled by her bed side, a form her body took last night as the last drop of whiskey found its way into her blood stream. An “artiste” she calls herself, she’s a knight of the blackest night with a beaming ray of light piercing through her waist and down her hip like a sword.

She makes her way from the floor back to her bed and winces with a pain she tried to kill last night. A soft morning light hits her eye and she stares out knowing that once the day begins her art will lose face, and her face will be masked yet again.

Her clock gives her two more hours until the world wakes to the dreary routine of usefulness and self appreciation. Her feet crash unto the wooden floor again to make way for her make shift studio, a space she created simply by pushing her entire furniture to one side of the room.

The nightmare plays on a reel in her head as she hovers over her colors. She reaches for the black and her wrists make way for the bleakest of emotion as she hopes to wake her self from the anti dream. She pierces the brush into white canvas and looks away. The fire burns black and she dances her arm across the canvas.

The dancing knight fights demons and adds color, the black as deep as the dying night. She fears that the day is near and she slows down her brush to a soft stroke, gently she adds the white and the yellow she blends her lightness with the dark in hopes of finding a master piece in between. Artiste spills her dream onto the canvas, a nightmare for her mind and an exorcism of her fear.

The day comes and she awakens suddenly as she always does into a world she despises; facing a blank saturated black canvas.

END.

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