The exercise:
This afternoon I asked Max what today's prompt should be. He said canvas, so here we are. Write something to do with: the canvas.
Final tally for the bakery was ten pounds of raspberries, which is pretty impressive. I delivered them after lunch but in between finishing the pick and that, Rebecca and I took a serious chunk out of the wilderness of weeds that had cropped up around the raspberries and blackberries. Hoping to take another chunk out of that tomorrow and maybe even finish the job.
I'm trying to get this done relatively early so that I have time to start catching up on comments, so away I go.
Mine:
"Pleasure doing business with you," Duke Damien called over his shoulder as he exited the art gallery. "See you again next week."
Rosalie, the gallery's curator, raised a hand in farewell but said nothing. She did not believe for one moment that he was actually a Duke, though that did nothing to prevent her from displaying his work on her walls. It was simply another reason to dislike the man.
If his paintings did not have such a devoted following her feelings on the matter would have been drastically different. But they sold, week after week, ridiculously overpriced as they were.
Rosalie did not understand the appeal.
She considered the scenes uninteresting and poorly executed. The colours looked cheap (she was fairly certain they were cheap but after the first sale she couldn't bring herself to take a closer look) and the brush strokes were comparable to a drunken toddler's (yes, she'd seen some, and no, she wouldn't provide details if you inquired).
For some reason she could not fathom, they sold like nothing before them. The commissions were extraordinary, but she was unable to let it go. There was something going on, something secret, that some part of her needed to uncover.
And then, at long last, she finally inspected the canvasses upon which the Duke's art was painted...
3 comments:
Sounds like having the help with the weeding is paying dividends already then! And that's a fine haul of raspberries there, I can imagine that the bakery would be pleased with them! Oh, and thank-you to Max for picking a prompt for us!
Heh, I was wondering where you were going to take your piece with Duke Damien and Rosalie and that last paragraph doesn't disappoint! I am desperately curious about the canvases now, but it's clear that I'd never be able to buy one with his devoted following snapping them up like that already. I shall have to settle for you continuing the tale at some point :)
Well done on starting the catch-up on comments too. I'm still hoping that we'll get some more writing on the Colony before we reach next month's installment so we can find out if the fire will take hold or not!
Canvas
Dorothette, a matronly woman in black flat shoes and a muu-muu that was stretched around the waist, attempted to click her heels together and fell over. Her bulk cushioned the fall substantially, and she rolled around a little, giggling. "I don't think weeze in Canvas any morshe," she spluttered, waving her feet around frantically.
"This is disgusting," said the Scarecrow, turning his head away. "The woman has no shame. I can't dance down the yellow brick road singing happy songs with her!"
"You can't dance," said the Tin-man, his eyes lighting yellow with vindictiveness. "And the yellow brick road was torn up three years ago and replaced with black-top."
"What!" The scarecrow's head rotated atop his shoulders until, like a demented owl, he was looking back over his own shoulder-blades.
"Natasha Monkeybutt declared that the maintenance of yellow bricks was prohibitive," said the Tin-man.
"Don't say her name!" The Cowardly Lion got his shoulders under Dorothette as he spoke, trying to lever her back to her feet. "Call her the Wicked Witch of the East."
"Wherezzzz my doggie?" said Dorothette, her voice thick and heavy as though she was falling asleep.
"You ate him," said the Tin-man.
"She did not!" said the Scarecrow. "She tried to sit on him and he ran away."
"We should run away too," said the Tin-man. "This woman is only going to bring the Monkeybutt down on us. She's a liability."
"Don't say her name!" squeaked the Cowardly Lion. Dorothette achieved vertical, and then toppled over the other way.
"I don't think this is Canvas anymore," she hissed, and then started snoring.
"Oh gods," said the Tin-man. "Either suffocate her or let's leave, but I'm not babysitting that walrus any longer!"
Black pages, skies of dawn and dusk, grasses of every season, sun rays, blooming flowers, the rain, ocean, clay and dirt, a dancing flame.
The world was at my fingertips, every aspects of life and death were reaching out to me, their very fibers intertwining with the course hairs of my brushes. They craved the fame and immortality that only I could give them.
And so I painted.
Greg - I shall pass along your thanks but I think I'll save sharing your take on his prompt with him until he's a little older :P
Thanks. And here I am, yet again, desperately behind and trying to catch up on comments...
Hahaha... a drunken 'canvas' in place of Kansas. That is truly inspired. And the whole scene lives up to the high standard set by the take on the prompt. Highly enjoyed this.
Ivy - this is also great, in a very different way. I really like it, especially the way you wove so much emotion and power into it, despite its short length!
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