No passersby knew why he sat, in the sun, staring at nothing. A few threw coins or insults. One threw lunch, which he ate, staring as he chewed.
Night fell to all but the wall before him; the whiteness of antique, virgin brick burned into his mind. He paused to start a silent soundtrack. Nodding along to *bom!-bom!-bom!* he opened equally invisible paints.
Pain sprayed black in a wild arc, then red for beating love, then blue for days without the red; then green, grey, purple, orange –
Till, breathless, he stood staring at his soul upon the wall; satisfied.
For me, with the prompt provided by Carrot Ranch Literary Community.
This is the tale of an artist. How about that last line?
A fine 99.
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Thank you, D.
A rhyme, you see,
Beats the life we lead.
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There you go again. Good one.
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😀 I was following YOUR pattern.
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Boom — that last line got me! Great pacing and rhythm, Chelsea.
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Thank you, Charli!
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