Post 1623. Thursday January 25
In his studio, a crumbling concrete bunker midst the trees, an artist stared at a blank canvas, his mind empty, his thoughts a vapid open space, the river of inspiration just a dry and dusty ditch.
He hurled an easel across the room, trampled on crumpled paint tubes, then crouched in a corner, his weary head in his hands.
Then through the rusty iron grid that crisscrossed the broken window, a sunray permeated the gloom and translucent shadows began to dance, trip and frolic upon the peeling walls, and the awful silence was broken by a songbird whistling a cheery tune.
He unfurled his aching body, righted his easel, grasped some sheets of paper, adorned his palette with paints of many colours, and with a flick of his wrist pictures begin to form; one, two, ten, more.
Many years passed before the deserted studio was stumbled upon; a glimpse of heaven a reporter wrote, inspirational artifacts said an expert, but nobody knew the identity of the creator. Not a name, not a signature, not a single clue.
Composed for Six Sentence Stories where this week’s cue word is Dry