excerpt from "Island Song"
(picture completely irrelevant to the story)
He
had only painted for a lover, long since passed. Untouched canvas
had called to him every morning, waiting out his grief.
Many
sunrises had tried to convince him to come back, many bright moons
had worked diligently on his imagination. He would always
acknowledge their supplications, and always found a distraction
somewhere else. Until recently.
He
returned to his small wooden stool. The brushes stood tall and
ready. His oils sat patiently on the palette awaiting his command,
though still silently suggesting their placements.
Somehow,
his work had recently caught the attention of the village, and the
neighboring towns. Art students flocked to his easel to watch him
work. Young women brought him pastries, and smiling older women
bumped up against him in the marketplace. Jealous men stared at him
as if he were some kind of thief.