The Artist

Seth Nelson

Kian Shah

The artist was interrupted from his creative fervor. Far off, he heard the squeak of wheels and the thumping tread of boots in tow. With rehearsed grace, he swiped the canvas from the pedestal and shoved it in a compartment under his bed, careful to keep the paint from smearing.

The squeaking stopped. There sat an enormous man, backed by guards, huge wheelchair supporting his heavy frame. Beady eyes peered from a bald head. Glasses perched on a hawk nose. Enveloped in dense blacks, he wore a magnificent tailored suit.

The man motioned, heavy hands waving authoritatively. Quickly the artist moved away to a nearby wooden table and stiffly nodded to a completed piece, a painting of a man and woman in blood reds, standing arms raised to a banner overhead. The guards strode into the cell and snatched the dry canvas from the table. “Another in two weeks,” the man resounded as he wheeled away, guards in tow.

Alone, the artist was left behind in his cage. Back straight, like a mannequin, he waited until the wheelchair could no longer be heard.

Rosie Armao