New year’s day has come and gone. Well wishing has faded to a murmur and new year’s resolutions flutter their and amniotic fluid slicked wings in a hope that they’ll last more than a couple of weeks.
This time of year is the time when writers review their goals, a perfect time to start that book, or that play, all the while focusing on the completed article, imagining the interviews, the accolades and maybe the cameo in the film version… Believe me, I’ve been there and will be again. We resolve to talk about it too, rather than doing anything as ridiculous as actually, well, write it.
All over the internet blogs open like hungry maws waiting to snap at internet pedestrians heels, gobbling away that commodity we value so much, time.
And so, my blog will join that bouquet of carnivorous blooms and, dear reader, if you have come this far, your soul is mine!…
You may have noticed that over the last couple of weeks I’ve been writing flash fiction; but a hundred words, a concept introduced to me by a friend. It’s a challenge which I find fascinating, to be able to condense an idea into something you’ll read in under a minute and yet will survive longer than those fledgling new year’s resolutions? Well, I’m game. Here is my latest 100 word story, maybe this carnivorous internet bloom will bare fruit after all…
This one is entitled… Art is subjective, and, if I were to tell you what it was about, well, that would be cheating wouldn’t it?
Art is subjective
They always ran away screaming and he never understood why. What he did understand was that it broke his artists heart. All that time, seeking the majesty in their faces, in their posture. Teasing out their soul to lay bare on the canvas. He saw beyond the frills and decorations, passed the wrinkles and wattles to their essence, their component beauty.
He could still hear the fading clack of high heels as his latest model sped away. He sighed, carefully lifted the portrait, took it into his private gallery and hung it with all the other paintings of dismembered corpses.