The Painter in sixty minutes

He ignored the small clinking as if it were a wind chime.  He preferred to think of it that way.  It brought him peace and the ability to get started. Sixty minutes.  He lined up the colors; always the same colors and always in the same order.  Brushes  were immaculate and meticulously arranged.  Their bristles almost sharp.  The only chaos was his pallet.  It was smeared with passion and vengeance; streaked with darks and assaulted with bright digging shades. He smoothed the canvas; stark white and begging for his touch, his angry color.  He wanted it to breathe for him, live for him; just like his favorite model. Hannah. The clinking came again. He ignored it choosing to hear instead her bangle bracelets colliding down her slim wrists.

He loved how she'd stood; tall, dignified, fearless.  Her thick dark hair cupping her high cheek bones; accentuating her full lips and fiery green eyes.  The wind caressed her mane, giving her a pouting sensuous look.  Her skin was pale and silky.  The brushes stroked the canvas lovingly as he painted, refined her image and immortalized her elegance. This made him happy.  Painting Hannah.  Loving her in his art.

Another clank.  Forty-five minutes? This one was heavier which caused him to pause only briefly. 

" Mustn't lose focus; a masterpiece at stake" he thought harshly and he picked up the fan brush.  It hungrily scooped up the crimson and almost seemed to pant with anticipation. Red. She was always in red.  It stirred in him seductive pleasure and warmth.  It highlighted her frailties, lending innocence and a sexuality only he could enjoy.  Her background was best suited as midnight; velvety silent midnight.    

There was a thunk of metal and a dragging.  This one startled him.  Although, he laughed at himself for jumping. Nothing new. Nothing was ever new.  His stroke became less gentle now.  The brush could be heard for the first time; scraping, harried and panicked.  Sweat began to trickle along his brow. Twenty minutes? He glanced around nervously.  His calm demeanor took a rushed, disappointed rigidity.  No longer could he enjoy the textures and colors.  He became irritated and bothered by the boundaries of the lines he himself had created.  His strokes became wild and slashing; ripping and distorting his beautiful forever Hannah.  He was grunting and panting with each movement.

Clang....it rang all the way into his soul.  He began to cry, his shoulders sagging with regret that it was not complete.

"Are you finished?"

"These things take time." he huffed dejectedly.

"You have plenty of that, but none left for today." came the voice sternly.

"A little longer?" he asked like a wounded child

"Nope. One hour.  Come on Picasso."

The cell keys jingled menacingly.  He dropped his head defeated again. Like every day.

One of the guards stopped to look at the paper the shackled inmate had coveted for the last hour.  It was black with red streaks in it; slashed and jagged. The paint was so heavy it could be smelled, metallic and bogging to the nose.  He winced at its total effect on him.

"What is it?" he asked his partner quietly on his escort down the block.

"Who." the painter corrected.  "Hannah. My greatest masterpiece was always Hannah."

The trip back to his cell was silent where his death loomed like the colors he'd used to recreate her murder; dark and deep.



I don't know where this one came from but I like it. It's a little less predictable and has fewer constraints as my others.  I like it's attitude.  I hope you did as well. 
Thank you for stopping in.  I hope to get back on track so we can see each other more.  We always have such a good time. ;)