a good artist

 

A gnarled Prussian blue tree stooped. Beside it, three motionless stick figures were daubed in Payne’s gray. All under the blazing sun, a big circle in gory burnt umber.

Mom and Dad looked at the painting and whispered to each other, averting their eyes from my seven-year-old sister, who had painted the masterpiece.

The following week, I painted a still life: lemon yellow and magenta flowers bursting, viridian leaves peeking, and all safely confined in a bulbous phthalo blue vase. Mom and Dad smiled at the painting.

I whispered to my sister, “You have to be bad to be good.”

 

For Friday Fictioneers – 24 May 2019.

PHOTO PROMPT © J Hardy Carroll

 

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