Open Post
And here she is. She has paced her room like a tigress in a cage, up and down and up again, until her steps must have burned a trail into the floor. Then, after hours of sitting by the window, her eyes sometimes closed and sometimes open, but always alert, she had seen the one she had chosen as a husband leave. The murderer, she reminds herself, and her face darkens.
Only when she is sure the house is empty, she dares venture out of her room to explore the halls. Here she finds a sketchbook and leafs through it. People, trees, landscapes, faces, sketches for what might be sculptures or statues. Her eyes widen at the beauty of some and the familiarity of others -- and her fingertips tingle, so she takes a pencil and finds a blank page, and when she begins drawing, the lines are firm and sure -- this is her work, she realizes, delight moving her hand faster until the design is finished. Only a vase on the table before her, and yet, almost life-like. Her eyes are shining, her fears momentarily forgotten, a new spring in her step as she ventures outside, into the garden where she sits down in the grass, cross-legged, and closes her eyes to recall the pictures in her mind. Those she can grasp long enough are kept in place by a piece of paper and a swift flurry of pencilstrokes.
Only when she is sure the house is empty, she dares venture out of her room to explore the halls. Here she finds a sketchbook and leafs through it. People, trees, landscapes, faces, sketches for what might be sculptures or statues. Her eyes widen at the beauty of some and the familiarity of others -- and her fingertips tingle, so she takes a pencil and finds a blank page, and when she begins drawing, the lines are firm and sure -- this is her work, she realizes, delight moving her hand faster until the design is finished. Only a vase on the table before her, and yet, almost life-like. Her eyes are shining, her fears momentarily forgotten, a new spring in her step as she ventures outside, into the garden where she sits down in the grass, cross-legged, and closes her eyes to recall the pictures in her mind. Those she can grasp long enough are kept in place by a piece of paper and a swift flurry of pencilstrokes.