I saw this clock made out of a Mona Lisa, it gave me an idea.
I’d never seen art like hers. As I walked around the gallery I could feel all the eyes from the paintings following me around. They were small, playful things and I ended up tripping over a pair of over excited dog eyes. I scooped them up and put them on my shoulder, I didn’t mind having an extra pair of eyes here.
Most people thought the gallery was haunted. I walked deeper into the gallery, to the room no one would dare enter. They say her later paintings toward the end of her life were very dark.
At first I couldn’t see anything at all, it was pitch dark. But then, I realised that the darkness was fur. The entire room was filled with a fury black monster.
It roared at me and the dog eyes on my shoulder bounced around in fear. I reached up and patted the eyes on my shoulder to calm them, which gave me an idea. I extended my hand into the black and started to pat the dark fur in front of me. The monster began to pant and rolled over happily.
I don’t think the gallery is haunted, I think her paintings have always been real. She just knew how to handle them.
I was sitting under this for shade today and met the man Kris who helped make it. He made it with a large community group out of basket weaving and bark.
The air turtle patrolled their community. It would ask the sun to shine for them, though it wasn’t hard, the sun is a bit of a show off. And it would convince the grumpy clouds to rain when they needed it most.
One day the clouds were feeling very bloated. The hail they were carrying felt heavy and uncomfortable. They threatened to unleash it on the community but the air turtle pleaded with them. The small bark huts might not withstand it. But the clouds couldn’t hold on any longer.
The turtle flew underneath the clouds and let the hail shatter on it’s back to save them.
When the clouds had cleared the community was safe but the air turtle landed with a thud. Its shell had been broken.
The community cried for weeks tending to the turtle’s every need but they could not repair the shell. Until one day the old basket weaver had an idea.
The turtle roams the sky once more clad in an intricate basket weave and the clouds even apologised.
She painted thousands of paintings and left them around the city. Just small ones- they’d fit in the palm of your hand. She left them in the middle of the night. Most of them were cleaned up or went unnoticed. But a week later when she got on a train, she saw a young boy who had pasted it to the front of his note book. That was all she needed, just to know that one person enjoyed it.
Today I received one of the best tweets ever. I love the idea of someone being inspired by a story I write. Sometimes I forget that people are actually reading them.
Terry Whidborne (find out more at his site) is a stupidly talented person especially with a pen/pencil/paint or really anything- I imagine he could even carve an amazing sculpture with a pin if he wanted to. Every Sunday he does a sketch and sends it hurtling into the chirping land of tweeters. I got excited and couldn’t wait for today’s so I used last week’s as today’s prompt:
Fairies are hairy. I always thought they were smooth delicate creatures with impeccable dress sense and perfect figures. I locked myself away in libraries and even lived in the woods for a month in search of these perfect beauties. But when I finally tracked them down, I found a group of tubby hairy artists buzzing about. They’d been drawing themselves into books for decades as gorgeous creatures. My disappointment was quickly replaced with relief. No one is perfect. Everyone is insecure.
Another one of my favourite artists is Dave McKean:
Her mind was a dumping ground. She was barely visible through the rubbish and weeds that took over her thoughts. Every bad thing someone said and every negative thing she’d read festered there. I tried planting a few compliments but they never lasted long in that wasteland. Eventually, I left. I was terrified the weeds would reach over the pillow and strangle me at night. I remember the way she looked at me before I went. Her eyes were barely visible, roots dangled over her brow and empty packets dripped residue onto her eyelashes. I could see a tiny flower hidden in the mess, but it wasn’t enough. I knew only she could restore the balance and let things grow again. That was the last time I saw her.