Kendelle McElhannon
Stories (2/0)
What Lies Behind His Eyes
Globs of crimson swam to and fro across the woman’s towering canvas, but it did not overcome her, for the raw, naked beauty which possessed her, made her seem equal to that of her work. Perhaps, her nightly lovers wondered, after nights of euphoria they had never felt before, nor would ever feel again, perhaps, she was her own work of art, and every piece she created was simply another offering of herself to the canvas. The woman had no care for an apron; muddled smears of paint could make their way from her cracked fingers to her loose, entirely too long hair, but she would have to notice said stains to begin to care. Today, on her balcony shrouded in an overgrown jungle of plants, many wilted in desperate thirst, the woman worked with a palette of deepest crimsons, which she had set aside on a frail stool teetering against the heavy breeze. In one hand, wet with pigment against the side of her palm, she held a thick handled paintbrush, sloppy with paint. Her other hand, laden with a tall stemmed glass of merlot, lifted the red to her already stained lips. By the time she would come to finish her glass of Sauvignon Blonde, the merlot being the choice of her previous nights partner, (who had chosen the bottle sporting a portrait of Marilyn Monroe, with stars in his eyes as he beheld the woman’s face, for her beauty, though much less refined and polished than Monroe’s, reminded him of her all the same), the woman would find herself drinking from the lip of the bottle in lieu of refilling her glass.
By Kendelle McElhannon3 years ago in Humans
What Lies Behind His Eyes
Globs of crimson swam to and fro across the woman’s towering canvas, but it did not overcome her, for the raw, naked beauty which possessed her, made her seem equal to that of her work. Perhaps, her nightly lovers wondered, after nights of euphoria they had never felt before, nor would ever feel again, perhaps, she was her own work of art, and every piece she created was simply another offering of herself to the canvas. The woman had no care for an apron; muddled smears of paint could make their way from her cracked fingers to her loose, entirely too long hair, but she would have to notice said stains to begin to care. Today, on her balcony shrouded in an overgrown jungle of plants, many wilted in desperate thirst, the woman worked with a palette of deepest crimsons, which she had set aside on a frail stool teetering against the heavy breeze. In one hand, wet with pigment against the side of her palm, she held a thick handled paintbrush, sloppy with paint. Her other hand, laden with a tall stemmed glass of merlot, lifted the red to her already stained lips. By the time she would come to finish her glass of Sauvignon Blonde, the merlot being the choice of her previous nights partner, (who had chosen the bottle sporting a portrait of Marilyn Monroe, with stars in his eyes as he beheld the woman’s face, for her beauty, though much less refined and polished than Monroe’s, reminded him of her all the same), the woman would find herself drinking from the lip of the bottle in lieu of refilling her glass.
By Kendelle McElhannon3 years ago in Humans