The Other Painting

There is, unknown by most, a second painting of unparalleled design. For unparalleled and incomparable are uneasy bedfellows, and their bastard children number more than any could hope to quantify; for better or for worse.

This second painting, though subtle its façade may seem, speaks of much more than meets the eye. For its depths spoke to so much more than even its unwitting creator could have realized.

One day the inspiration had come, and by swift and maddening strokes the artist's brush did fly. A fiendish grasp of intellect and motion fought desperately to get the massive object on paper. And, for the sake of this poor wretch, every drop of ichor dripped out and onto the page.

Sitting back to take in the masterpiece that had so fought to be, its viewer felt complete disownment boil out in a shudder. For none was so blatant as such a reaction. For nothing at the forefront of what was seen could justify it so.

It was an excerpt from the sea. A pond. A lake. A pool. A...

The snapshot seemed to roil with them all, shifting itself to meet the onlooker's inquisition. Gaze torn away in disgust and in fear, the medium cursed the turmoil that had betrayed his senses. The roaring fire called like a sweet, sweet savior to his longing, and his eyes rolled delicately--almost insanely--back toward the painting.

It simply sat in the middle of the table, centered and quiet. It seemed to mock his sensibilities and hopes with its stare.

It was then that the room began to get hot. Much, much too hot. He could feel his eyes begin to drown in their sweat. A maddening thought came to him then. A thought that he was the painting, and the painting was he. As if his uncalculated stare had brought about his undoing. And his undoing was to trade his life for that of his creation.

He tore his gaze away once again, vehemently; feverishly.

But he felt that the damage had been done, and that it was over.

The fire took itself in his sights again, and again, his eyes rolled delicately--almost insanely--back toward the painting.

It simply sat in the middle of the table, centered and quiet. It seemed to mock his sensibilities and hopes with its stare.

A whimper poured out of him like a noxious gas. He was stunned to silence once more. Sweat seemed to flow freely from every pore.

It simply sat in the middle of the table, centered and quiet. It seemed to mock his sensibilities and hopes with its stare.

He ran at it and hoisted it up, meaning to chuck it into the inferno as if the curse itself was burning in his hands.

But fate, it seemed, had other plans.

For as his grip tightened around its edges, a coolness met his senses in a flash. It was as if some transference of energy had taken place in that moment. One intention centered itself in his mind, and his mind, dutifully, obeyed.

With quiet resolve, he placed it down. Rummaging through the box of picture frames beside his table, he found the one most fitting of his prize, took the painting out, casually walked to the fireplace, and tossed it in. The fact that it had been one of his earliest masterpieces did nothing to sway him. He simply torched the painting and retreated to the new arrival, fitting it in place with trembling fingers.

With a nod of approval he admired the new ensemble, then looked up, and frowned.

Oh no. Oh no. This will not do.

Something had occupied its space.

Up on the wall--for time with measure, as it were--would sit a most peculiar treasure. And he put it there now. The painting that had been there, too, met a similar fate as the last. The atmosphere of the cabin grew thick as the smoke of this heftier sacrifice filled the air.

He moved back toward the painting in admiration. He knew not how long he had remained there in awe of its design and crisp edges. Nor how long it took his eyes to perceive the waves that ebbed and flowed just below its surface. Nor how long it took him to get lost in their turbulence. Nor how long he had come to remain trapped hopelessly within it. Nor how long it would be before he was free of its grip once again.

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There came a knock at the door.