“Leisure is best spent with an easel, earl grey tea, and a blank canvas as the muse watches from behind”
The afternoon sunlight seeps into the reflective surface of the glass, illuminating a soft glow on the smooth surface beneath. It holds several brushes, bristles slightly apart from the use; it’s been instinctually grabbed out of thirst a few times.
A navy blue top hat sits neatly at the side, the ribbon around subtly swaying at every small movement as its owner goes to grab another brush.
There was a clink on the glass as it was dipped in the acrylic, a drop of color filling its bristles, one smooth motion and it left its trail on the canvas- the painter trusting the path and where it ends.
The atmosphere was filled with tranquility, the scent of fresh Earl Grey tea provided the familiarity of a rare occasion to most. The somber rain painted these walls before, now dry with the warmth of newfound hope. Another color placed atop the mellow blue hour sky; each strand of grass planted carefully on the streaks of a darkish hue, creating a contrasting effect of a more vibrant patch; a near sense of serenity.
Chatter passes by the soundless office, breaking the illusion of the isolation that may have been suspected, adding life to its still walls. The painter wore an eased expression as she heard the chuckles, the facade hidden by the tilted hat and reversing droplets is now properly seen, for only the sun to see.
Glaucous blue is mixed with a tinge of white to create a lighter hue in the easel, for the beams of light seeping from the breaking clouds. Dawn came ever so closer yet the skies still felt solemn and nostalgic, the scene almost near to the touch, as if grabbing the painted scene would bring her to such a time of childishness and whimsical naivety; she couldn’t bring herself to touch the wet paint.
The painter grabbed a finer brush, adding a bright orange color to its tip with her fingertips delicately maneuvering the brush as she began to outline the subjects of the painting- there were many of them, once, but two remain, the one who guides and the one who leads. Both took diverging paths after the others were led to the unexpected end, yet it led them both to walk the same road.
The silhouette takes that of a bright orange dog, gazing proudly at its clear path ahead. It was already laid out, a brown dirt path towards the journey of heroism and martyrdom yet it never once questioned the doves intuition. White feathers falling as a symbol of the hope they’ll bring, following with pride, the hound became their symbol, the ideal from its peers. Almost all adored, singing ballads of praise, given medals of gold and silver, the shining knight from fairytales of old; yes, that was her, oh how beautiful did she glow, the glass pen dispersing the light of her strength and grace, pure and bright. God’s most beloved soldier and the cuckoo’s spectacle.
Each stroke that graze the canvas could not capture the essence the hound holds. The painter’s breath stood still, focus in each beat of the heart. Adding the finishing touches, the hand grew calmer, grip loosening onto the wooden interior. The soul was content with the final outcome. Taking a sip of tea, the eyes admired the hound and where it stood, a fate much kinder; the cup was carefully put down with a light clink of the rough wooden table, the outcome of said fate was a contrast to the view painted.
A deep, uneasy breath as hesitant hands grazed a brush once more. There were two subjects, yet this one was far more familiar, more..difficult to comprehend. The brush tip was placed onto a dull slate gray, forming clouds that clashed with blue hour sky. No sun seeped through them, rather, raindrops of magenta, teal and light khaki rose from its ground and took its place. A lone sheep stood amongst the tide, its wool stained with raindrops of the brush, the original color never to be revealed; an unknown to the masses, only to the herd it once led and the hound that avoided the lamb’s presence truly knew.
Taking a stone path, ragged and rough under it’s calloused hooves. Unfamiliar, it walked alone, a thread of bright gold wrapped around its neck, an invisible force leading across the plane of time.The journey ahead is one filled with uncertainty, undisclosed conflicts but ultimately would bring forth the truth.
The lamb has always stood out from the crowd, unlike the hound, it was not adored by the doves, if anything, despised yet protected. Prancing around the fences that separated them from the freedom of the outside- the pebbles and croaking frogs were the treasures it kept. Curiosity is the bell it wore around it’s neck, a constant reminder to those it encounters everyday. The constant jingle annoyed the rest of the herd and doves and were quick to cease, some chose to follow as it was the only music in their ears, and one chose to be cautious and avoidant of the bellwether’s path.
The questions about it’s origin and what is beyond the electric fence fall on deaf ears, once a question led a night in the dark and damp guardhouse yet it also granted an encounter to a friend who holds a ring atop its head and limbs. It led to the bellwether returning to its role and leading a herd with the same spark in their hearts; even when shot as a means of silence and warning, the bell hadn’t ceased to ring in the ears of those around.
The spark in their hearts grew to a flame, a flame that guided the lambs to the gates that led to the freedom they sought, yet they were not greeted by the sun, rather by rising rain. Shapes filled the air, joyous, the rest rose with the rain with the fire merging into them as they reach peace and the transcendental; one remained as a witness. The bell around her neck tightened, a noose that chocked the emotions to never reach her quivering mouth. The bellwether stood in silence, raindrops grazing her cheek, mocking the tears she could not muster; the fire in her heart flickered and dimmed, it was only preserved by a black umbrella and remorse from a woman she never knew.
As the outline was filled, the painter’s fingers trembled slightly, the bristles of the brush are slightly jagged as it was lifted on and off the canvas. Guilt overpowered the scenery the sheep holds, the ring of the bell haunts the ears, but, it also serves as a reminder of the duty laid upon the shoulder. The past can never be changed yet the path towards the future can. Freedom can be sought for and the peace that comes alongside, al lives are deserving of such rights.
The brush was dipped onto the murky water filled with the past colors used before; they will always be reminded of the mistakes made and the stain of guilt and grief that dims the glass pen that only its owner sees.
It was lifted and was tapped lightly on the cup’s side, excess water removed as it returns to it’s original state, albeit the bristles subtly soggy and messy; None will come out unchanged, even when the expressions is hidden from the brim of the hat.
The brush tip was placed atop the easel, onto a lime and olive shade of green it was dipped in, onto the middle of canvas did it leave its final marks with a mix of yellow and shites to highlight the converting path; Yet, no matter how the paths differ, the bright orange hound and dull colored lamb would meet with their hearts yearn for the same peace and freedom they hope for the well-being of not only the herd they lead but to all that grazed the land they exist in. A brighter path will forever exist to each alive being.
The final stroke of paint leaves the canvas and the painter gazes upon the finished work. The emotions felt could be seen onto the scenery created; tranquility, admiration, guilt, vulnerability and hope. Each drop of paint represents a piece of the painter’s soul, an insight to the layers within the mind and soul. The paintbrush was placed into its container, the painter takes the final sip of tea. A pair of hands lands gently onto her shoulder, the muse facing her with a soft expression and the painter returning her unspoken words as their faces inched closer together- the hound will always find it’s way to the ring of the bell of the lamb.