I enjoy writing flash fiction. What is flash fiction, I hear you ask? It's a piece of writing that tells a story with a beginning, a middle, and an end using only 300 to 500 words. Today I'm sharing a writing exercise using the following words to write a flash fiction story: Linseed oil – turpentine – palette cups. You get to tell me if I succeeded or not.
The apprentice
gathered a handful of paint-filled brushes and dropped them into the
turpentine-filled jar.
He brushed aside straw-colored hair leaving a steak of ocher on his
forehead. Once more his
gaze returned to the wet painting on the easel. Could add just a stroke or two to the mouth. Make the smile a little
fuller. Feeling guilty, he shot a look across the room to the two men deep
in argument.
“Ten lira.
That’s all that painting is worth to me. Take it or leave it.”
“But Patrone,
just the special colors you demanded cost me more than that.”
The visitor
shrugged his shoulders and turned away, shaking his head.
Maestro grabbed at
his cloak, forcing the man to halt in his steps. “I’m pleading, Patrone. What will
I have left to live on once I pay my model and the apprentice?”
The man yanked
his cloak out of the artist’s clutches, dug beneath its surface and pulled out
a leather bag. He loosened the drawstring and shook out several coins. Holding
them out in his hand, he said, “Here, this is all I can spare.”
The artist
snatched the coins from his open palm and bowed deeply. He followed his visitor
out the door and down the steps to the entrance.
Left alone, the
apprentice returned to his work. The model, Lisa, had already left but not
without some curt comments about her meager pay for the long hours Maestro required for this painting. He swiped at the palette cups, regretting the waste
of paint. Tomorrow, the same costly colors would again be squeezed from their
tubes. There was always another painting that needed to be done if they were to
eat.
The sound of a
more amiable conversation drifted from below. What a way to live. Much as the
need to create beautiful pictures drew him, he realized this was not the way he
wanted to spend the rest of his life.
He stared again
at the wet painting. Lisa was a charming subject, no doubt about that. But
there was something about… He snatched up a brush lying nearby and with just
the suggestion of hesitation dipped it first into the linseed oil and then in
the Crimson Red. He leaned close to the canvas, wanting to be exact in the
placement of the paint. There! Just one or two dabs.
He stepped back
and surveyed what he had done. Now! That
will make everyone wonder what the lovely Mona Lisa was smiling about.
Did you enjoy it? Will you help me give it a name?