Stains

It rests upon the desk, unmoving, exuding desire as to what it may bring. Hands brush over the smooth top; it contains secrets beyond belief, images from worlds undiscovered. Perhaps Apollo has graced it with his presence.

The surrounding tabletop is scabrous with paint splatters: yellow, white, red, blue, each slowly scratched away day by day. The work contains more of these splatters – each formed into intricate patterns; the fingers trace lines over them, skin comes back dirty – carbon stained.

It’s rough. Pulp wrinkling, the water utilized retains vibrant colors. The hand flips through more and more: crowds, eyes, pets, mountains. How did the hand create such depictions? Jumping even further – smile gracing the lips of the observer –a chronological depiction of fictitious events unfolds. The invention of the hand poured out onto the parchment, the fantasies that live within the observer’s mind.

Pause.

The page holds ink – swirled and twirled into the vivid portrayal of a god amidst ivy and switchgrass, in his palm rests a wine glass. Embossed acrylics and flat pencil strokes crowd the remainder of the scene, speckled stars and towering trees. Paint is no longer simply paint. The god on the page seems to smirk back at the spectator, luring it to continue the piece.

The veil closes for the day, and it is pushed back onto the desk. Tomorrow more will be added to the warped and stained tome.