flashquake Fiction

POETIC JUSTICE
by Renate Moody

The scent of turpentine and oil paint drifts through his open window from his neighbor's house. The artist. Or is that: The Artist? He's not sure that it matters.

He watches her from his window as she dances with the paints. A passionate love affair blossoms between artist (Artist) and canvas. The man envies one: woman or art, he's not sure which.

He envies the attention she gives to detail when she won't so much as glance his way. He envies the way the canvas blossoms, sings, yells out in pleasure under her touch. He envies the way she adds just a little more of a color and he imagines she adds just a little more pressure to his leg, hand, the small of his back as she touches him.

She pauses as if to think — looks over at him — no, looks through him, and then back to her canvas. He can't even see what she's painting. She probably paints landscapes, mountains, ponds at sunset, bird-filled skies. She probably paints herself out of this wretched world.

Still he envies her each time he thinks of the poem he starts but never finishes, the song that never comes out quite right. He knows she bubbles over with talent. One who paints as much as she, must. He takes out his notebook and pens a line but stops. Her beauty surpasses words. He could never do her justice.

The scratching noise of pen on paper causes her to raise her head. The poet sits in his window. Or is that: The Poet? She's sure there is a distinction, but can't put her finger on it.

She watches as he writes as though his very life depends on what he puts on paper. He makes love to the words that pour out there. The woman envies one: man or writing, she's not sure which.

She longs for someone who writes about her as urgently. She envies the girl who certainly has stolen this poet's heart. She's sure he pens words that will be immortalized someday.

He pauses, looks frustrated and tosses notebook aside. This girl he writes about — she must have really done a number on him. Imagine, turning down such a noble soul. He probably writes himself out of such a cruel world. A poet so talented should never be treated that way.

Still she envies him each time she thinks of all the half-finished paintings in her room. She knows he's the most talented poet ever. One who writes as much as he does must be. She takes out her paintbrush and runs it over his body. She adds a little more color then stops. She curses. His beauty lies beyond the oils. She looks around the room at 37 half-finished paintings of him. She could never do him justice.

Copyright 2003 by Renate Moody

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