The Artist Conjures (Fiction)

The Artist conjures as the scenery dies behind him. Eyes turned toward the ideal, visions haunt him, making his art flawed.

The artist picks up his brush and creates:

A man in a boat plays a lute. His river dead, he lies on the ship's side and strums loosely, humming an Italian song. A woman's visage appears, a mirage. She speaks in muffled tones and is all but forgotten. He makes just a few strokes which invoke a memory which dries up and dissolves into the sand. A fisherman on the bank casts into the cracked river bed. Snagging a carp, he begins to reel it in. The dried fish does not resist as he unhooks it and places it in his hod.

The sky burns a torrid yellow...it then withers, and the earth darkens.

The artist sits, his vision of the world merely an excuse to produce. "Life imitates Art," He speaks, painting a red dot above the horizon.

The sky bursts into crimson as the lute plays notes that blend into the air.

A shoeless man, his clothes tattered in rags sits amidst the dust, his head hung, he licks his parched, baked lips. He utters a few insensible words and the sky bursts into flames. Drops of rain fall, blood spatters the man in its impurity.

Seemingly disinterested in his work, the artist nonchalantly puts down his brush and without looking at it, puts the canvas aside.

We are not loved.