“I'm
afraid you only have three months to live.”
Dr. Phil* #quote
Today I found a
hole in the way of where I was going. So I picked it up and moved it.
Anyway onto the flash fiction!
The Addition
To The Portrait
An old man painted alone in his
studio. He lived an isolationist his life. Some artists mingled with
people throughout their life with the world outside their studio, he
spent minimal time outside of it. The only time he spent outside his
studio was to shop, sell his work, and get reference. He could have
signed his work Allen but the man usually remained nameless. A
machine of an artist he would pump out paintings for sale of any
subject matter quickly.
Though in the past three years
arthritis began to creep into his hands. He figured that this might
be his last good painting. So he was making a portrait. The best he
could. Allen made thousands of paintings over his eighty year life,
and this might be the last one that wasn't a scrawl.
The self portrait did look amazing, almost perfectly life like, but also had an addition to it. An old woman
sitting next to him in a chair he also added. This woman didn't
exist. She lived as the manifestations of his regrets of the past few
years, for she was what he imagined would have been the woman he
would have grown old with had he married. Had he done more than shut
himself alone. Only in his old age did he understand why other
artists did more than their craft, and for his lack of understanding
in his youth now all he has is a portrait with a figment of his
imagination.
He never made another painting after
that portrait and felt sadness in his soul as he passed a few years
later.
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