A pure white canvas, many envied it. No such thing as dirt was imprinted. Dirt that was carried by time and its drastic waves of torture. I felt it in my palms the smoothness of its surface; roughness in a way but never enough for a scratch.

I studied this pure white canvas, its easel slowly breaking somewhat signaling me that I’m almost out of time. My world spun like it never did as I studied the canvas in front of me. Wide eyes while inspiration flowed through my fingers. I grabbed the paint brush sitting next to me. Clarity struck my mind and ideas sprung. Eagerness to please, hands not failing.

Now it was drawn on, painted on, colored, and unrecognizable because of the stain of sin. The canvas was full, I lost my breath.


2 thoughts on “Canvas

  1. “A pure white canvas, many envied it.”


    I live in a country that virtually worships glutathione and all meds for fairer skin, and almost everyone envies you when you’re white.

    PSA for my people: We’re all brown here. Stop tryna be white.


  2. This piece gave me anxiety, and I mean that in a good way.

    Some fics I’ve read about making art had a calm tone, and they gave off relaxing vibes. This one offered the opposite.

    You did a great job on the build up, with the way you slowly eased into the actual process of painting. The climax was very vivid; you made painting seem like a fight scene in an action movie. What made it even better was the eventual passive tone at the end — the part where the reader could almost hear a sigh of relief at the end when the artist eventually stops, the painting is done, and colors finally cover the empty space that was once on the canvas.


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