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Weekly Contest #309
The window stood open just wide enough to let in the afternoon breeze. Sunlight illuminated my canvas, edging it with gold.Plinking my paintbrush into its cup, I made a frustrated huff. “A son of Lugh I am, and yet these blasted hands cannot paint!”“What did you say, Uncle?” asked Madeline, sitting across the studio with her sketch pad. Graphite smeared her fingers and caked under her fingernails. I glowered at her, though she did not look up from her easel.“Don’t listen to old men like me,” I told her. “We gibber mad things. And rely on hu...
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