Mark sat in his loft and looked around. He had Framed up a bunch of Canvas but it wasn't enough. Jayne had left as per his instruction. He Told her that he was not to be disturbed by anything except urgent business. Mark again looked around the room. Frames were waiting, all bare and empty. The Loft was lifeless and empty. But he would bring life to it.
Mark spied his first target, he stood and moved over to kitchen table. He slid it up against the side wall and tipped it on its side so it would not block the bedroom door. He looked at the empty space and ran a broom over it. Then, with a tray of paint set up and paintbrushes in his pocket, one in his teeth and one in his hand he dropped to the floor and began to paint.
He painted his emotions, pouring them out of him as he made stroke after stroke, Long leading brushes with Reds and oranges, large spirals and circles with Yellow tinged with green. His arms were covered with paint as at one point he dropped the brush and dived into the paint with both hands. It was with the ferver of a 5 year old he extended his arms, now painting with his hands, drawing circles and swirls.
Mark stands and looks down at his floor. It is a Nebulous cloud looking thing, like something the Hubble would have taken a picture of.
Mark looked down at himself. He was an impressionists nightmare or perhaps wet dream. But Mark didn't care. He moved over and grabbed one of the canvas he made. He grab His oils and went to work. He painted and painted and painted. Then he threw the canvas accross the room and grabbed another one And started over. It was only the pull of sleep that made him stop. His beast was telling him that the sun was preparing to rise and sleep was needed.
Mark drug himself to his bed and passed out in it. Pant staining his blankets and sheets.
It was like this for several days, Sun down to Sun up Mark painted, working feverishly on the painting of his Prince, The Princes' Harpy and his Priscus. Mark was dead tired and fed only when absolutely necessary to get his work accomplished.
Mark looked up at the painting now. It was done. He had slaved for days on the painting. Getting the features as right as possible. The Brow of the Prince, The Curve of the Harpy's chin, the Pale but flawless skin of his Priscus. Mark was damned proud of himself.
Mark turned and looked at the stack of ruined canvases. He had gone through many before he came to a product he was proud of. Mark went through and destroyed the Rejects meticulously. One at a time Cutting them to ribbons and dumping Pant remover on them as to conserve the one of a kind nature of the Painting.
Mark rooted around for his phone nearly exhausted and dials a number.
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