Simon hauled in a blank canvas and set it up in the corner of the starkly lit studio. He wheeled over a toolchest he had converted into a means by which to store his various brushes and easels, paints and solutions.

The walls of the studio are white, with random bits of paint and color here and there where the brush strokes went awry. In the room with the canvas and paint-cabinet is a table with a lap-top on it, a sofa-bed, and a stereo system. A small bathroom, covered by a curtain, is connected to the room. The windows are covered with heavy cloth curtains that can be drawn closed or flung open depending on the mood of the resident artist. Over the speakers of the stereo system plays traditional Japanese music. The music of his father’s people. Sometimes Simon listened to old American Rock and Roll, which had been his mother’s favorite, but tonight it was the shamisenongaku music. It was relaxing, and helped balance out the feelings that Simon felt sometimes when he painted.

He picked up the easel and began mixing colors, creating patches vibrant patches and dull puddles upon it. Then, after selecting a color with his brush he brings the instrument to bear. He pauses a moment, taking a few breaths, and then he places the brush on the canvas and begins to paint.

He remembered the first time he’d killed on the battlefield. There had been no time to feel anything about it, not in the crushing heat and roiling mass of bodies. He remembered the first time he’d died on the battlefield. His body crushed and mangled. The Tiger Lord always resurrected him. Why him? Others, he would cast their bodies into the fire, but he always put Simon back together.

He took a break from painting, ordered some food, and slept a while. A few hours later Simon awoke, though he didn’t know the time, and once again put brush to canvas.

He recalled the smoke darkened skies, casting eternal twilight over a battlefield where the moans of the dying and wounded escalated into a cacophonous roar of misery.

His hands work at the easel, mixing the colors to evoke the shade of smoky twilight from his memory.

His thoughts turn to the friends he’d thought he’d made, the brothers in arms he’d had. Trapped together in service to the Tiger Master, part of an unending horde of soldiers. He’d watched them die, one by one, over and over.

He had become an engine of destruction, spilling blood and taking lives as easily as he drew breath.

Time for another break. Simon showered in the small bathroom, and then went out to pick up some groceries and take care of some things. It was night when he left the studio and morning when he returned. When he got back he lay down for a few hours, but he couldn’t sleep. Eventually he rose, and resumed painting.

It had felt like thousands of years, but Simon had no idea. He had no tangible memories of ever being human, he was his lord’s weapon. His champion. His gladiator. Then he received his discharge notice. Just like that all the memories of who Simon Oita was came rushing back. His confused and frightened flight through the hedge tore at his body and soul, rendering him into the soulless creature of fear and retribution he had become.

The painting, finished, was a dark thing. It hinted at a transformation from light to dark and back to light, though it might be the other way around. Simon looked it over and decided it would do, and that it was the type of things the dealers he associated with seemed to like. He got his things together; clothes, CDs, some of his paints and brushes, and he left the studio – flicking off the light as he leaves. His finished painting sits on the stand in the corner in the pitch black room.


Painting a Work of Art. Six Hours of Work. 30 suxx