Master and Pupil

I give to you a story in four times eleventy-one words...

He of bantam stature rests mount and frame upon the marble floor. Twice he rounds the dying figure noting twists and turns obscured to mortal men before positioning himself upon a sable stool that lets him contemplate the poor woman’s unfortunate countenance. Passersby glimpse the raptly static man adjacent to an easel eager to be used. But stolen glances at the canvas prove disappointing for it remains as blank as a dead man’s face. The visitors resentfully depart, their meager hopes to witness some beatific vision, shattered. He pays them no mind as he considers the able grip of Lucretia’s marmoreal digits as she plunges a dagger into her barren chest.

The boy enters through the far atrium – crude and sullen with flaxen locks – and approaches haltingly as if a reluctant disciple worshipping at a clandestine altar profaned by Roman monarchy. He pays brief homage to the reclining figure before advancing to his teacher. The diminutive man disregards him; instead, he reclines, lingers, ogles, sighs. In some raw limbic cavern, the boy understands. And though the majority of his corporeal fibers urge him to flee, he remains beside his mentor, blindly focusing on the poor woman’s empty eyes. Suddenly the wee man bolts from his seat with a flourish that jolts his fair pupil. He motions towards the stool. The boy sits.

The verdant student yearns to mark the page with lead, ink, blood. The teacher grins, his teeth like blinding blizzard snow. Not yet, he mouths, not yet. The fecund moment lingers in pencil potentiality as bastard children circle like birds of prey. The master nods. The young sinister hand responds, grasps the black wand between a trinity of fingers; they form a gentle vice that transforms the lifeless stick into a wand both sacred and profane. He lifts the pen erect, a composer who has heard the dulcet oboe. With eyes closed he lets fly the tip across the page, scrawling a segment of the base, stopping short of actualizing infinity.

A moment – or hours – later, the pupil lets the implement plink upon the ground and stands as is his custom at the end of these sessions. The teacher replaces him on the stool and returns to staring obliviously at the proud statue. The student, meanwhile, retrieves his pencil. He then shoulders his sack and, without looking back, leisurely strolls whence he came and disappears. For the next hour passersby halt in droves, their eyes flitting between sketch and sculpture. They don’t know what they see, but they know it’s right. At the end of the hour, the master finally reviews his student’s work. A single tear slides down his whiskered cheek.