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.
