Ficlets

The brick wall was gritty and cold under my fingers. I wasn’t exactly sure of what I was doing, but then, I never am when I start. The atmosphere dictates the art in my case. The sound of cars behind me, the glow of a scattered few stars that I can barely see over the roar of city lights, the tactile joy of cold metal, and the burning in my lungs from the chemicals. These are my muses.

I work carefully and quickly, sneaking frequent peeks around me. Making sure I’m not discovered. I should be paranoid and jumpy, I probably would be if I had ever gotten caught. As it is, the only people that I share the night with are vagrants and criminals. My kin. We are all beautiful in our own way. Dirty, smudged, and rough around the edges; a sharp contrast to the crisp outlines of my work. The bright, stark blue that I hid under my coat at Wal-Mart. The red and orange that were left out at a construction site. Another of my masterpieces taking place where no one will think to look for it.