The artist glared at his canvas

Vincent slipped into his studio with the stealth of a cat. Early light seeped through the thin curtain covering the big window. He regarded the air, glanced towards his easel, and stole to the window where he hesitantly pulled the fabric aside – an inch at a time, all the while checking the impact on the light around his work space. Back and forth the curtain slid until, with a nod, the artist was satisfied.

He sighed. Yesterday, his mood of melancholy despair had shrouded his mind to the extent he had neglected his tools of trade.

‘You need an assistant, Master,’ his patient housekeeper constantly harangued him.

The thought made Vincent shudder. He wouldn’t – couldn’t share his space with any one.

So now he sets to work with turpentine and soapy water and finds the dull repetition soothes his tortured soul. He is procrastinating, he knows, for while he prepares he cannot be actually painting.

Finally, with the light in the room changing so the curtain must be adjusted further, he braces himself.

He steps to the canvas, rips off the sheet with a flourish, closing his eyes. When he opens them, he glares at the canvas.

it’s wrong, all wrong. Damnable lilies with their pathetic white blooms – no life, no vibrancy. How is one to make something of such apathetic neutrality?

He flips the dust sheet back to hide the offensive scene, and as he does so his eye is caught on the beginning strokes – as yet pale, indifferent – of the yellow stamen within their white cocoons. Glorious, cheerful yellow – a bold statement.

He stands motionless in the bright studio, rubbing at his beard. And then he smiles.

Yellow! Of course. Damn the lilies. What he will paint are – daffodils!

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Find Cheryl’s flash fiction and short stories, including audio versions of some, here.