She stared into the sun, squinting to make better sense of the details that popped out of her psyche. The flavor of pomegranate, the crunch like juice-filled popcorn; a thousand nails screaming in her eyes, a thousand slaps across his face. She’d show him that she could put her soul, her /self/, into her art, that she wasn’t just another pretty face that painted pretty faces.
She spat through the window: blood and juice; chipped tooth, and fruit. Some tequila to flense her soul. Below, the canvas of the porch where he’d once proposed. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and shot back some more drink. Her stomach rumbled wide, like the sun. Spots of turbulence appeared, and she rode them like a storm. She let out her fear, her pain, her anger, his poison, rocking back and forth as she held onto the window sill. This was art. This was life.
She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and looked for an easel to set up outside. This was something she could paint in its every glistening detail, and nobody could say it didn’t have emotion.
What sort of writer are you? I'm a pantser, by and large. Read about it over on inkpunks, where I've got a guest blogpost =)
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