An Artist Inside the Painting


Glass roses sung like wind chimes in the morning breeze, crystalline stems trembling. The sun shone a brilliant gold and the cloud-marbled sky gleamed.

A bee buzzed by, clockwork wings carrying a wire-striped body, and alighted on long needle legs. In the sky the birds circled, watching with glinting eyes and knife-sharp beaks.

And in the crooked tower upon the hill, the metal man watched his creation unfold, his long copper fingers tapping like a typewriter. On his world he had been alone, an outcast in a world made of meat.

Here, in this wonderland he had made, he belonged.

Word Count: 100

This is for Friday Fictioneers. Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for running the challenge and providing the prompt photo!

22 thoughts on “An Artist Inside the Painting

Add yours

  1. How surprising and unusual! I had to read it through again, because I went too fast the first time and missed important parts. Descriptive, beautiful, and somewhat melancholy.

    “A world made of meat.” A different perspective, indeed.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. You’ve created something beautiful, haunting, and more than a little disquieting with this story. The sharpness of your description lifts the story to the level of art. “An outcast in a world made of meat” is a wonderful phrase!
    Wow! Well done!

    Liked by 1 person

  3. Wow very good. The word clockwork at first did not seem to belong: it had me perplexed, wondering how to compare the bee’s wings to the mechanics of a clock–until i realized you were being literal! “A world made of meat” is golden.

    Liked by 1 person

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