ViceCollin fell from the ostensible comforts of his chair when he succeeded yet again in separating his mind from his body. His vision lingered on the perimeter of its blank stare, not seeing the paintbrushed clouds whispering in the wind ten thousand feet above him, or the kaleidoscopic butterfly coveting his attention.
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"Why did she have to leave?" staring at the sleeping bodies of seven helpless creatures, brothers and sisters sharing the same room he asked himself and the sky, the question played in his mind over and over again like a broken record as he sat motionless on the edge of his worn barely standing bed, as he got no replies for his question from sky, he managed to ask the sleeping children.
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On the low stone and mortar wall the woman sits. She holds three paperback books in her lap and next to her a pair of tennis shoes rests heel to toe. On her right, a boy kicks his heels against the crumbling mortar. A black tattoo snakes into a loose heart on his upper arm. It looks like it was painted on with a calligraphy set and a wide-brush. For all the woman knows, it was.
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It is 3 a.m. but the moon is so bright it feels as if my boyfriend and I are fishing in the daylight. I honestly don't know much about fishing, except that it involves a lot of casting and reeling and no fish. Well, no fish for me.
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Dos Cabos looked its usual tranquil self to Todd Hartman as he guided his father’s fishing yacht through the deepwater channel separating the island’s interior harbor from the open sea. Todd was glad to be back. Venezuela had been a good time, but it was always better at home, especially on Dos Cabos, back in Wilson City, the island’s only town.
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The nature –which defines the essence- of an artist is mysterious, and so unexplainable. Still yet, the fact of that an artist’s life goes through a sombre period before the realization of a masterwork, and more astoundingly, an event that might well alter the course of his life; and indeed, his art.
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