The lightning lashed across the sky, and she sat forlorn at her desk desperately seeking inspiration for a new project. She’d been so creative recently, but now nothing, full stop.
As she watched the storm her thoughts began to bubble and brew. She pulled out her brushes, inks, and pens. If she couldn’t wait for inspiration, she’d draw just what she saw. It wouldn’t be her best work, but it would allow her to create.
Her hand flowed across the canvas as she watched the raging storm. She would glance down to be sure she was on the canvas and not her desk, but she didn’t want to control or influence what she was driven to create, and the storm was getting wilder. Branches whipped, were torn away, and left deep furrowed scars in their wake. Windows banged against their casements, and the booming thunder sent shockwaves through the earth.
Then the rain came–pelting and pounding the ground in a ravaging beat. The mud splashed and the grass was torn up from its roots.
Her jaw dropped as the deluge continued, and an immense thunder crack unsettled her so abruptly she glanced down to make sure she hadn’t upset her ink bottles. What she saw on the canvas chilled her blood and caused her to shiver.
Instead of the violent, storm ravaged landscape she saw a fierce and frightening figure stalking across the canvas. Why had she drawn that? It had nothing to do with the awestriking storm outside the window.
She laughed. Art was odd.
She turned her face back to the window and screamed.
The dark figure from the canvas was stalking across the field. Her heart started to pound, but she decided she was safe inside her house, so she continued her drawing, content in her safety.
Another thunder crack nearly dropped her out of her chair and caused her brushes to roll off the desk.
She scooped them up, and as she moved to set them on the desk, a hand gripped her wrist and pulled her forward into the canvas.
Her screams were muffled as lightening split the sky and the storm drowned out anything other than the pelting rain.
Nothing remained but ink dripping onto the floorboards and an empty canvas waiting to be filled.
Scribble City: Write Now 