DAISY
I’m back in the studio.
The place smells like paint and old wood, and there’s still a stain on the corner table from someone’s careless attempt at mixing acrylics. I’d laugh if I wasn’t so stressed. This project is due next week, and Zeus has disappeared off the face of the earth.
No surprises there.
I toss another failed sketch into the trash bin, the pile now high enough to resemble a paper mountain. Twenty drafts later and I still can’t get the damn composition right. My lines look clumsy. My vision is a mess.
“Ugh,” I groan, slumping over the table and pressing my cheek against the cool surface. “Screw Zeus McAllister. And screw this project.”
I sit back up, brush my messy bun out of my eyes, and reach for the paint instead. Maybe sketching isn’t the answer. Maybe if I just
