Oil on Canvas
Michael Stokes-Byrne
It began as a whisper.
Softer than a sable brush sweeping the canvas. Gentler than the sound of oils coming together to create something new. As quiet as thought, and undeniable as inspiration.
Eustace sat back and looked at his work and saw that it was good.
The woman looked out from the canvas. Her eyes darker and more pure than still waters at night, and curls fell over her brow like windswept droplets cascading over a mountainside. The work was unfinished, the background mottled, raw canvas still showing through in places. The folds of her gown lacked shadow and light, but he looked upon her and was glad.
He took comfort that his skill had not faded with age. His heart caused him pain at times, and his left hand was taken oft with spasms and cra
