Two Drops


by Meghan Feldman

As the sun creeps towards its zenith, my pounding heartbeat increases. The great bronze clock that overlooks the great metropolitan sprawl ticks angrily, each booming tock a warning and reminder. By this time the syrup is wearing off; I can feel my mind growing sharper, my movements more precise, and a bold spirit welling in my gut. This minute is my aeon of freedom, when I stretch from the drops’ languid hold enough to purposefully grasp my stylus with tender fingertips and touch brush to paper. Forty seconds. My canvas is marked with the regulation soothing greens and calming blues available only to certain patrons, and only now, in this new, sharpened, soul, do I dare dip into my contraband pot of red, whose impassioned streaks of fire and illicit vibrancies mar the dumb placidity of my work. Soon the zipping automobiles shall slow once again to the precise speed limit, and the crowds of people will arrange themselves into precise lines as the two drops of syrup lovingly save us from our troubles, our confusion. Ten seconds. I gaze at my work, now unsure of my lines. My mind stays my unsteady hand, leaving it hovering with the brush gently dangling, blood and water pooling at the end. The sun beats down overhead and saltiness slides down my cheek. Five. I exhale in defeat and bid myself farewell as already my thoughts slide into fog. Three. Two drops fall from my frozen brush. One. 

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Writers Bio

Inspirational ImageStained by Alvi Mannby Alvi Mann

Pieces Inspired by this Image

'The Red Spot'
by Helen Grochmal

'The Last One'
by Harmony Hodges

'True Love'
by Laura Wilson Tomasko


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