FICTION

Sipping his afternoon cup of apple cider, the artist abruptly remembers the days he spent in a lake-house during his late teens. He hears cicadas and laughter. He smells the crisp earthy aroma of the woods encircling the lake. He feels ripples of water tickle his toes.

He gently sets his cup on the table beside him. As if possessed he wanders towards the blank canvas he had set up on the aisle just this morning. The paints are waiting for him and the brushes are eager too. He begins painting hesitantly at first but then the strokes of colour take on their own rhythm and suddenly the painting slips out of his control and slides into his heart.

There is a purple lake and laughing children lapping about in its waters. There is a knot of weeping orange-coloured apple trees in the background. The sky is earthy and clouds of cicadas laze across its breadth. 

Once he is done painting the artist returns to his cup of apple cider, he is no longer oppressed by the memory of the lake-house. He is at peace.