Deep in the concrete bowels of the Tate Modern, I grow large and choose my form. I become strips of aluminium, curved into arches, then glued together, banded into long cylinders. When I am ready and no one is looking,… Continue Reading
Tucked away in some little-known corner of time, there once was a glassblower who lived by the sea. In the daring years of his youth, the glassblower would pull all kinds of strange and wonderful shapes from out of colored… Continue Reading
Tommy bolted out of the parking garage elevator as soon as the door opened. A man waiting outside the elevator stood with mouth agape as he watched the toddler fly past him. I dashed after my son. Clad in a… Continue Reading
“Yes, I’m here to look at your Eakins,” the little man at the door said. He was old with a bald head and a messy gray mustache. Dockers and a cheap polo shirt were his attire. The man looked strong,… Continue Reading
Kumi perched on one side of a quilt-covered pedestal, naked. Easels were pulled around her in a semi-circle. Students, both earnest and lackadaisical, staffed the easels, peeking out, squinting, thumbs raised, brushes or charcoal poised to capture her. A small… Continue Reading
[story text removed at the author’s request] Rate this story: average 3 stars • 27 reader(s) rated this
Papa comes home with a large white canvas and a brown paper bag filled with paints and brushes. He closes the cabin door behind him, shutting out the flurries, and shakes the snow from his hair. “Use these,” he says.… Continue Reading
“The first thing you should know,” Scott McRae said before he paused to light his cigarette with an old-fashioned metal Zippo lighter, snapping it closed and extinguishing its flame with a sharp ping, “is that I’m somewhat shy and modest.”… Continue Reading
A beach, late afternoon. The sun, low and watery, illuminates the end of the day’s play: children and dogs grab their last chances to frolic as parents begin packing up the deckchairs. The Union Jack windbreaker and the fat man’s… Continue Reading
“Mommy’s not gonna leave him, is she?” “No,” I said. Lina frowned, shifting the perfect geometry of her face. Mark wasn’t even our stepfather. One word described what he was. He was acrid. Lina’s sharp. You don’t notice at first; she… Continue Reading