I watch. The brush is poised. And then he moves. From the shoulder, leaving a row of lines on the parchment that summon feeling before my mind understands. I smell the stone ichor of rain, and sense the blunt endurance of a gaunt herd. Beneath his brush, a world begins to breathe.
“Though I saw, I don’t understand. How do you do it, maestro?” I ask.
He smiles that infuriating smile of his. “Rather, ask how you did it. I only made a few squiggles. Your mind made the meaning.”
Friday fictioneers is a weekly challenge to write a 100-word story in response to a photo prompt. You can find other stories here.