Lucia held her breath. If she let the paint dry and the canvas framed, nothing would move again. The garden that burned with vibrant greens and crimson violets would stop its sway. Whizzing dragon-flies and fluttering birds would halt mid-flight. Sun and moon would forestall their billion-year cycle. Life continued so long as her brush continued she thought. However, this was a mistake. She recalled a nugget of wisdom. “An artist should know when the work is complete but not before. Too early and the painting will feel wanting. Too late and the painting will do too much.” As these questions nagged at Lucia, her husband in the distance announced that lunch was ready. Lucia’s vision faded and the memory of her late grandmother and her final words evaporated into thin air. The painting was done.
The first stroke fell on air, cutting an ocean from out of the sky.
The second stroke tore across water, carving a shoreline without beginning and end.
The third stroke sculpted the earth, arranging forms from an infinite variety.
The fourth stroke ignited into fire, imbuing spirits with movement and life.
The final stroke pierced through time, resetting the world for a new brush to try.