The pencil begins to move of its own accord. Striking across the paper in long, fluid movements. Lines begin to spill from the graphite adorned pencil tip. Soon curves and dashes begin to make their way across the surface. The graphite smudges as a hand palms over the sketch. A pink oblong object catches the stray marks and sends them careening off the page.

 

As the light grey clouds begin to disappear, a steeple breaks through; its ivy-covered walls fading into view. A mess of trees accompany its daunting lean, casting shadows and darkening the darkened windows. The moon shines above, giving the steeple a supernatural glow.

 

The rough cobble bricks stand out in the low light.

 

A hiss fills the air, and a flock of ravens startle into the starry night sky. As the ravens take flight, the trees loom over the courtyard and weep at the loss, the stars providing a futile comfort. A breeze folds through the air, whistling a sad tune as it flits between the leaves; a few flutter down and adorn the lawn like ornaments placed upon a tree.

 

As they settle down below, a rasp breaks the tranquil silence, unsettling the trees. The tension thickens as the lawn is illuminated. A fountain gurgles and struggles to spew the water from its cement-made throat. Stony birds rest atop the lip curvatures embellishing the edges of the fountain. Their beady eyes turn up toward the sky in an infinite expression of sadness and despair.

 

A cement path winds around the fountain, making its way through the grass.

 

A silhouette wades through the tall tangled grass, avoiding the cement as if it were the plague. Making its way to the fountain, the silhouette lays a hand upon one of the sorrowful birds, stroking its darkened form gently; an expression of deep regret and anger fleeting across its form. A face appears as a head is lifted toward the moon--it caresses the face with its soft glow.

 

Expressions flit across the face, finally resting upon one in particular. A spark of something bubbles through those fiery eyes, sending tremors through the grass; sparks of hope and renewal fill the air. A candle alights in the steeple window glowing brightly; “They say that ‘art is like a window to the soul’, but I think it is what the world should be and how it should act,” the silhouette’s lips say.

 

The steeple creaking as if in approval, the face smiles a small smile, and the silhouette turns on its heel, sits, and stares up through the chilly air, the night above, and out into the artist’s eyes. Looking beyond the page, the artist gazes up at the steeple crouching over the artist’s svelte frame.

 

Flowing through every core of the artist’s form, a deluge of determination and love for the sight afore the artist took shape in the form of a small smile and a gleam in the artist’s eyes--a true artist’s passion for the art in everything.