There was a folded
newspaper on the coffee table, a smoldering pipe in the ashtray and an annoying
skipping sound, like the phonograph needle had reached the end of the record
and it was now just bumping against the edge of the label.
A dust-filled ray of
sunlight crossed the room and was presently warming the sleeping dog, who was
all too familiar with the heavy scent of pipe tobacco.
A book had been set with
its pages draped over the arm of the sofa, as if the entire couch needed to be
used as a bookmark. The only other sound in the house was the
ticking of the grandfather clock, and even that noise seemed to blend into the
dog’s dream and disappear with the dust particles that danced, if only momentarily, in the sunlight.
None of this, however,
existed anywhere but on the canvas. The old man’s hand was study and
precise. His paints were of the highest quality, and everyone
admired the detail with which he painted. If you looked at his
painting long enough, you’d swear you could see the dog breathing. He
painted with a reality usually only seen in the great works of art that hang in
museums.
His talent wasn’t so much the subject matter, but rather he would give a feeling to his art. This current work had both a relaxed atmosphere, as well as a nagging anticipation that something was about to happen. Standing three feet away from it, one could sense an impending doom. Something was going to startle the dog awake, someone was about to enter through that far door, or a shot would ring out knocking the book from the couch and it would fall open to the last page – announcing in bold print,
the end
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