Blending Realities

 

I extracted the heat from the flavor of the radish and brushed it across my painting of the beach.  The moment I did that I noticed the tourists having a hard time walking barefoot on the now hot sand.

I stared at the canvas, half proud, half horrified.
I’d only meant to warm the scene—to give it bite, not blister. The radish had such crisp defiance in its flavor, and I thought that would translate well into sunlight.

At first, it did. The shadows deepened. The ocean got a little shinier. But then the sand started to sizzle, and suddenly the tourists were hopping from foot to foot, clutching flip-flops.  One man tried to outrun the heat and dove straight into the painting’s horizon line. He didn’t come back.

I dabbed at the sand with a bit of cool melon to even things out, but the painting resisted. The radish had rooted too deeply. It always does, once invited.

This wasn’t the first time a flavor got away from me.
Last spring I used garlic on a forest scene and ended up with wolves that wouldn’t stop howling.

I set the brush down and stepped back. The tourists were now forming a loose circle, chanting about aloe.   I made a note to maybe just paint a still life next time. Something without consequences and use nothing from the refrigerator or with an expiration date.