Writer's Will

Painted Pains I

A mosaic of colourful rebellions was splayed across the walls, each bricked canvas screaming images of sweet anarchy. These newest creations were being painted over top of the mosaic, adding to the layers of storied artwork. I held a spray can in one hand and a beer in the other. Dancing with two technically illegal practices at once, was one of my better ideas. In retrospect, my best ideas always got me in the worst of trouble. No matter. Shaking the can vigorously, I bit my lip and sprayed another streak. The piece was coming together but it lacked something...visceral. The image I was working on was an angel with clipped wings holding a bloody trident. Oh yes, I was a hardcore artist and this particular graffiti was hardly the darkest of my portraits. No, this one was relatively tame. What did it need? In the distant street at the alley's entrance, sirens echoed and the stench of refuse stung my nose. The night sky was smoggy, cacophonous and brightly illuminated under the city's radiance. I tried to close my eyes to absorb new ideas.

Sirens! Agh. They'd be on this place in minutes. The older paint was harder to clean off but my job wasn't done and hardly dried. I felt it was a shame to let it go to waste though. A quick snap of the ol' smartphone and I booked it. The sirens were louder but I couldn't see lights yet, so I pocketed my paint and started on my way.