Eraser Ends
- J. Welsh

Eraser ends cluttered together on the edge of the table where she'd left them years ago, their scrapings of dust lay settled on the wooden floor. The acrid taste of mixed lead and browning paper searing through her nose to her lungs, brought all the mistakes back to her as clearly as the shaft of light floating over her abandoned work station illuminated the remains of a previously thought masterpiece. She moved closer, a hand delicately trailing fingers through artists' snow on the table, and rested her gaze on the aged smudges and wrinkled lines shadowing the paper.

Her talent had been young then, impressive in its vision but ever modest in its execution. Finger joints were instilled with a lively passion burning at all hours of the night, unfolding an idea, manifesting form, creating. Not once had there been a moment where her resolve had been questioned. Not once had a sketch been left to sit without completion. Not once had a piece been abandoned. Her talent had been fresh.

The waste basket was overflowing; there wasn't room enough to contain the disposed concepts that lay scattered about her feet. Gestures were still in her presence, their signs of movement diminished and worthless even from the corner of an eye. Still-life drawings waited and watched as ever they did before, caring only for the correct perception to be achieved, the correct reality. This was hers.

Reality had taken hold; a masterpiece was an imperfection. Her hand moved to the easel. No need to use the shading tool she knew was miserably worn down somewhere nearby; her fingers had always been the best with that sort of work.

Fingers coated, she veiled the portrait with a ratted piece of cloth. The light left and the door closed. She was different.