He Paints Tomorrow

By Col Cort

Everything he painted came true, but nothing lasted. His paintings would dry and flake, casting off their color in a rainbow of dust. He would pause, curse, and start again.

He bought new pigments of red and blue, then painted the king praising his work. The royal purple was already fading as the monarch approached.

He painted gold in his pocket and spent the coins on expensive wines and new canvas, but neither survived the excesses of the wild night that followed.

Then, confident he was improving, he painted her returning to him. But nothing he painted lasted; nothing ever does.