An Oddly Artistic Mood

I am not an artist. I am kind of crafty, and can do little projects. I enjoy them. I can be an artist with words, twisting poetry, leading a reader down a passage of prose, or through the darkened corridors of a story. I do not, however, have that talent with pencil, pen, or brush. I cannot draw, or paint, or sculpt. (Although, I do thoroughly enjoy myself a pottery wheel.)

I do, however, occasionaly have myself an oddly artist mood, where my creative mind demands that it have a chance to explore itself. Most often, this in via word processor, and they result are, more often than not, less than spectacular. More rarely, it will demand colored pencil and paper, as some aspect of some person begs a design to fit them. I've pages and pages of shirts, suits, and dresses, all inspired by someone, made specifically for them, and named after them. Jen, Kris, Zillah, Zoe, Dana, Malory, Fyrecreek, and Willow all have at least one. Hell, even I have one, and I never draw stuff for myself.

But today, my inner artist cried for a different type of pencil. She poured herself onto the page, a rough sketch done in less that five minutes, touched up with a pen in as many more, so the scanner could see it. In my head, she's splashed in color, ground brown, leaves of gold and orange and rust and auburn and fire, hair raven, skin fair, gown of muted silver and fine cloth, cloak of earthy green, eyes vivid green and burning with an inner fire.

Her story wrote itself as she appeared in the physical, a tale of fear, and hope, and the smell of burnings nearby. She's alone, possibly for the last time. She's with her earth, her air, her nature, and for a moment, in the Witchs' Place, one of the last remaining, she is whole, and strong.


I told you I was feeling oddly artistic, didn't I?