**the Lake**

I haven't written for a while. and my life is pretty boring. so have a couple of paragraphs of a story i started a while ago.


The walls were painted a deep thunderstorm gray, separated occasionally by black and white photographs, and pencil sketches. A full length window looked out on a freshwater lake , the color similar to the confines in which she was captured. You could tell a lot about a person by looking at the environment in which the surrounded themselves with. The folded shirts lying slumberous in a deep oak dresser, showing order and control. Worn brushes in a jam jar, lying next to half painted canvass showed creativity and the ability to disappear into her own little world. Upon a ebony patchwork quilt lay the owner of this dark bed/art room. Lillie lay her feet on top of the wrought iron headboard, looking out through the glass to the Lake. It was surrounded by deep wooded fur trees their branches reaching towards the sky & moving in the cool autumn breeze like fingers waving to a loved one. She sighed, it had been too long since she had left this place. But each day she avoided venturing out to the real world more and more, so to speak except for the essentials, like more pots of gauche, or bottles (always plural never singular) of Jack Daniels. This was somewhere she hid. A place she would run to, when she wanted to rid herself of the world. Lillie would hibernate here and wait for inspiration to strike.

At 24 she was the youngest artist to find herself a niche in the Waterholm/ Hartford gallery. She was known for her dark, haunting photography and even more mind blowing paintings. The word revolutionist had been used to describe her by the “Art Annual” magazine, most pretentious but still, an unlocked doorway into to the elite art world. Lillie was unlike the other artists which words adorned the gallery walls. She slid away from fancy party's, award evenings and stayed indoors with her headphones, cat and sometimes her soul. Her face would grace the gallery rarely, and even then just to make sure the paintings had not been displayed front and center. Hanging them there was a way to make cash, for more canvas and film, it was the process of capturing a moment in time which thrilled her, what made her motor run, and what drove her to continue down this 'unkempt path.' Jarred (a now very ex boyfriend) had called her his “Leonardo Pollock” a talent of a great master, with a mindset of the reclusive alcoholic abstract expressionist.

well.... do tell me what you think?
X's and O's
Ness