There was a crackle of energy, a tension that charged the darkness. In an instant, there was light. The woman squinted and steadied the light bulb with a touch. She was centered in the glowing circle cast upon the floor, well away from the edges that faded again into pitch. Above her, the bulb hummed and hiccupped, drenching her in white light.
Her studio was barely that; an easel sat at its center with a fresh canvas already fastened in, paints and brushes lay scattered and oozing on a table beside that. Her fingers hovered lovingly across the brush bristles, well worn and splitting at the ends, and her lips drew into a smile. She would have just enough materials to finish this piece.
She’d done a few works before this, mainly of the abstract sort. Most of her paintings ended up shimmering, splendid messes; clusters of brilliance and light atop backdrops in her darkest shades. She realized soon that they left her feeling empty. She had let her early pieces go without too much heartache, and wasted no time musing over where they may be scattered now. But this painting… her heart beat in her breast just envisioning it. She could see every dip and rise of the paint now. She would never have said it aloud, but something in her was sure that this piece would be her finest yet.
The first stroke was nearly impossible to make. She could only manage it with her eyes closed tight and a random breeze of courage. But once the paint was on the canvas- a thick dollop right in the center- all hesitation left her. Her hand moved without thought… a flick here, a brush there. Her eyes darted left and right and slowly, a grin crept onto her face. It was always the process she had enjoyed most.
She worked in layers. First and presently the darkest shadows, black ebbing holes in the canvas, great boring pits where purity once was. Shades of black and blue and brown grew from her fingertips and consumed all that they touched.
She paused. The darkness was just lovely, but though she had put so much work into this layer, little of it was evident. Darker shades tended to do that as they stole from any tone they touched until all that was left was uniformity. She shrugged this off; her intended audience would without a doubt be able to appreciate the gentle sway of the shade and the dangerous mystery of knowing less than more.
However much she enjoyed gazing at her progress, she had made enough similar paintings to fill a universe. She grabbed a new brush, one soft as her hair and rounded as her Cupid’s bow, and an assortment of reds and greens. Now, only the most brilliant colours would do.
She held nothing back. She made great bodies of turquoise and startling stains in grapefruit and mandarin. Then appeared dancing points of purple, trickles of ivy, whispers of gold. Emerald reeds led to bleeding freckles. The most unsightly greens were added, though she was sure no one could love them. Blood-coloured speckles fell where they were not meant to be, nearly swallowed by a vortex of black that hadn’t yet dried.
The woman giggled in delight at the erratic rhythm she had developed. Many mistakes were made, but she held to a silent agreement with herself to fix nothing, and looked fondly upon the missteps. Maybe one day someone else would do the same, she reasoned.
Finally, she set aside this brush and considered the painting once more. Once again, she found her work pretty, but simple. How lonely the space seemed, though it teemed with brushstrokes. It seemed a shame that she had created such a lovely backdrop with no creature to enjoy it.
She sought her smallest brush- the bristle was but the width of her eyelash. Her strokes were rough and angular at first. She created wild creatures, some spotted; some striped; some smooth as silk. She created beings large and small, she put them high and low and at the forefront and hidden behind many layers.
Gently, a peculiar new tune began blossoming in her chest. It was as though a space that was once empty in her own body had begun to fill. The more creatures she created, all strange and fantastic to her, the more she could not bear to pull her eyes from the paint for even an instant.
A moment of revelation struck her then, and she gasped. This had not been in her plan. But the idea, once there, festered in the front of her mind in a way that was impossible to dissuade. In this way, she could be forever with her beloved creation.
Carefully, she painted herself on a speck of brown, surrounded by blue. After a moment of thought, she dabbed at her face, blurring the features. She had always said that it was not her appearance that made her but her spirit, and this self-portrait pleased her.
With a sigh, she returned to her table to choose her last brush; one wide enough to cover large expanses one way, and thin enough to create only streams the other. She worked for a little longer, using yellows and whites. This was always the final step of her process; to balance all darkness with light. Anywhere she saw too great an emptiness or a space too uncertain in what it was mean to be, she would add a bold point of brilliance. She was just reaching for another tube of paint to lighten the world around her creatures when her breath caught and she froze.
The woman had been so enthralled in her art, in the pure delight that was creation, in her heart beating surely in her breast and the flow of her breath, that she had barely noticed her dwindling supplies. Scattered across the table and fallen at her feet were tubes upon tubes of paint. Each one had been strangled, squished, and flattened until there was not even a drop left for them to offer.
The woman stumbled back. She gazed down at her hands, then at her feet on the cool white floor. She could see her own gaze reflected back at her, and she watched as a clear streak rolled down her cheek. What had she done? She had been so in love with her creation, and now it would never be perfect. There was not enough light to ward off the dark for these beautiful creatures- the ones in reds and greens, and the ones with sharp lines and rough features, and the ones bearing her uncertain features. This was to be her last and best piece and now, it could never be completed.
She wept for a very long time, until her tears could not continue and her throat ached. Only then did she finally raise her eyes to the painting. She studied the tiny creature she had made in her likeness. With her lip caught between her teeth and her hands fastened together near her heart, she drew her face close to the still-wet paint. The scent of it stung her nose but brought her its usual comfort.
She whispered to the creature: On you I impart this responsibility as you have been made in my form; bring light to those parts of your world that I could not.
To this woman we have given many names and many faces. If she were here to know, she would not mind this. She has been The Goddess and God and Allah and Brahma and Pangu. She has been the empty space one sees when they wonder at the heavens. And even today, her words ring true, though much of mankind has forgotten. Only the light we ourselves create can deliver our universe from darkness. We alone have been given this task. We alone have been shown this path. And we alone must walk it.
Becoming Writer 2016 Anniversary Contest 