In the gray concrete studio, the plan finally set in. Mick was going to portray the destruction of the universe. Out of the other options Mr. Johnson proposed—beautiful flowers, lonely cliffs, delicate self portraits—this option seemed like the only one feasible, given that he had never taken art and was inferior to the experts in his class. In anger, Mick jot a slob of black paint at the surface, a global map. The slob of black dinged on the canvas, hiding the once vibrantly colored landscapes.
Boom! Somewhere in China, the lights went dark—all the city lights, skyscrapers—gone. A great crater manifested itself in the ground, specks of people, like ants, desperately crawling out.
On the other side of the world, back into the studio, the wall vibrated, a tiny, almost indistinguishable feeling. The shutter traveled through the ground up into Mick’s brushstrokes, and through his right hand. It him new vigor; he grabbed his brushstroke and launched blobs, a spectrum of paints onto the conglomeration of pigment on the canvas.
Around the world, cities, towns, and whole countries vanished, melted and crashed by large pieces of paint.
There was just one place of on the painting now: a tiny speck, on the top right corner, which Mick had just missed. But as he bent down to dip his brush into another blob of black, the palette wasn’t there. He looked around. All black, everything.
Mick grabbed his brushstroke and launched blobs, a spectrum of paints onto the conglomeration of pigment on the canvas.
Cities, towns, and whole countries vanished.
A tiny speck on the top right corner. But as he bent down to dip his brush the palette wasn’t there. He looked around. All black, everything.
He looked around. All black, everything.