Not My Stroke

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I exit the store in high hopes, feeling on top of the world and ready to tackle any difficulty that dares to cross my path. I skip along the road, my new brush in my hand as I make my way home. Suddenly, everything seems more beautiful.

I'm a painter and I'm just about to debut professionally. And where else but at the Celestial Gallery, located here in Lagos. Three of my paintings have been selected to be showcased at the celebration of the Festival of Arts and Culture. And two of those paintings have been nominated for awards.

My dream life is so close, I can smell it.

Getting your paintings displayed at the Celestial Gallery is the dream of any painter in Nigeria. It is the gallery where the rich shop for artwork. Deals made here run into hundreds of thousands and even millions. And reputation and recognition spread through word of mouth, still the most powerful form of advertising ever. It is rumored that no painting ever stays at the gallery longer than seven days. And sometimes, the paintings even sell faster than they are painted.

All these are benefits only for getting displayed at the gallery. And then, should I end up getting an award, my reputation would go through the roof. Overnight I could become an Internationally Acclaimed Painter. I would be painting for Kings and Presidents, Queens and other filthy rich people.

This is the reason for my joyful steps. I know that however the next few days goes, I would emerge better than I am today.

I walk into my house, it's a modest duplex I share with my Mom.

"Daren, is that you?" She calls from somewhere in the house.

"Yes Mum." I call back, locking the door behind me.

She pokes her head from behind a curtain, "did you get the brush?"

"Yeah," I hold it up. "It's a pretty strange brush actually."

Last night, while painting, I had mistakenly broken my old brush. The was why I had gone to the store today. But the store didn't have my favorite brush. And seeing what the future had in store for me, I couldn't afford not to have a brush handy.

"You can try this one out." The salesgirl had said, handing me a brush. It looked old and was dusty. But I could clearly see it was not a regular brush.

It was slim and was curved at the middle. It's body was smooth to touch and it's tail was coarse for the perfect grip. The brush hairs stood apart and were bone straight. I carefully studied it.

"My God..." I gasped, "this is handmade. Not machine, this is made and crafted by hand."

The salesgirl didn't know the reason for my awe. How could she? She was not a painter. But she certainly did know the art of sales.

"What?" I cried out when she named the price. What she called was three times the price of my favorite brush. "Hell no!"

She knew I wanted it badly, and she capitalized on it. So we bargained until we parted ways. I with the brush and she with more money the the brush was worth.

Everyone was happy.

Now, I'm back in my studio, ready to test my new brush. As I hold it I my fingers, it feels comfortable and homey, as if I've always been using it.

I take out a new canvas, and take out some paint into my tray. Then I try to think of what to paint.

And I come up empty. My mind is blank.

Usually, I picture what I would like to paint in my mind, then I duplicate it onto the canvas. That's how it has always been. Some times it would be vague and unclear, taking me more time to give it life.

But today is the first time I can't picture anything in my head. Not even a cup.

"What is happening?" I mutter, confused. I don't give up though. I dip the brush into the paint, and I slowly put it on the canvas.

What feels like electricity zips through my arm. And suddenly, my wrist is flexing of it's own accord. Swiping the brush left and right, up and down. Stroke after stroke hits the canvas. The brush is dipped into more paint, a different color each time.

And then, before my eyes, the colors merge. I see my hand effortlessly blend the colors giving them life. Each stroke is an explosion of color and life, giving detail to a simple but complex painting.

And then, everything stops. My wrist goes slack and my fingers release the brush. I don't hear it clatter to the floor. I also don't hear the crash of my tray as it falls to the floor, splattering my clothes with paint.

I am staring wide eyed at the painting I've just done.

I had painted myself, dressed in a tuxedo. And I was on stage. I recognize it at once as the Celestial Gallery. And from the painting, I can see it's the award night. And I was getting an award. All the more confused, I study the painting more closely.

The award was not for any of the three paintings already selected by Celestial. Instead I could see a new painting. This very painting. I was receiving an award for this painting I had only just finished.

How on earth is that even possible? For starters, It was not submitted so it would not even be on the list.

And my brain is still blank, I can't recall picturing this in my head. Where the hell did the inspiration come from?

It's then my eyes falls on the brush, still on the floor and wet with paint. And I knew then without a doubt, that it was responsible.

I look at the painting once more.

"This is the future..." I gasp at the realization, "I've just painted the future."

I slowly lower myself into a seat. My mind in turmoil at this latest development.

And I have no idea what to do.

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_{The End.
For the last few days, I've been having a bad case of writer's block. Nothing just seemed to be coming out for me. So i decided to revisit the past and go through the 50 story ideas here My story is inspired by prompt number 8. Feel free to try it out as well.
Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed it.}