Paintings

She stared up at the canvas covered walls, looking at her memories, her dreams, and hopes, splayed out in paint. Blues and greens dancing with oranges and reds, intertwining as though they were lovers, eternally locked in an endless embrace. Paintings of women, smiling, crying, stark naked in a moonlit garden, or clothed in Victorian elegance, glancing from a balcony above a sea of flame, sparks of red and blue catching honey blond. Her claim to fame was a picture of a woman standing over a moonlit grave with a single black rose held loosely in her hand, her autumn hair spilling over her ivory skin, tears falling into the newly dug dirt, she held a ring in her other hand, a silver engagement ring with an onyx center surrounded by tiny diamonds. All of her paintings told a story, most of them sad, it was poetry in paint, you just had to listen long enough to hear it tell its tale. 1

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 She made her paintings come to life, but years later people would realize how much she made one painting come to life. 3

Black lace mingles with red velvet, autumn hair falling gracefully upon White skin and corn silk rope. Her own likeness, held up by the neck by a rope on a banister, in the back round, a strange person in the shadows lingered, nobody ever figured out where it factored into the incident. Their painting stood on the eisel next to her, she stood on a step stool, her velvet dress rippling as she moved nervously, she put the rope around her neck, and kicked the stool away...4

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 'Her neck snapped instantly, there was no pain. The town will weep for the unfortunate loss of a great talent, she was a loner, she had no family, nor close friends, she left 80,000$  for her burial, she had a piece of paper describing what she wanted, and a painting. The painting had a young women, looking much like herself, lying in a glass coffin, perfectly preserved, surrounded by paintings and candles inside a small crypt. The paper said that if money runs short in the burial, then there is more in her bank account. 12,00 to pay off debts, and the rest is left to the local art collage. We almost expected it actually, with the tragic murder of her lover. The sight of him getting shot in front of her never left, her paintings grew darker, and darker after that incident.' The only friend she had, told the papers. The auctioned off her paintings a few years later, all of them sold for good prices, all the profits went to the art collage.6

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  After the snap she blacked out for a second, then regained sense. She looked upon her corpse, gracefully swinging, exactly as her painting depicted, her skin made ivory in the moonlight. In her painting there was a dark figure in the back round, and so it was that there was one here. The figure moved out of the shadows. We embraced, my black hair, mingling with her autumn locks. I had watched her since my death. Her painting told the story. As we walked out of the artists studio, hands locked, and spirits finally at peace, we finished the story, we finished the painting.8