I stared at my work in frustration the canvas lacked something. The carefully posed model, her long blonde hair brushed back in tousled curls, the silky black lingerie a stark contrast to her glowing white skin, slim neck wrapped tightly with a dark purple scarf, bright blue eyes widened in startlement; it all lacked some vital spark to give it life. Then it came to me in a flash. I picked up my palette knife and plunged it down. I would make it right! I would make it right! Repeatedly I hacked and thrust while my arm grew heavy and tired. Yes! Yes! That’s it! Just the touch that I needed! The rich red tones welled up and flooded over my model’s torso and the pristine blue satin sheets that framed her body. I stopped, drew back, left panting from my exertions and examined my work. Perfection! I dropped the knife letting it clatter to the wooden floor. I could never again match the sacred vision before me; I refused to profane my knife by using it again on a lesser piece. I sighed in ecstasy at the beauty lying before me then left the room gently closing the door behind me. My artwork lay there patiently waiting for my admiring fans.
“That sick son of a bitch has done it again!” Detective Dennis Stroud swore grimly squinting at the latest victim of the serial killer dubbed by the media as The Artist. “That’s the third one this week alone!”
Written for A Writing Prompt a Day: Write a piece about an artistic frenzy.