Details be Damned
“keep drawing,” I whisper to myself, hunched over the poorly woven canvas. It was always wrong, something was always wrong! The eyes were too small, the hair was too stringy, the arms looked too much like sausages!
A loud snap echoed in the messy art room. I gripped my pencil too hard again.
I leaned back and tumbled out of my seat, landing on a pale cream tarp splattered with various dark shades of brown.
I got up in a huff, tossing the broken stool aside. The painting with my mother’s visage seemed to glare at me in disdain.
“keep drawing, keep painting,” she said, “don’t stop until perfection. It’s what I deserve.”