The wind had never smelled so fragrant, nor had her hair been pulled and twisted in such a delicate intrigue. It fanned out towards the rolling hills that so quietly sang and swept itself straight into the valley that peacefully lay below. All of her paths were crossed and it was time for the day to roll into its humble beginnings. 

She never failed to peer into whatever tenor the air would bring each day, and would absorb such qualities on her balcony. The house attached to the balcony was cradled between two perfectly tarnished buildings and was constantly battered, immersed, and eloped in the flavors of her psyche. One may wonder about the colors emitted from the sun-filled windows and doors of her home—what artist-type ideas churned daily underneath and throughout the floors of the complex!

The prominent strike of inspiration never failed to radiate through her being, and after enlightenment hit, she would begin. Her oil pigments set would not be complete without the help of Giulia from the market, and her peace of mind would fracture without the rustle of the town that enveloped the streets below. She placed a stroke here and there. Her relentless brown-eyed gaze shook the canvas and the clouds above: this was her and her alone. She absorbed whatever came her way and slammed it deep into her works, reflecting whatever pain, greed, or joy boiled in her core. 

And so as her energy deflated she dashed onto the shakily paved roads, past the crumbling building that housed a party of bleating goats. They clambered into each other and over the stones, shifting their focus onto the painter. Trampled dirt littered their scrawny coats and bits of feces stuck in their impish hooves. She could never wrap their juvenile incompetence around her mind. They were better off left alone. 

Her swift steps cracked the gravel and captured wandering eyes. And how the young men revived themselves when they saw this young doe immersed in her forest of magnificence! They called her name from afar and gallantly waved, hoping to garner the smile that rivaled the beauty of the stars. Nothing escaped her vision while everything escaped her lips—coquettish phrases danced from her sparkling voice into her neighbors’ ears while her meandering irises flicked backward and sideways. The painter of light was here to douse them in glory. Validation wracked their fickle heads as her laugh graced their hungry ears and bolstered their common vanity. Their wavy, brown locks ruffled in the wind and molded into the motions of their nervous hands. A frivolously placed compliment would always succeed in injecting their hearts with fresh desire. They could never stop loving the life she lived! To be with her would pump their canals full of luxe adoration and pompous leisure, creating a worthy goal to court. 

She flicked her suitors one last coy glance and resumed her path onward. Her gaudy spirit was high as she ventured into the moldering areas of her town. It all belonged to her: every fragment of rubble was hers to push off any ledge. She had command over the desolate space she so fearlessly strutted through and paraded her cleanliness, delicacy, and fortune to the perishing shadows of poverty. 

The charm that had previously inundated her being seemed to leak into the ground, shaking each pebble with indifference and showering the shambled buildings in mockery. Perhaps her light was too bright as her presence made itself known at the entrance of Market Street. Little girls prodded their mothers’ faded blouses in awe as she floated past towards the end of the street. Guilia’s hand slowly raised out of habit and delivered a hesitant wave, just to be returned a detached nod of acknowledgement. On this street, no one other than Guilia attempted to catch the painter’s eye. Her gaze seldom dragged over another’s; instead, her nose wrinkled as her brows turned downward in disgust. What did the ordinary people’s gifts of conversation and pleasant company have to do with her? They provided no sunlight for her soul to fade into—no sunlight for her artistic-type to amplify. They tentatively watched as she set her steps into the malleable dirt. Her flair emitted rays of haughtiness as she reached the stand of gourds. 

And onto the seller’s products and soul littered flecks of penalty that embedded themselves so harshly. The painter took a gourd of measurable size and pressed its weight deep into her arms. She stayed there for seconds and swayed as the mobile crowd wearily eyed her. 

“2 liras…” 

As he spoke, the seller’s breath stuck in his throat but was quickly snuffed out as the gourd slammed into his throat. 

His hips hitched as he collapsed onto himself and let out a grunt soaked with disgust and disbelief. “What?” He spat out these words as his heart struggled to climb back above its own ruination—why had she delivered such a blow? His aging ligaments creaked as he kneeled on the soiled ground and his dark eyes bulged as his airways wrangled to regain composure. 

The crowd buzzed louder as each individual bumped into the next and began muttering phrases of distaste to each other. Awestruck and dumbfounded, the seller’s knees buckled once as he pushed himself upward, pressing his weight into the stand. 

And no one came to help him. His heart was left to recoil  and his gourd lay shattered on the earth, vulnerable to any means of infliction. The painter’s eyes caught the light of the bewildering sun. It peered through the glass windows of the rundown post office and cast vitality into every eager face. And there the seller stood, heaving his body back and forth as his mind settled into a state of regret while the painter, whose interest in the tremorous bustle of the lower-class market began to trickle away, turned coldly away from the sight of the man. She left him there and returned to her state of glory, leaving a trail of influence that beckoned slowly to the masses. 

The children with toys made of sticks, the unshaven men with sunken eyes, and the women with raggedy hair that draped over their sagging shoulders swarmed the cart of gourds. They thrusted their hands at the cart and chose their preference of weapon. And there they went—throttling the seller with his own product as he crumbled into himself and pleaded for any drop of remorse. But none came, as the painter of light was not there. It was her influence, and her influence alone that would send the rivers south and drive the sun down under the hills. It was her that would shift the clock for humanity to suffer and it was her that did so without any amount of pity. 

And so the painter of light lived on.