As the sun awakens from her slumber behind the crest of her cottony clouds, and the piper upon the hill shakes off the hay, a new day is dawned. With a grin, he welcomes the day and dances about, showering the sleepy town beneath with fable and lore.

A thin lake dotted with reeds and lily pads provides a humble town with the cool, fresh water from a volcanic reach beyond the horizon. Small fish are greeted by the children, whose feet dangle in the water, staring wide-mouthed at the ripples made by their fingers. A small gathering in the centre of the village had begun in these early hours of the morning, as always the townsfolk witnessed the glorious rise of the sun before them.

What was usually an event consisting of many, lacked a select few who never paid homage to the rare beauties of the town. Instead, the reclusive types favoured to spend their time in solitary pursuits of the noblest form – one such example, the artist.

The young male with daring blue eyes and thick brown hair rarely spoke a word, preferring his paintbrush to speak for him. His words were projected in outlandish landscapes and giant unformed creatures that frightened young children and promoted fear in the hearts of the simple villagers, unexposed to such abstract ideas. Nevertheless, this did not discourage him the slightest. He continued to produce works of manticulate beauty and selling them to those willing to explore the depths of the female body, the anatomy of dragons and compositional structures of rocks.

‘I am no fool’ He would shout, ‘But one who has opened his eyes to another dimension beyond your petty wares and foodstuffs’

The village people simply laughed and scoffed at the idea of anything existing beyond the material. Some through rotten produce and spat while they past, though he continued to speak.

‘Beyond even the farthest reach of our vision is a place no man can comprehend with his own two eyes, he must open his mind and even then he can only savour the bittersweet glory’

Once again, feeling frustrated and annoyed, the young artist returned to his home with his head hanging in shame, feeling the pain of regret and failure.

Days and nights passed sooner than usual and time seemed never on his side, he decided that he would create one artwork he could truly be proud of before his demise. Tirelessly he worked, while implementing his many experimental techniques taught by passing gypsies whom sought refuge in his home from the villagers’ hatred. They brought jars of exotic spices and herbs from places he never knew existed, though deciding they were useful nonetheless, added them to his artwork. Soon the winter came and his vegetable garden had diminished into the soil from which it grew. His facial hair was immense and often interfered with the brushstrokes of his painting, though he became accustomed to it, and began to take advantage of the hair.

Through the many years alone he witnessed the young children grow into teenagers as he watched through a crevice in his mud hut, hearing the many whispers they spoke of hormonal and physical development. He smiled upon hearing the first words of flirtation and cried upon the sight of a kiss, though never retired from his work. No, he was never visited and never bothered – the humble village had no room for his idealism. Until one day, upon the final stroke of his frail brush, death embraced him through the cold, barren soil that had destroyed his garden. How long before his death was discovered, it is not known, though the artwork soon became the awe of a judgemental town.

It was a portrait of the village itself – the finest detail of the river using paprika for the wildflowers, flakes of oregano for the curly grass and a turquoise paste for the river. Not only did it have visual appeal, but also the aromatic scent forced many of the starved villagers to lick the finely painted detail off with the tip of their tongues. Much to their amazement after having reached the canvas skeleton, the remnants of a long and winding road stood before them. The visual detail was so intense that many villagers ran away in fear, while others destined to find this road darted with parsley and other plants. The curves, crevices, bumps, holes and dents made by the coarseness of his beard gave a new depth to the artwork, and alit appreciation within the hearts of some live with the guilt of misjudging.

An old man stood forth from the crowd and proclaimed this piece should be named ‘Thousand Bristle Road’ after carefully examining the tiny paintbrush bristles stuck to the painting. Those who left in search of this road never returned, while the remaining villagers’ wept and displayed the art in the centre of the village in place of where an old merchant trail once existed. If only the old artist with the young heart had seen his appreciated art – after all, where there is death, there is rebirth. Perhaps the young artist lives on eternally painting the landscape of his village by promoting the growth of these new exotic plants and providing the cool water from the volcanic reach. Perhaps he always will be here, the unfortunate artist who never discovered true love beyond the reach and talent of his brush.