I am writing for Twelve Shots of Summer (my favorite group of writing humans!), in which you post "one shots" of poetry, fan fiction, original content, or...whatever. The main thing is you follow a given prompt.

This is week four of {TSoS 2019: Hexa-Code Kernel}, and the prompt is "Draw".

Until an hour ago, I didn't know what I wanted to write about, so I scoured Fan Fiction to see what I could hop onto. I saw "Bible" as an option and thought, "AH, yes! A well-known book I have read! I'll choose that!"

Hebrews 10

Draw

Oily hair flecked with pencil shavings, he is humped over his drawing table.

The darkness of early morning swallows his airless room, but thick yellow light yawns through the window, pressing like a languorous cat against his tattered blinds. City light has a tang that whines out of street lamps and buzzes out of neon words; it is the crackle of sucked cigarettes, and amber exhaust that purrs across the sky to hide the stars.

City cat light is not enough to see the whisk of graphite; it is not enough to discriminate between eraser offal or cockroach whiskers - both of which heap in the corners of his studio.

But, he has no other light.

Were his pencil not flicking in manic lines in the dirty glow, he could've passed for one asleep or dead upright.

And his chest is grumbling.

His throat is growling.

There are words spilling from his thirsty lips

It's never right.

It's never enough.

It is never RIGHT.

It is never ENOUGH.

iT IS nEVR RGHT

ITisNvRengh.

ITISNEVERRIGHT

It is NEVER

...enough.

He has been this way for days.

He has eaten. But he has not slept.

Because he should not.

He has the degree. He has the knowledge. He has basked in the instruction of the greatest teacher. He has the degree. He has the knowledge he has the greatest teacher. He has it. He has the-

Marcus, you're scribbling again.

Stop scribbling.

Graphite is smooth, but it still makes a sound. Although it glides, it hisses and it catches on the fine weave of drawing paper in a way that sounds like sissing foam or fizzing soda pop - but amplified. It sounds like fine soil when a finger pulls through its topcoat, but sharper - higher.

And Marcus is making an awful lot of sound as his arm tangles in the shadows above his paper. Graphite can cut and it can slice when its dragged across paper. If it's pushed hard enough, it can draw blood.

What is Marcus drawing?

Beautiful things.

These could be found in high-end galleries. These could be admired by wealthy patrons cooing with their hands clasped behind their backs.

His drawings rob breath. They burst with flourished shading and delicate linework; intricate and thin, there are wisps and trendrils here while there are strokes loaded with boldness there.

He is an artist, and he is one of the best ones.

Artwork litters the floor in mounds and mounds.

Paper bed, paper carpet, paper walls, paper seats.

He sleeps in it. He eats in it. He bathes in it.

It shouts at me.

It shouts at me.

That I am not enough.

That I will never get it right.

Don't worry, Marcus. It only crumples beneath your bare feet and it only slides when you misstep.

But it screams and it sounds like my voice.

Like I am screaming at myself.

Like I know that-

Stop talking to yourself, Marcus.

Put your head down, and stop.

{Author's Note: I simply searched "Draw" on Bible Gateway and found Hebrews 10 which talks about how human effort/religion isn't going to conjure salvation, no matter how much blood is spilled. Hebrews 10 says you don't have to lift a finger, unless it's in surrender to accept that Jesus's sacrifice was enough blood spilled to save the world. "Draw near" was used a couple of times in this chapter. The voices weave together in the end (and perhaps throughout) on purpose.}