En Plein Air
The easel is set up on the grass,
near a clearing in the woods.
Here, the trees the artist paints
are called birches. They are lithe,
like runners, not bulky weight
lifters who have spent too much
time at the gym. Their bark is
gleaming white, bright, as though
the forest fairies have just given
it a cleaning. The crazy quilt of
black spots on the trunks create
a stark contrast. Suddenly, the
painter is overcome by nausea
due to a strong but familiar
stench--skunk. The artist sighs
and shakes her head. Even in
the forest, there are critics.
This piece was written as part of the Wordsmith Studio Flash Fiction Writing Month Challenge. The prompt was to use each of the words that I have underlined in the piece, which I'm calling a flash fiction prose poem. There are plenty pf days left in the challenge if you want to join in. You will find the prompts on Twitter by using #FlaFiWriMo or #wschat and on the Wordsmith Studio Facebook Page.
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