In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Call Me Ishmael.”
The studio was filled with the rich odour of roses, and when the light summer wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden, there came through the open door the heavy scent of the lilac, or the more delicate perfume of the pink-flowering thorn. From the corner of the room she stood. A Sophisticate appreciated the scent of roses as she checked the view outside, calculating the weather forecast for the day in her mind.
In the centre of the room, clamped to an upright desk, stood the full-length portrait of a blog of extraordinary personal beauty, and in front of it, some little distance away, was sitting the artist herself, A Sophisticate, whose pseudonym created some months ago caused, at the time, such public excitement and gave rise to so many strange conjectures.
She picks up her mug of rich dark roast, and began typing furiously away.
As she looked at the gracious and comely form she had so skilfully mirrored in her art on screen, a smile of pleasure passed across her face, and seemed about to linger there. But she suddenly started up, and closing her eyes, placed her fingers upon the lids, as though she sought to imprison within her brain some curious dream from which she feared she might awake.
(This I’ve worked to my morning routine. The Picture of Dorian Gray it is. By Oscar Wilde.)