Squeak-the-Freak

Light Infantry Tiny strokes, so delicate and feathered as to be almost invisible on the black, evidence of long hours hunched at a work bench.  But no time now for massage, for shoulders drooping in relief.  The yoke of the paintbrush is heavier than one might suspect.  Careful, careful, whispers the tiny pot of turpentine.  Don’t fuck this up. The dimness of the studio is breached by sound, by a chimera in green footy pyjamas.  Climbing the ladder of his lap, staring disapprovingly at the canvas with the look the Sphinx gave to Oedipus. “Daddy, no.” A small, chubby hand attached to a similarly pudgy arm.  But braver, so mu