Chimera

The naked lightbulb in the centre of the room flickered into life, throwing an orange glow over the plain plaster walls and the concrete floor. In the middle of the room was a small white canvas on a battered wooden easel, a thin layer of dust covering the blank surface.

Perfect, he thought. It was just the way he left it.

He slapped a newspaper down on the stained old table next to the easel and smoothed out the page. 'ART COMPETITION - Anyone Can Enter!' it cried in bold letters. Underneath, the words 'CASH PRIZES' shouted for attention from within a red star.

He put his hands on his hips and stared at the canvas. He had a great idea: an oil painting - something really striking. A gigantic creature in big, bold colours. An arching back, a forked tongue, a sense of drama and movement. It would be magnificent.

He tugged open the top drawer of the little table and took out his old box of paints. Ten filthy tubes, all spattered with colour and squashed out of shape; some rolled up almost to the top, and one missing its cap. He frowned. How was he supposed to paint with these? How could he do justice to the creature in his head?

He left the room to get his jacket, flicking the light off as he went.

It was a day later when he came back with a heavy plastic bag from the art shop. He hit the light switch with his elbow and walked over to the easel, then pulled a thick black box out of the bag and put it on the table. It had two little brass latches on the front. He unhooked them and opened the lid with a smile. Twenty-four tubes of fresh colour - a glorious rainbow. It was everything he could possibly need. He rubbed his hands together with excitement and looked at the canvas, seeing a thousand possibilities.

Perhaps the creature should have wings, and huge teeth. It had to really grab people if he was going to win that prize, after all. He would start by sketching out a rough outline - yes, that was how he liked to work. Give himself some boundaries to work within. He reached into the drawer for a pencil and pulled out a sorry-looking stub that might've been a 4B, once. It was chewed up and hopelessly blunt.

Pencils. He just needed pencils. He closed the door as he left the room.

He came back a few days later with a new tin of artist's pencils and a pack of chewing gum. The gum would help him think. He'd read about that online.

He flicked the light switch, and nothing happened. He frowned and shook his head. He'd left the switch on like an idiot - burned the bulb out. There was nothing for it. Couldn't paint without light. So he crept carefully across the dark room and put the tin of pencils and the pack of gum down on the table, then he left to buy a new bulb.

It was a while before he stood in that room again, screwing a new bulb into the fitting with a torch between his teeth. A minute later, the room was filled with cold blue light. The canvas was still waiting.

He'd mentioned that he had started painting again, and someone had bought him a set of new brushes - good ones. It was nice - a thoughtful gift. He'd laughed when he opened them.

'I can't believe I forgot to get new brushes,' he had said. 'You should see the old ones. How was I supposed to paint with those? These are great.'

He had everything he needed now. He picked up a pencil and stood in front of the canvas. This creature needed to be big. Powerful. What if it looked like a lion?

He chewed thoughtfully on the end of the pencil.

This could take a while to get right. He wondered how long it was before he had to submit his entry. He moved the brushes, and the pencils, and the pack of gum, and the box of paints to one side. The newspaper was underneath, with an old tube of red paint stuck to the thin paper. He tore it off and scanned the competition page for a date.

It was too late. He'd missed it.

He sat down on the cold concrete, and looked at the blank canvas. What was he supposed to do now?

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Written for the weekly short story competition on the 'Writer's Block' Discord server.