FLY ART
By: Iris P. Concepcion

Art, that arrogant branch of human thematic explorations, was butchered by an axe one day, and found itself legless. That was also the moment it had decided to acquire a gender in the form of a gonad bearing being. Art, that boasting piece of Towering Craft, decided to become a he.

And he, that legless form of gallivanting creativity, shook the drawing pencil with might and conviction and had uttered:

"From your tip shall arise the most hawkish eyes, the mocking irises, the conscience-piercing pupils, the sly retinas, the snowy orbs."

The drawing pencil, suicidal at this point for the production of horrendous cartographic sketches, chopped ears, misunderstood shadows, cross-eyed faces, straight and limp hair, faced him, that legless creative tyrant with a thinning eraser on its tail's tip, growled like a pained chimpanzee :

"Damn you art! Damn you and your pretensions for one lined eyebrows, your noses with only two dots as its breathing holes, your four-fingered ladies in tights, your uneven tilting heads, your pouty mouths, your canvasses with drawings that always start in the middle, your shadow strokes looking like substandard road cement.

Damn you for liking death so much, you and your incompetent fingers wincing my tip with your incongruent noses, your faces with bland emotions, your lips with nary a character to grip me with the words : "MAKE ME ALIVE! MAKE ME ALIVE!"