By Robert P. Bishop
The artist, burdened by easel, palette, and canvas, cried out when he skinned his shins stumbling through the dark. Exasperated, the artist stopped, set up his easel, blindly dipped a brush into the paints on the palette then swept the brush across the canvas. Immediately heaven and earth appeared and light separated from dark, bringing forth night and day.
The artist gazed upon his creation with awe. “Why didn’t somebody tell me I could paint night and day, heaven and earth? It would have saved me a lot of pain.” He stared at his bloodied shins.
Freed from darkness, but drained by the exertion of painting something as momentous as night and day and heaven and earth, the artist closed his eyes and slept.
When he woke he saw his painting was colorless and uninspiring. The artist dipped a brush in the paints on his palette and shouted, “I’ll paint some firmament and make it…” He searched for a word… “and make it blue!” With a single stroke a brilliant blue mantle swept above the earth. Exhausted by this effort, the artist slept.
The artist woke to a world lacking dry earth. “That’s an easy fix.” He painted continents separating the waters into the seven seas. Overcome by the beauty of his creation, the artist sat down on a sandy beach and wept sweet tears.
As he lazed on the beach listening to the soft susurrus of the surf lapping the shore, the artist saw the land was barren and harsh. He wielded his brushes again with daring strokes. Green plants appeared and spread over the earth. Flowers of every color filled the air with marvelous fragrances. But something gnawed at him. “My painting is unfinished,” he muttered before lying on the warm sand and going to sleep.
The artist went for a walk when he woke. Dismayed by the emptiness of the sky above, he took up his brushes and with slashing strokes created the sun to rule the day and the moon to command the night, circle the earth and give movement to the tides.
Exhausted by his labors, he slept.
To refresh his spirit when he woke the artist dived into the sea. The absence of living things in the water distressed him. “Well,” he murmured, “nature abhors a vacuum.” He came out of the sea, took up his brushes and fashioned the creatures of the oceans on the canvas of creation.
Pleased with his work, he rested on the warm sand. Gazing skyward, the artist lamented the absence of flying creatures. “Behold!” he cried and brandished his brushes again. All manner of flying fowl filled the air in response to his vigorous strokes.
That afternoon the artist strolled over the earth. The silence of the forests and the vast savannahs vexed him. “My painting’s incomplete,” he grumbled. Worn out by strenuous labors and too much time lazing in the blazing sun, the artist lay down in the shade and slept.
The next morning the artist sat under a flowering jacaranda tree and studied his canvas. “Today I will create something new.”
He carried his easel to the ocean’s shore so he could enjoy the soothing sound of the surf while he worked. The animals he created spread over the earth. But something nagged at him. He stroked his chin thoughtfully and cast a critical eye upon his painting. “It’s still not right. Something is missing!”
After going for another walk, he said, “This place needs a name. I’ll call it Eden.” The artist paused. “Why should I name it? There isn’t anybody here, so why bother?” Feeling obstreperous, he named it anyway, because he could and because he knew every great work of art needed a title.
The artist sat down by a pool of clear, still water, saw his reflection and fell in love. He turned his head this way and that and examined every feature of his face. “Should I create a creature who is as beautiful as I am and include him in my garden?” The artist thought about it. “Why not? I’m the artist. I can create anything. Who is going to stop me?” The artist squeezed more paint onto his palette and with assertive strokes painted a magnificent creature that looked just like him. “Your name is Adam and you live in a garden called Eden,” the artist said to this living perfection.
Adam started to walk away. “Hold on, Adam, you need a partner.” The creative juices surged in the artist. With delicate and precise strokes, he painted a beautiful woman. “You are Eve,” he said.
Hand in hand, Eve and Adam walked through the garden. Their nakedness radiated goodness, innocence, and piety. The artist followed, overjoyed by the love Eve and Adam expressed for each other and for all living things.
The artist sat down and studied his garden and Eve and Adam, wrapped in their mantle of chaste purity. After a few minutes, he exclaimed, “I know what’s wrong! There’s no juice in Eden. It’s boring!”
Snatching up his brushes, the artist painted a cunning serpent in the leafy branches of the Tree of Knowledge. The sly serpent slithered up to Eve. “Hey, Babe, take a bite of this beauty.” He presented her a glistening fruit. Eve ate the fruit. Then Adam ate the fruit. They looked upon their nakedness with wanton eyes. A ferocious hunger grew in them. Adam said, “You’ve got magnificent tits, Eve. Let’s fuck.”
Lightning flashed and thunder boomed across the darkening skies. Earth’s creatures cowered as the artist’s laughter rocked his Creation.
“Now my painting is complete!” the artist cried.
Then he rested.
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Robert P. Bishop, an army veteran and former biology teacher, worked in Peru, Mexico, Uruguay, Morocco and Bahrain before settling in Tucson, Arizona. His short fiction has appeared in Active Muse, Ariel Chart, Bindweed Magazine, The Blotter Magazine, Bright Flash Literary Review, Clover and White, CommuterLit, Ink Pantry, Literally Stories, Los Angeles Review of Los Angeles, Mysterical-E, Scarlet Leaf Review, Umbrella Factory Magazine and elsewhere. He has been nominated five times for a Pushcart Prize.