It is to be expected that a life dedicated to art will never be an easy one.
But, great heavens, it’s hard work being a paintbrush.
Before he knew what was happening, Edgar had been yanked out of his box, dunked in water, and then dunked onto a watercolour tablet.
Everything went black.
Or rather red.
Edgar couldn’t see the paint of course—his bristles were coated in the stuff and seeing anything at all was out of the question—but there were other ways for the experienced paintbrush to work these things out.
He smelt the paint, tasted it, gargled a little, spat the paint out again and listed the ingredients to himself. He waggled his bristles in satisfaction.
Carmine. Quite delightful.
The artist chose that moment to push Edgar harder onto the block, and to move him in a circular motion at a higher speed than Edgar himself might have preferred.
“Ow! Ow, ow, ow, ow. Ow.”
“Hey, that’s a familiar voice!”
The artist eased the pre