Medusa

The Medusa I painted a picture of a tranquil bay, a red boathouse rowing boat, golden pebbles in shallow water naturally, the sky was blue, the mountain afar hazy. A noise upstairs, the woman rearranging furniture doesn’t go out and gets bored, breaking the dream. When she was done, I looked at the painting again it had changed; the boathouse had holes in the roof the mountain was too close, gloomy and snowy In the sea, a medusa, with tentacles reaching 70 years back in time when the aside was spoken lasted into the future. The sting of the medusa had a woman’s face, stung. When the aim of the bite had gone, the hurt had not putrid through the ages, a wound that does not heal. The upset said: “we can no longer tolerate this slight against us.” We are a proud nation.” No one knew what the remark was about, it had been vindictive, and a demand for a historic apology was issued. Sabre rattling, ambassadors left armies at borders war broke out.