The Paint Movers

I slid the slider to my art studio with cautious optimism, Hoping to find my brushes and glitter and paint and glue Somewhere close to where I had left them last night. The bright pink paint I had specifically placed front and center was missing. Let us not jump to conclusions, my socialized mind said. Maybe it was not last night. Maybe you put it there the night before last night. We were not out here the night before, my dendrites argued after they had connected last night’s thinking. My paint water was in its usual place. My brushes were where I had left them. I usually use thirty to forty brushes a day, so there is no way to tell if they had been moved or were missing. Everything else appeared to be exactly as it was yesterday. I immediately began convincing myself that I must have moved that neon leather paint at the last second before turning and shutting the slider. Faeries and elves do not paint in here I argued. That is absurd and realistically unsound. Right? But what if they do move the paint, dancing and twirling through it? Creating new magic with their little ballerina shoes? What if they come in here and slide across the canvases, dropping glitter and enhancing my stuff? What if they are like the shoemaker elves, fixing my mistakes in the middle of the night? Thinking I had heard a tiny little patter of a faerie foot, I turned and looked at my art table. Whereby sat the hot pink neon paint that was not there a moment before. What if? Written 10-3-2018 Poetry Contest: The Paint Movers Sponsor: Anthony Slausen