Ulysses’ gloves, thick leather lined with the fur of an animal that Ulysses was fond of imagining as a willing participant, like his hands, were almost always dirty. Stained with ink, scratched with graphite and whatever other materials managed to contaminate his fingers and his art. They reeked of dirt and of metal, at the moment, likely due to the time spent among tools in various states of completion and tradesmen, pencil in hand and a sketchbook balanced over his knee. Ulysses was an oddity wherever he went, but it was rather plain that he was out of place balanced on his perch, hair tied back and tucked under a cap, weight shifting between his feet and fingers drumming against his knee as patrons of the burly Mr. Smith came and went. A myriad of little figures littered the pages, different patrons that had come and went in various states of bustle and bundle. With different gloves, with different knits and coats, all brought to life by Ulysses’ easy strokes and angles.
There was the man with the crooked hook of a nose, with bushy, asymmetrical eyebrows that had Ulysses fidgeting with the angle he had his work propped against his leg, the small, round man with hands like plates that led Ulysses to adjust the perspective so they would fit on the page, the little boy who was running errands for his father, rosy-cheeked and snotty, among the number of subjects Ulysses had chosen, whose names were quickly forgotten but whose faces would remain behind Ulysses eyelids and in his pages. Though regretfully, none of them were terribly charming. Ulysses decided as he found an empty page, that they were lovely practise, but none of the gentlemen he had caught sight of that afternoon had that enthralling quality that pulled Ulysses in, like a wolf and its terribly lovely jaws. Ulysses was rather fond of that sort of overwhelming burn that consumed him when met with a muse that caught his fancy, and though he was eager for another fire, he had resigned himself to finding another undiscovered gem today.
And then as if it was the lead actor’s main entrance, a man entered from stage right, with dark hair that made Ulysses’ hands twitch as he resisted the urge to stand and run his hands through it, a roman nose that had him chewing on the end of his utensil, and the sort of body that Ulysses thought was fitting for an ancient greek gladiator or roman soldier, the sort of features that made Ulysses wonder if he was made of marble.
Of course, there was a good deal of prodding and convincing to be allowed to make himself a little space in Mr. Smith’s business, as long as he stayed more seen than heard, a casual sort of viewer that would melt into the background one ordered, it had helped that Mr. Smith’s little brother had been rather fond of his art, or at least, of a commission that Ulysses had done for a family friend, or something, he wasn’t entirely certain he had been mistaken for someone else, but for what it afforded him, Ulysses couldn’t really care all that much about a little misconception.
He should care though, about interrupting this fine gentleman that had come to do something vaguely tool related, something other than model for a curious artist with a penchant for trouble, about the warning look the business’ proprietor was sending Ulysses’ way, but it was as if all reason had been pulled out of his mind, along with anything other than his sense of urgency, the gratification that would no doubt be bestowed upon him at examining the proper angles of the man’s profile. He had waited, tried to be patient, started a half-dozen little sketches until his fingers ached with ambition and tore through his arm, urging him to open his mouth.
“Sir, my good man,” Ulysses called, cocking himself to the side, sort of like those little, exotic birds that decorated one of those penny-dreadfuls he had bought from the bookshop a few streets over. He tucked his pencil behind his ear, eyes narrowing at the poor, unsuspecting patron. “If it would not be too much trouble, sir, you have the sort of aura I ache to encapsulate on paper.”
It was often Ulysses was told he spoke more than he should, so he figured, just this once, that perhaps he should wait a moment for his words to register, at least to gauge whether or not he should be running away with his tail between his legs.
There was the man with the crooked hook of a nose, with bushy, asymmetrical eyebrows that had Ulysses fidgeting with the angle he had his work propped against his leg, the small, round man with hands like plates that led Ulysses to adjust the perspective so they would fit on the page, the little boy who was running errands for his father, rosy-cheeked and snotty, among the number of subjects Ulysses had chosen, whose names were quickly forgotten but whose faces would remain behind Ulysses eyelids and in his pages. Though regretfully, none of them were terribly charming. Ulysses decided as he found an empty page, that they were lovely practise, but none of the gentlemen he had caught sight of that afternoon had that enthralling quality that pulled Ulysses in, like a wolf and its terribly lovely jaws. Ulysses was rather fond of that sort of overwhelming burn that consumed him when met with a muse that caught his fancy, and though he was eager for another fire, he had resigned himself to finding another undiscovered gem today.
And then as if it was the lead actor’s main entrance, a man entered from stage right, with dark hair that made Ulysses’ hands twitch as he resisted the urge to stand and run his hands through it, a roman nose that had him chewing on the end of his utensil, and the sort of body that Ulysses thought was fitting for an ancient greek gladiator or roman soldier, the sort of features that made Ulysses wonder if he was made of marble.
Of course, there was a good deal of prodding and convincing to be allowed to make himself a little space in Mr. Smith’s business, as long as he stayed more seen than heard, a casual sort of viewer that would melt into the background one ordered, it had helped that Mr. Smith’s little brother had been rather fond of his art, or at least, of a commission that Ulysses had done for a family friend, or something, he wasn’t entirely certain he had been mistaken for someone else, but for what it afforded him, Ulysses couldn’t really care all that much about a little misconception.
He should care though, about interrupting this fine gentleman that had come to do something vaguely tool related, something other than model for a curious artist with a penchant for trouble, about the warning look the business’ proprietor was sending Ulysses’ way, but it was as if all reason had been pulled out of his mind, along with anything other than his sense of urgency, the gratification that would no doubt be bestowed upon him at examining the proper angles of the man’s profile. He had waited, tried to be patient, started a half-dozen little sketches until his fingers ached with ambition and tore through his arm, urging him to open his mouth.
“Sir, my good man,” Ulysses called, cocking himself to the side, sort of like those little, exotic birds that decorated one of those penny-dreadfuls he had bought from the bookshop a few streets over. He tucked his pencil behind his ear, eyes narrowing at the poor, unsuspecting patron. “If it would not be too much trouble, sir, you have the sort of aura I ache to encapsulate on paper.”
It was often Ulysses was told he spoke more than he should, so he figured, just this once, that perhaps he should wait a moment for his words to register, at least to gauge whether or not he should be running away with his tail between his legs.
word count: 778