(flash story)

Somewhere in Europe, in the 18th century, the sun was brightly shining with a dark light on a canvas. A brush, a defiant extension of her soul, traced lines of vibrant color. Each stroke was a rebellion, a silent scream against the suffocating expectations of society.

Her mother’s voice, a nagging melody, echoed from the kitchen. “A woman’s place is not in the studio, and you know it exactly,” she chided, her words as stale as yesterday’s bread.

Yet, the young artist’s heart pulsed with a different rhythm, a rhythm of creation and defiance. She dipped her brush into the pot of crimson, the color of existence. With each stroke, she painted not just a picture, but a dream, a future where women were more than mere vessels for childbirth.

“Marry a good man.” The circle turned into a long, unshaped smudge.

“Find happiness in domesticity.” Paint was plowing down from the canvas.

But happiness was found in the silent symphony of colors. As the sun began its descent, casting long shadows across the room, she finished her painting, a testament to her unwavering spirit. A single tear escaped her eye.

A single tear—a silent tribute to the dreams she was forced to bury.

A masterpiece born from the silent rebellion of a woman who dared to dream. But could the dream dare to be there for her when she needed it?