Ruiz stood, brush raised to the canvas, dripping red paint on the floor. Three paintings had sold and inspired him to paint joyously, in celebration of his life and his talent. Which, he felt sure, he had gotten from his mother who was French.

Bold streaks slashed across the empty white beckoning field. Red blood of his valiant father. Green tendrils of morning glory vines. Green trees that fired bullets.

Meanwhile, black sheets turned clamshell grey in the dawn.

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