Didn’t expect to be into my second bourbon before noon on a Tuesday. But here I was, critiquing my 12-year-old’s artwork.
The boy had always been weird. These sketches though, next level. Photolike realism with only a graphite pencil. As for the subjects…
“Who’s this?” I quizzed him, holding one up.
He told me – his grandmother. Staggeringly accurate, but he’d never met her. Or seen a photo.
“And this one?”
His great-uncle. Another deceased relative he’d never laid eyes on but somehow could recreate perfectly.
I asked where he got his inspiration.
“Dead family,” he said.
As simple as that.
The Weekday One Hundred 