Micro fiction, Brigitta Scheib

The offering

The boy painted the sky pink, purple and gold, holding tight to the boar bristle brush as thick paint globs ran down the handle.

“One splash, two splashes,” he recited as he threw the inky colors into the air. Then he swirled and swirled until they married into one long, feathery horizon.

“Hello, Grandma,” he said, kneeling down to touch the smooth stone, cold and wet from the morning dew. He smiled and held the messy paintbrush out in front of him like a bouquet, clutching it with both hands, stained by the soft warm colors. “I brought you the sunrise.”