writing prompt #3//"No one is free. Even the birds are chained to the sky." -Bob Dylan

{This is writing prompt #3, using the quote by Bob Dylan: "No one is free. Even the birds are chained to the sky." It took me twenty eight minutes to write, with a time limit of thirty minutes. It features an arrogant artist with a secret and a shy journalist determined to get the truth out.}

"Thus, my artwork is a revolutionary memento to society, inspired by the Bob Dylan quote, 'No one is free. Even the birds are chained to the sky.' We are all victims of the choices we take and the mistakes we make. Life is just one big pile of crap," the young man said with a smirk, holding one of his canvases in his hands. "This painting took me a whole month to do. Just look at the detail. Look at the colors. Absolutely fascinating."

The panel of journalists sitting before him were scribbling furiously. Many were young women who would melt at the sight of his wink.

Zachariah Uclypses was a fine and famous artist. Every year, he churned out collection after collection of his finest paintings. The local museum was packed with his work and he had requests from all over the country for his artwork. He considered the local museum lucky - Zachariah Uclypses didn't just let anyone have his work. Only the elite, the superior, the hierarchy could get their hands on them. To Zachariah Uclypses, the world was laid out before him. He knew of trouble and sorrow, of joy and pleasure, of melancholics and hope. They were all woven within his paintings.

The monthly meet and greet and display he hosted at the local museum was a treat for his fans. Journalists and cameramen crowded the front of the room, and his more common fans, as he called them, would bustle in after them.

One of the cameramen barked out, "To the left more, please!"

Zachariah Uclypses grinned widely and posed to the left more. Blinding lights flickered all around him and he did not flinch. Oh no. He was very well accustomed to the hardships of popularity. It all came with the package.

A journalist with purple hair up front raised her hand eagerly.

He nodded to her, giving her a smoldering look. "Yes, the lovely young lady with the peculiar purple hair."

"I am Samantha Beverly from the Palette Paper. Exactly what types of brushes do you use to create such... intricate... designs?"

"What a phenomenal question, Samantha!" Zachariah smiled widely. "I have them especially imported from all around the globe, each with different size and thickness and shape. Only the very best for the very best."

Samantha Beverly flashed a chipmunk grin and nearly toppled over from swooning.

In the very back, squished between a camera guy and a security guard, popped up a thin arm.

"You poor soul in the back," Zachariah said, earning a wave of laughter from the crowd. "What is your question?"

The voice that replied was so quiet all he could hear was a murmur. He motioned at the security guard to move, and when the burly man did so, there stood a delicate looking girl with short, dirty blonde hair wearing a yellow dress.

"I can't hear you, darling," Zachariah commented. "Louder."

The girl smoothed down the front of her dress and spoke a little louder. The entire room had to hold its breath in order to hear her voice.

"I said, I do not have a question, Mr. Uclypses. I have a comment."

"Oho! A critic! Fire away, love." Zachariah was startled at the girl's choice of critiquing his work. He was not used to being told of his flaws. In fact, if the girl was not so small and nonthreatening, Zachariah would have gotten quite angry with her. But surely such a creature would not pose a threat.

"Well, your interpretation of Bob Dylan's quote is awfully lopsided. It is true it has a connotation of negativity, but not so low as to say life is a pile of..." The woman blushed. She was hesitant to say 'crap'. "...Garbage. Yet I am here to say I disagree... respectfully... with both you and Bob Dylan."

Zachariah's eyebrows lifted. The entirety of the room was just as surprised as he was. No one had ever directly tried to contradict Zachariah Uclypses, ever.

Seeing as no one had tried to stop her, the young woman's voice grew a little more in volume. No longer did she clutch her dress nervously, as if wanting to be anchored down, but rather with determination, like she wanted to flap it to the extent that flying could be made possible.

"The birds that are spoken of in that quote are never chained to the sky. They always have the option of flying down to the ground, to walking and seeking nourishment. Why make flying seem so dreadful? Why make walking appear a terrible ordeal? Why make life anything other than what it truly is? Life is beauty. It is lovely beauty, it is painful beauty, it is bitter beauty. But we are always free as long as we do not let others chain us to our nightmares. Those birds, Mr. Uclypses, are breathing beings that cannot be told what to do. They do of their own free will. Trap one of them and observe its behavior. In the end, it will escape, if not physically, spiritually. We are the same, sir. We are beautiful, imperfect creatures that are free. We demand freedom, we revel in it." She stopped to catch her breath.

Zachariah was numb with astonishment, numb with disbelief. As the applause in the room got louder, he felt himself boiling with anger. How dare this puny thing barge into his showcase!

He gestured at his manager to come over. In his ear, Zachariah whispered, "I'm done. It's finished. Get them all out of here."

"Yes, sir, right away." The manager was quick to say his conclusion to the event and usher the crowd out.

They were all groaning as they left, but Zachariah did not beam at their disappointed looks as they left as he usually did. He was so furious he didn't even feel the gentle poke on his shoulder until his name was called. When he turned around, there stood the young woman in her... disgusting... yellow dress.

"Mr. Uclypses? My name is Eva Zale. I wish to have a word with you before you left?"

Zachariah was almost snarling. "I do not think that would be wise, Ms. Zale. Good day."

"I realize you are upset over my comment, Mr. Uclypses. But I have something that will make that shrink in comparison."

Zachariah's manager headed over, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Sir, we need to go now."

Zachariah looked to Eva. "Out with it. I have a signing scheduled in thirty minutes."

"I have reason to believe these pieces of art are not yours? They are originally my sister's. She started painting when she was twenty. Three years ago, she came to me, crying that her collection was stolen from the closet in her studio. After I suggested legal action, she was quiet. I have not heard word of the incident since. I am guessing you threatened her into staying silent?"

One could hear a pin drop in the room.

Eva inhaled. "I know it was you, Mr. Uclypses. My sister had not shown any one of her paintings to anyone, including me, save for that one over there." She nodded to the painting hanging from the wall, featuring a scene depicting birds on a rock in the midst of the ocean. "I would recognize it in a heartbeat. My sister has no arms, Mr. Uclypses. She paints with her legs and mouth. One could never put so much passion into their work as she does."

Zachariah could hear his manager's gasp. Zachariah glared at Eva. Lowering his voice, he said, "And exactly what do you think you can do, Ms. Zale? Take legal action? You have no evidence. No way of proving that. It is a pity. But what is mine is mine. And there's nothing you can do."

He turned to leave. His manager began to protest, but Zachariah neared to him and growled, "You say a word about this to anyone else and I'll make sure you fall into a ditch so deep no one will find you ever again. Now stop blubbering and get the limo ready."

Before Zachariah could step out of the room, Eva's voice echoed in the nearly empty room. "You will soon learn, Mr. Uclypses, that luck is not always on your side. You are not the only person in this world that is free."

Zachariah turned to spit out an insult back at her, but froze in horror.

In Eva's hand was a voice recorder. She pressed the stop button with force. "This is for my sister."

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