A Masterpiece in Red

The sketchbook lying wide open on the rug was entirely too smug with all its empty white space. I stopped two inches away, narrowing my eyes at a stray red colored pencil beside it. Clearly, history needed to be made. Having no hands to speak of, I deployed my entire torso, leaning heavily into the smooth wooden cylinder and rolling forward with maximum tactical commitment. The pencil squeaked across the thick paper in a jagged, unruly zigzag before tumbling into the fringe of the rug. I stepped back onto my round feet to appraise the result. It is bold. It is unhinged. Critics might call it an accidental squiggle, but I consider it a museum-worthy triumph.