’You’re an artist,’ he said.
Go away, I thought, wiping ice from my beard. The hunter stared at my painting.
‘That’s not right,’ he said. ‘The snow’s definitely not purple.’
I gazed in silence at my palette.
The hunter peered at the landscape. A moose ambled from a forest.
As the hunter raised his rifle, I jabbed a brush at him. He stumbled as he fired.
The bullet hit my painting.
The hunter was unperturbed. ‘It seems I’ve bagged a work of art.’
He picked up his trophy and left.