Soft brown paint smears, carefully and freely, beneath their forefinger.
Back in the cave, all they had was that curious red clay. It was hard to curl into lines, terribly staining, and they never really liked how their pieces turned out. But this paint (Will called it acrylic, but they donât understand what that means) flows and follows their hand closer, more forgiving than the clay.Â
   A head dips into four legs, spaced by an abdomen decorated in decor. Flowers spill across the flank, made by dabbing fingerprints of brilliant shades over where a terrible wound would be. They tilt a finger, drawing only the edge of a silicone pad for long strands might burst out.Â
   Their mark, a faintly-coloured handprint, presses into the paper beside their drawing. Carefully, they peel the thin paper away from the easel and set it to hang, magnetizing it against a easy-to-clean wall.Â
    âYâknow,â Will pipes up from his spot against the wall, tablet in hand. âWhen we get to Alpha Centauri, your art will probably be pretty popular. It doesnât have to be if you donât want to to be, of course, but I bet enthusiasts will love your glyphic style. Itâs really unique.â
   They tilt their head to that. It doesnât make much sense, just like so many of these tales of Alpha Centauri, but Will seems happy with the idea. There must be something good to all of it if he likes it.Â




















