Vlad pulled the chain to turn on the light; his father, the colonel, thought it funny that he, a prince of the undead, needed brightness to work. In fact, he didn’t need the light but used it to feel more like an artist. His first attempts were with crochet; he wanted to create wearable art for his mother but the texture of the yarn and the slipperiness of the hook made his skin crawl. He next moved to painting and started with spattering but it looked like little more than a mess on the canvas. As he tried different surfaces, he settled on pointillism, since he made patterns that that worked well on paper, ceramic, and metal. His current project was the development of a family insignia and as he sucked on the non-business end of his brush, Vlad dreamed of greatness. He imagined what it would be like to be famous: the parties, the admirers. He placed his free hand on his hip and affected a lisp and then a stutter since he figured he should have some sort of stand-out feature that set him apart (even more than being a vampire) from the other artists. As dawn broke, Vlad grew weary. He picked up his plate of meds (he hadn’t figured out how to eliminate the headaches caused by having a light on all night), grabbed his hot pad, and headed to bed.
For the 26 March Flash Fiction Chronicles prompt.