20x10

Edward stood in front of the massive painting, lost in thought. It really wasn't about the cost -- he had enough to buy over a hundred of the same work of art -- but there was something mystical about the piece itself that held him captivated.

Twenty feet by ten, painted by a still-living painter who preferred to remain anonymous. The transaction was handled by an escrow agent. An oil piece, a rare one at that, due to its size. The agent had told Edward that it took nearly two decades for the painter to sort of finish the piece. The piece was bold -- it depicted the tragic battle of Waterloo, yet it had none of the bold strokes of a decisive brush. Instead, it was filled with nearly imperceptibly tiny brush strokes, each stroke meticulously placed upon the canvas, as though it were painted not with brushes but with pine needles. The details were exquisite -- each soldier that appeared on the canvas was distinct and had sharp contrast, their fear and valour alike striking to the viewer.

It wasn't really complete, the escrow agent had said, but the painter had to let it go. Times were getting hard, and sometimes great sacrifice of dreams are necessary to ensure their eventual attainment. Edward stared hard the piece, trying to see where it was that work was needed, but failed. It was clear that he would buy the piece -- his enarmourment was quite apparent to the onlooker.

The asking price was ten million francs, a sizeable amount of money for a piece from a mysterious living painter who was not yet among the ranks of the Old Masters. Edward thought it was a steal. He looked away from the piece and stared dead into the eyes of the escrow agent, who blinked reflexively.

``Deal.''

(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 19-Mar-2014 21:49:15)