David Beaty
1 min readApr 16, 2019


The Night Painter

The airless sprayer sputtered again and again then died.

The hand that held it was bronze and the forearm cartoon muscle, huge.

A tattoo on the forearm said MOM in blazing red ink against a black background.

The white painter’s pants stained rainbow of former jobs, but the hat was perfect.

Not a fleck of paint.

The painter tapped the nozzle and then whispered into it like it was a microphone tap, whisper, tap, the engine roared to life.

The perfect hat hid the the painter’s blazing smile.

The Night Painter went to work.

All night he sprayed panel after panel, adding rainbow layers to pants and shirt.

It was hot work and the painter’s arms glistened in the cool air.

He sat the sun panel in first, then the others.

Satisfied, he shut down the machine.

Holding out his hands he lifted the panels to the dark heavens until there was light.



David Beaty

Novelist, screenwriter, poet. Fan of all things writing, film, music. Married forty-seven years. Dog lover.