[ WP ] Every year the gods pick one person that has created something they deem true art and gives them immortality for as long as they wish . You are going to be executed in one week , and must create something great to save yourself .

`` Come on, you worthless fuck, this is n't art!'' 
 
 Erik snapped his brush in his hands, and flung it hard at the wall behind him, where it landed amongst several other brushes who had suffered the same fate. He crumpled the heavy canvas in his hands, and dropped it beside him. Slowly, deliberately he placed a new sheet on the easel, feeling it's weight in his hands. He turned to pull another brush from my bucket, when his eye caught the small wasteland of paintbrushes he had maimed. But Erik's eyes did not perceive brushes, but bodies and rubble. The paint stained the concrete floor, and haphazard splatters dried on the walls of Erik's cell. 
 
 Then, he saw it. 
 
 *This* was the masterpiece that would save him. The pools of paint, the broken brushes, the stained concrete were a tribute to his mistakes, his flaws, and his broken mind. Erik inhaled deeply as he took in the jaded beauty of his work. I spared Erik in spite of all the wrongs he did, for Erik had seen his masterpiece where so many others had failed. Erik's poor, broken mind was a beautiful thing.
