Tracy Rose-Wood is an artist strtuggling with her latest piece.

Rose-Wood

Obsession was her food, and her food fed her art.
It was abstract, bold, and most important of all, it sold.  It sold by the truckload for a very high price.
Tracy Rose-Wood was an artist, trained in Paris and selling well all over the world. Her work was shipped to the four corners of the globe and decorated the homes of the rich and powerful. Those people were the only ones who could afford the exorbitant prices she could now command. 

Her main passion was sculpture, lifelike renderings of fantastical creatures that had become her trademark as well as being her bread and butter; affording her the lifestyle which she had often admired from afar, like a starving waif peering through the window of an opulent restaurant.

Her studio, the walls of which were adorned in paintings of black, red and gold from an audacious time when the mere brush and pallet were her lovers, was the rented, low-maintenance top floor of an abandoned warehouse on the river’s edge.  The view from her huge windows was of a prison where sex-offenders - society’s cast-offs - lived out their sentences, giving Tracy all the inspiration she needed.  What transpired within those huge, granite walls and two-man cells had inspired some of her most lucrative paintings and disturbing sculptures.

It was ironic that her surname, her current art form and the seedy term the inmate’s no doubt gave their erections, all interlocked their lives in a never ending flash of her blade and chisel, carving the mahogany of which she was now so fond.  These were the authentic works of horror that had already soiled her mind with images she could no longer control.

The sun was setting. The tracking lights around the perimeter wall of the prison flashed on with a white burst, blocking out even the brightest stars in the evening sky.