Talent is one of those things you can only appreciate if you lack it. As for myself, I appreciate it a great deal.

I would've considered myself a starving artist. In fact, I'd go one step further and say the phrase was coined for me. As an unsuccessful painter, and a man with no other profession to turn to, I was nearly driven to the poorhouse. My dear wife would only smile and never said a discouraging word of me. She never asked when there would be more food on our table, when we would have clothes for the winter months, or when we would be able to afford the luxury of a child.

That was what I felt most guilty about. Neighbors will help you if you are hungry, and our church will clothe us if need be, but no one can give us the joy of a child's giggle and an innocent heart. Oh, what I wouldn't give for an innocent heart.

After all this comes my name. My sorrows and my wants are more a description of me than my name could ever be, so it is only right that they should proceed it. But I have promised my name, so here it is: Daniel Walker.

Daniel Walker is a fool, an easily mislead simpleton. You may wonder why I am so hard on myself, but when I've finished my story you shall stand amazed at just how kind those words are.

I could spend eternity berating myself--and I do have the time-- but you do not, so I will instead move on to the reason I am so deserving of this self-imposed scolding.

As I have said, I was an unsuccessful artist. I'm not even sure the title of 'artist' is one I've earned. I am simply a man that connected paint-covered brush with paper: there was no artist in me. No thinker, either, for one evening in the despair of a poor man's darkest hour, I cried out for the help of God.

"My Lord!" I had howled. "Help me! I cannot sell my wretched work, my wife starves, and we freeze in the winter! We want nothing more than a son! A little boy to love and to care for, but we can't afford to have one. I pray to you to give me the means so that I may have the family I so desire!"

I have always been a religious man. We have nothing without our church, and without our God. And yet, for all my faith, I had never had a prayer answered. So my surprise was as to be imagined when, right before me, appeared a most amazing apparition.

"Good painter," this being greeted me. "You have called for help."

I was unable to reply. Out of instinct, I stepped backwards, bumping my art table. My jars of paint clattered to the floor, their contents oozing together to form a design far better than any I'd ever composed on purpose.

"Yes, I've called for aide," I mustered.

The being nodded. I gulped, waiting impatiently for its next word. I would be waiting for many moments.

I took this time to observe him, as I assume that was the reason he'd given it to me. He was ethereal and slick, with blue eyes like none I'd ever seen: as deep and as inconsistent as my puddle of paint on the floor. His hair existed only as wisps of light that fell just below his ears, and his face had a constant expression of sympathy and pity. By all means, this was a spirit of great power and great intelligence. Sadly, I considered only of the first.

His rich voice drew me from my inspection.

"Daniel Walker," he began. "I've heard your pleas, and am willing to give you what you wish."

I fell to my knees immediately, my hands clasped, and my eyes squeezed shut in disbelief: the answer to my prayer. I would've kissed the feet of this spirit, but my lips would have touched nothing more than air.

"Oh! I thank you! In the name of God, I thank you!" I exclaimed.

He ignored my gratitude and continued on with business.

"You wish to have money."

"I wish to have money to support a child and take care of my family: yes."

A fool I was.

"Very well, then," the spirit intoned. "I shall give you a son, and wealth will follow this boy. I cannot tell you how, for I do not yet know, but you must only trust my word and you will have all the money you can dream of."

I could scarcely believe my ears! Such a wonderful thing had just happened to me! I was to be rich! I was to have a son! Nothing could be better, nothing could've made me happier!

I threw myself at my spirit's intangible feet, a thousand 'thank you!'s slipping from my lips.

Soon, the occurrence I had dared not hope for arrived: my wife was pregnant and we were soon to be parents. My wife briefly worried about financial strife, but I promised her confidently that once our child was born, we would never have trouble with money again.

As promised, a son was born. My wife survived through childbirth, just as healthy as our little boy, and I found myself in church every Sunday, thanking the Lord for being so good to me.

As promised, we did not want for money. Our son was hardly three years old when he proved himself a far better artist than I. His paintings were no less than breathtaking. A child is supposed to scribble and scratch on paper, but our son made masterpieces. His hues were as bright as only God could make them, and his shapes and forms so unusual and exotic that his work was nearly alien. In our dreary society, devoid of beauty and colors, his work was a gift from the heavens. Though it broke my heart to sell a single one of his paintings, I did just that. My spirit had promised that money would follow my son and I knew that his gifted artistic ability was what would bring us that money.

By only the age of eight, our son was the nearest thing to a phenomenon. Every governor and magistrate in our vicinity owned one of his pieces, and there was a constant demand for them. Each painting was dripping with his lively temperament and still untainted soul, and everyone wanted to buy a bit of that feeling for themselves. If only I, too, had paid attention to that quality.

As money will do, it did. In other words, I became a miser of sorts, devilishly watching over my son's shoulder as he painted. My father's delight had given way to an employer's glee as my son worked dutifully, turning canvas after canvas into snippets of his soul.

If you draw too much blood from a person, they will die. This is a proven fact. Something a little more sketchy that I firmly believe is that if you attempt to draw all the talent from a person, they also will die. As the money piled up, my son painted away his soul, leaving it to decorate the walls of the well to do in our community. It was a cold body I found slumped over the easel one desolate morning that I shall not forget, the last of his being on the canvas, not yet dry.

In a wail of agony I realized what I had missed! I had turned what should have been a childhood of fun and frolic into years of tedious work! My son was dead, and I had killed him with my greed and unquenchable thirst for that certain sum I could never put my finger on.

"Dear God!" I called for a second time. "My Lord! Help me! Bring back my son! You have been so good to me so far! Don't take away my only joy and happiness!"

And before me appeared my spirit. His look of pity and sympathy was less comforting on this occasion.

"Why do you call me?" he asked, his voice a knife into my ailing skull.

"My son! My son is dead! Bring him back!" I exclaimed frantically.

The spirit was slow in responding, and gave me only a riddle for an answer.

"Who do you think you have prayed to? Who do you think has given you what you so desired?"

I was confused.

"Why you, of course."

"But who am I?" he grinned. "Who has granted you wishes?"

"A messenger of God almighty! An angel!" I declared, more sure than I'd ever been.

I am not sure if it was the feeling of my departed son's icy hand in my own, or the sheer sliminess of smirk on the being before me, but my body became quite clammy and I broke into a cold sweat.

"You are a gullible little man," he snickered. A snicker? Who was this man? What had happened to the caring, compassionate spirit that had given me my son! This was no angel hovering before me.

"You prayed for wealth, did you not Daniel Walker?"

I nodded with a head heavier than the earth.

"And your prayers were answered, were they not?"

I nodded once more.

"God does not answer prayers for money."