The Artist
By Kelly Whitley
Max dropped the paper on his tongue, and slumped in the ratty orange recliner, waiting for the drug to hit his system. Nothing else had shaken loose artistic inspiration. This was a technique of last resort, the result of an internet search and a visit to a back alley downtown.
His mental vista widened in front of him. Max stepped into the space, landing on spongy red ground. A miniature square beckoned in the distance, emitting silent sound waves rolling across the flat field, tugging on him with a million tiny hooks, inviting him forward.
“Coming, coming. On my way, Sunshine.”
His feet paradoxically thwacked on the squishable landscape as the miniature square accelerated toward him. In an instant, the shape grew until it took up a vertical plane he somehow knew was precisely 51 3/16 by 38 3/16 inches in size.
A palette knife materialized in his right hand, and a loaded palette leaped into his left. An octet of reflective oils opened micro mouths and demanded to be used: Burnt Umber, Sepia, Cobalt Blue, Alizarin Crimson, Windsor Green, Cadmium Yellow, Oxide White, Lamp Black.
Max’s knife hovered over the Oxide White and he lifted the paints.
A naked woman stepped through the canvas and the white surface folded into a camelback sofa the color of overripe apricots. The lady reclined on the couch. “Paint me, Max.”
“But you’re laying on the canvas.”
“No, Max. Paint me. My skin is your canvas.”
Max dipped and swirled and smoothed and spread. Soon the model lay covered with paint, a three dimensional masterpiece. The palette and spatula jumped to the ground and melted away. Pride in his work had Max smiling.
She blew him a kiss. “Sleep, Max.”
He stretched out on a scarlet field and closed his eyes. A deep satisfaction pulled him under.
Something hard shoved his back. Max awoke on the wood plank floor of the studio, the legs of an easel five inches from his nose and the scent of linseed oil in the air. Max gazed up at the back of a canvas. He struggled to his knees, then his feet, and tottered around the easel.
Blank.
“Ah. There you are.”
Max whirled. The naked woman from his dream approached, still clothed in her coat of colors, carrying a palette of eight oils and a paint knife.
“What are you doing here? I finished your painting.”
“I’m here to paint you, Max.”
Max’s clothes evaporated. The blank canvas folded itself into a chair, drawing him down into its white cushions.
The lady dipped the knife into Alizarin Crimson and stroked it onto his arm. Instead of a patch of red, the painted area vanished. Max held up his arm and viewed her through the new window in his skin.
“I’m vanishing.”
“Not vanishing. Changing dimensions.” She expertly applied the paints, dissolving him piece by piece.
Max looked down to see the planks of the floor where his feet had been. “Why are you changing my dimension?”
“You were going to take credit for my painting.” She gestured to her colorful skin.
“But I did paint you.”
“Ah, but you came looking for me and invited me in and I inspired you. It’s my painting.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m LSD, Max.” She swiped paint across his face. As he took his final breath, she blew him a kiss. “Sleep.”
- - -
Kelly has been writing for years, and is new to flash-- the shorter the better.
By Kelly Whitley
Max dropped the paper on his tongue, and slumped in the ratty orange recliner, waiting for the drug to hit his system. Nothing else had shaken loose artistic inspiration. This was a technique of last resort, the result of an internet search and a visit to a back alley downtown.
His mental vista widened in front of him. Max stepped into the space, landing on spongy red ground. A miniature square beckoned in the distance, emitting silent sound waves rolling across the flat field, tugging on him with a million tiny hooks, inviting him forward.
“Coming, coming. On my way, Sunshine.”
His feet paradoxically thwacked on the squishable landscape as the miniature square accelerated toward him. In an instant, the shape grew until it took up a vertical plane he somehow knew was precisely 51 3/16 by 38 3/16 inches in size.
A palette knife materialized in his right hand, and a loaded palette leaped into his left. An octet of reflective oils opened micro mouths and demanded to be used: Burnt Umber, Sepia, Cobalt Blue, Alizarin Crimson, Windsor Green, Cadmium Yellow, Oxide White, Lamp Black.
Max’s knife hovered over the Oxide White and he lifted the paints.
A naked woman stepped through the canvas and the white surface folded into a camelback sofa the color of overripe apricots. The lady reclined on the couch. “Paint me, Max.”
“But you’re laying on the canvas.”
“No, Max. Paint me. My skin is your canvas.”
Max dipped and swirled and smoothed and spread. Soon the model lay covered with paint, a three dimensional masterpiece. The palette and spatula jumped to the ground and melted away. Pride in his work had Max smiling.
She blew him a kiss. “Sleep, Max.”
He stretched out on a scarlet field and closed his eyes. A deep satisfaction pulled him under.
Something hard shoved his back. Max awoke on the wood plank floor of the studio, the legs of an easel five inches from his nose and the scent of linseed oil in the air. Max gazed up at the back of a canvas. He struggled to his knees, then his feet, and tottered around the easel.
Blank.
“Ah. There you are.”
Max whirled. The naked woman from his dream approached, still clothed in her coat of colors, carrying a palette of eight oils and a paint knife.
“What are you doing here? I finished your painting.”
“I’m here to paint you, Max.”
Max’s clothes evaporated. The blank canvas folded itself into a chair, drawing him down into its white cushions.
The lady dipped the knife into Alizarin Crimson and stroked it onto his arm. Instead of a patch of red, the painted area vanished. Max held up his arm and viewed her through the new window in his skin.
“I’m vanishing.”
“Not vanishing. Changing dimensions.” She expertly applied the paints, dissolving him piece by piece.
Max looked down to see the planks of the floor where his feet had been. “Why are you changing my dimension?”
“You were going to take credit for my painting.” She gestured to her colorful skin.
“But I did paint you.”
“Ah, but you came looking for me and invited me in and I inspired you. It’s my painting.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m LSD, Max.” She swiped paint across his face. As he took his final breath, she blew him a kiss. “Sleep.”
- - -
Kelly has been writing for years, and is new to flash-- the shorter the better.
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