(no subject)
Author: openmydoors
Prompt #: 13
Warnings: None
Wordcount: 1325
I do what I always do after the termination of a relationship: I treat myself to a gallery visit.
I don't have a particular showing in mind as I swipe through the turnstile and enter the station. I don't even know which artists are showing at this time of year, or if I'll even be interested in any of them. As the streetcar reaches street level, I get my phone out. Within a few taps and a drag of a finger, I know that Violet Campbell is showing at Meredith Keith. The wonders of technology.
I've seen her once before; she favours dark colours, contrasts, different media but mostly oils. I know right away that it'll do the trick.
The entire streetcar ride to the corner of downtown Meredith Keith sits on, I don't let myself dwell on the past hour. I choose instead to look out the grimy window at the rapidly fading daylight, my eyes catching on each flashy storefront as it passes by, neon blurs in my peripheral.
My phone buzzes in my hand. Without looking down at the blinking caller-ID, I know who it is: Tricia. I hesitate, holding the solid weight of it in my hand. It buzzes again, and my hand involuntarily clenches around it. I think, for a split second, of ripping the window open and smashing the phone to the ground, of letting the gathering evening traffic crush the thing to a fine metal dust.
I take a deep breath. I don't throw my phone out the window.
I pull out the battery, and shove the two pieces into separate pockets, halving the weight, making a compromise. I take another deep breath. I look back out the window.
+
The gallery is wider than most, and darker too. The large floor-to-ceiling windows at the front suggest its strength doesn't show in the night, the space coming to life in natural light during the day. I don't mind it. It suits my mood.
There are two others in the gallery - the first being Ms. Keith herself, the second, another gallery goer, like me. I ignore them both. My shoes are sharp echoes in the quiet.
I circulate the space once, twice. I settle in front of the fourth in the series, and pause.
I think, inexplicably, that this man is about to die.
It hasn't anything to do with the surface physicality of the painting; there's nothing to indicate anything out of the ordinary. It's just a painting of a man sitting cross-legged on a chair in an otherwise undefined room. The two paintings framing it are similarly painted, and similarly titled.
And yet, only the man in the fourth painting looks like he is about to die.
I stare at him for another long moment, then start to walk away from it. My eyes trail the gallery walls, not really seeing. I settle back on the fourth painting, and I stare, until my eyes start to blur.
I think about what this man is thinking, this moment right before his imminent death.
+
Frank sat on a chair, and panicked like a peppered donkey.
He was never very good at sitting still, but he was possibly even worse at panicking. Normal folks panicked with their voices on and their limbs aflail, eyes popping out their skulls and faces contorted. Taken out of context, they actually kind of looked hilarious. But Frank wasn't normal folk. He panicked on the inside, all inconspicuous-like. On the outside he looked, at best, like a man sitting in an uncomfortable chair at the doctor's office. Slightly bored, slightly impatient, with the tiniest hint of dread around the ears. But inside, there was a holy terror of a war going on, with rocket launchers and gorillas and everything.
He didn't want to die. He was only hitting his forties now - he hadn't had decent sex in nearly five years, for crissake. His last orgasm had been in a dirty motel about sixteen miles back south, his hand deep in his shorts and a pay-per-view porno muted on the dinky little television. He at least deserved a whole night with a smoking hot blondie with a rack the size of mount Rushmore before the shit really hit the fan and he checked out for good.
Frank's inner war raged on; an entire spectrum of emotions fought each other and came together in exploding flashes. And in the ashes in Frank's mind's eye, stood Frank's mother.
Frank hadn't seen his mother in a good decade. It wasn't that he hadn't wanted to. Frank wasn't one of those stuck up sons of bitches who shoved their mothers into old folk's homes and called once a month at Christmas, no siree. No. Frank was a good son. He'd just been in jail for the past ten years. Wrongfully accused, but the jury had been the most pretentious upper class group of well-paid idiots Frank had ever seen. The trial hadn't even taken two days, before they charged him with rape and sent him on his merry way to the joint for ten fucking years.
Frank clenched his fists, as the gorillas were launched at the torpedoes, the resulting blood-stained furry mess clearing to remind him that in all those years, not a single person from his family had come to visit. Not a single one of them had even deigned to pick up the phone. Not a one.
The thought triggered an acrid, bitter taste to flood his mouth, an entire decade's worth of resentment building up in his body. He felt too tightly wound, a single moment's notice from lashing out at the next person or thing to cross his path. The gorillas thumped on their chests, a deep roar rising like a wave. Then suddenly, that wave faltered.
He was a free man, going on five months. He was fully in the right to let the fury eat him alive, to barge into his siblings' lives, to walk right into his mother's living room and say his fill. He had every right to yell at the lot of them until his voice was hoarse, then wait a night, and start yelling again come dawn. He did.
But he was about to say his final see ya! to the world. He was never going to see his family again.
The gorillas hunkered down, the rocket launchers emptied for the last time.
Panic now settling, Frank sat on the chair, and waited to die.
+
I discreetly brush my fingers over my eyes, then stare at the painting for another long moment, but it is only another painting, now. It is no longer a painting of a man who is about to die; it is now a painting of a man who is dead. I silently and briefly mourn the life of Frank.
I do another walk around the space, the click-clack of my shoes marking my passage.
Ms. Keith stops me on the way out. "I saw you were focusing on the one piece. Gorgeous stuff, isn't it?"
"Yes," I say.
"Is there any feedback you'd like me to carry on to Ms. Campbell? You looked like you were really intrigued by the piece."
"I'm not a buyer," I say, and leave.
It's now proper dark outside, streetlights dominating the sky, smog covering up the stars. I fiddle with the phone and its battery in my pockets, accusatory weights in each hand. I think about Frank, and I think about his mother, and I think about his regrets. The streetcar finally arrives, but I don't get on.
I start walking down the street instead, following the streetcar's path. I put the battery back in the phone.
I call Tricia.
Okay, question time: What sex do you think the primary narrator is?
Prompt #: 13
Warnings: None
Wordcount: 1325
I do what I always do after the termination of a relationship: I treat myself to a gallery visit.
I don't have a particular showing in mind as I swipe through the turnstile and enter the station. I don't even know which artists are showing at this time of year, or if I'll even be interested in any of them. As the streetcar reaches street level, I get my phone out. Within a few taps and a drag of a finger, I know that Violet Campbell is showing at Meredith Keith. The wonders of technology.
I've seen her once before; she favours dark colours, contrasts, different media but mostly oils. I know right away that it'll do the trick.
The entire streetcar ride to the corner of downtown Meredith Keith sits on, I don't let myself dwell on the past hour. I choose instead to look out the grimy window at the rapidly fading daylight, my eyes catching on each flashy storefront as it passes by, neon blurs in my peripheral.
My phone buzzes in my hand. Without looking down at the blinking caller-ID, I know who it is: Tricia. I hesitate, holding the solid weight of it in my hand. It buzzes again, and my hand involuntarily clenches around it. I think, for a split second, of ripping the window open and smashing the phone to the ground, of letting the gathering evening traffic crush the thing to a fine metal dust.
I take a deep breath. I don't throw my phone out the window.
I pull out the battery, and shove the two pieces into separate pockets, halving the weight, making a compromise. I take another deep breath. I look back out the window.
+
The gallery is wider than most, and darker too. The large floor-to-ceiling windows at the front suggest its strength doesn't show in the night, the space coming to life in natural light during the day. I don't mind it. It suits my mood.
There are two others in the gallery - the first being Ms. Keith herself, the second, another gallery goer, like me. I ignore them both. My shoes are sharp echoes in the quiet.
I circulate the space once, twice. I settle in front of the fourth in the series, and pause.
I think, inexplicably, that this man is about to die.
It hasn't anything to do with the surface physicality of the painting; there's nothing to indicate anything out of the ordinary. It's just a painting of a man sitting cross-legged on a chair in an otherwise undefined room. The two paintings framing it are similarly painted, and similarly titled.
And yet, only the man in the fourth painting looks like he is about to die.
I stare at him for another long moment, then start to walk away from it. My eyes trail the gallery walls, not really seeing. I settle back on the fourth painting, and I stare, until my eyes start to blur.
I think about what this man is thinking, this moment right before his imminent death.
+
Frank sat on a chair, and panicked like a peppered donkey.
He was never very good at sitting still, but he was possibly even worse at panicking. Normal folks panicked with their voices on and their limbs aflail, eyes popping out their skulls and faces contorted. Taken out of context, they actually kind of looked hilarious. But Frank wasn't normal folk. He panicked on the inside, all inconspicuous-like. On the outside he looked, at best, like a man sitting in an uncomfortable chair at the doctor's office. Slightly bored, slightly impatient, with the tiniest hint of dread around the ears. But inside, there was a holy terror of a war going on, with rocket launchers and gorillas and everything.
He didn't want to die. He was only hitting his forties now - he hadn't had decent sex in nearly five years, for crissake. His last orgasm had been in a dirty motel about sixteen miles back south, his hand deep in his shorts and a pay-per-view porno muted on the dinky little television. He at least deserved a whole night with a smoking hot blondie with a rack the size of mount Rushmore before the shit really hit the fan and he checked out for good.
Frank's inner war raged on; an entire spectrum of emotions fought each other and came together in exploding flashes. And in the ashes in Frank's mind's eye, stood Frank's mother.
Frank hadn't seen his mother in a good decade. It wasn't that he hadn't wanted to. Frank wasn't one of those stuck up sons of bitches who shoved their mothers into old folk's homes and called once a month at Christmas, no siree. No. Frank was a good son. He'd just been in jail for the past ten years. Wrongfully accused, but the jury had been the most pretentious upper class group of well-paid idiots Frank had ever seen. The trial hadn't even taken two days, before they charged him with rape and sent him on his merry way to the joint for ten fucking years.
Frank clenched his fists, as the gorillas were launched at the torpedoes, the resulting blood-stained furry mess clearing to remind him that in all those years, not a single person from his family had come to visit. Not a single one of them had even deigned to pick up the phone. Not a one.
The thought triggered an acrid, bitter taste to flood his mouth, an entire decade's worth of resentment building up in his body. He felt too tightly wound, a single moment's notice from lashing out at the next person or thing to cross his path. The gorillas thumped on their chests, a deep roar rising like a wave. Then suddenly, that wave faltered.
He was a free man, going on five months. He was fully in the right to let the fury eat him alive, to barge into his siblings' lives, to walk right into his mother's living room and say his fill. He had every right to yell at the lot of them until his voice was hoarse, then wait a night, and start yelling again come dawn. He did.
But he was about to say his final see ya! to the world. He was never going to see his family again.
The gorillas hunkered down, the rocket launchers emptied for the last time.
Panic now settling, Frank sat on the chair, and waited to die.
+
I discreetly brush my fingers over my eyes, then stare at the painting for another long moment, but it is only another painting, now. It is no longer a painting of a man who is about to die; it is now a painting of a man who is dead. I silently and briefly mourn the life of Frank.
I do another walk around the space, the click-clack of my shoes marking my passage.
Ms. Keith stops me on the way out. "I saw you were focusing on the one piece. Gorgeous stuff, isn't it?"
"Yes," I say.
"Is there any feedback you'd like me to carry on to Ms. Campbell? You looked like you were really intrigued by the piece."
"I'm not a buyer," I say, and leave.
It's now proper dark outside, streetlights dominating the sky, smog covering up the stars. I fiddle with the phone and its battery in my pockets, accusatory weights in each hand. I think about Frank, and I think about his mother, and I think about his regrets. The streetcar finally arrives, but I don't get on.
I start walking down the street instead, following the streetcar's path. I put the battery back in the phone.
I call Tricia.
Okay, question time: What sex do you think the primary narrator is?