Optimistically Cynical: A Short Story Compilation- 1

RELEASE

She sits there in the corner, my mistress, my muse. Grinning a sly smile, that infuriates me.

I'm trying to think. I'm trying to concentrate, but all I can see is that damned smile.

I put my brush to the canvas and leave a big blob of red paint.

I look to all my previous attempts. The other canvases standing stock still, like a graveyard, a testament to my dead talent.

I try again, this time blue. Another blob of paint. I'm getting frustrated. I look up. My muse is still sitting in the corner, perfect white teeth, covered by a pair of ruby lips.

I try to return to my work, I can't. My hand is ready, but my mind is not with it. All I can do is stare. Stare at a blank landscape, my first attempt. Stare at a crying clown that looks far too happy, my second attempt. Stare at a crystalline cliff overlooking a forever expanding coastline that has far too many jagged edges and hard lines, I can't even recall when I tried that.

They all come at me, one after another. The sitting dog. The standing fruit. The girl on a swing. The veritable elephant in the room, my attempt at humor. None of it any good.

All I can think of is the one piece I finished painting. The sultry lounge singer, leaning against the piano, draped in a slinky red dress. Her face dark, but with a bright smile tinged with a hint of seduction and just a dash of insanity.

The one piece that launched my fame. Praised by both critics and regular art goers. Heralded as one of the best pieces in our modern times. A call back to classic form with a new updated image.

I was happy, so very happy. My lady was everywhere, her smile was too.

Then came that infuriating question that had been at the back of my mind, but was asked by a reporter. "Do you believe this piece of art is a fluke? That you will never do a piece as good again?"

I can hear it playing through my head on repeat. I can't shake it, I can't get it out of my head. What's worse, it's not the voice of the reporter I hear, it's my own. Each and every time emphasizing the word 'fluke'.

I don't want it to be a fluke. I want it to be only the first in a long line of paintings, the scaffolding for my ever-reaching climb to the top. No, I don't want it, I need it.

Green paint, that should do it. No, not green, it's not dynamic enough. Orange, that should do the trick. Blob after blob, a cascade of color with no form. No body. No image. No talent.

The last word sets me off. I put my fist through the canvas. It feels good. I topple the next. I throw a third. After that I'm not sure of what I did, only that it was violent and made me feel very happy.

Soon all the headstones are scattered about. Dilapidated, broken, torn. All ruined, all beautiful.

"Darling, what are you doing?" my lady calls from the corner.

I look up, my own smile spread across my face, laced with salivation.

"I'm just, enjoying my art!" I start in. "I'm just, treating it in a manner befitting it's existence! Tapping into my primal need, my anger, my hatred! I'm just doing anything I can to wipe that smug look off of your face! You dime a dozen, penny ante, poor excuse for a masterpiece!"

She just leers at me. "Well, if that's the way you feel," she remarks as she begins to fade, like rising vapor dissipating into the atmosphere. The smile being the last thing to go.

I was all alone, with a tremendous mess all around me. Maybe I'd clean up later, or better yet, lock the door and brick it up. Then I wouldn't have to face that mess ever again.

I walk into the next room. Pour myself a glass of Bourbon and sit down at my desk. I nip at my beverage as my fingers fly across the keys. I was a better musician anyway.