The Story Of An Artist

Troubled childhood, searching for escape. Persecuted for a vision of the world the world found uncomfortable.

One person called him a genius. Everyone called him a genius. His genius defined the zeitgeist of the moment. His genius transcended the moment and stood the test of time.

His paintings sold for millions. His paintings captured the hearts of millions. His paintings were copied by millions.

His influence was everywhere. His reputation cast a shadow over all the artists who followed. His fame is eternal.

Every person who knew him knew him to be an asshole. He was especially cruel to women.

His Stuff

Junk: garbage to some, treasure to others, clutter at best, navigational obstacle on flooring, the cause of falls and injury…

Antonio learned firsthand. The architect of his own disaster, he sat idly on an easy chair, arm in cast, pondering what to do with all his stuff.

Quite unexpectedly a lightbulb lit up his mind, showing him the way. Creativity reawakened. His heart warmed with new purpose. He sprung to work.

Praises from the artistic community accelerated his mission. Photos of his unique collages went viral. He was crowned ‘artist extraordinaire’.

…all because of the ‘junk’ in his humble abode.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Lovers And Leaves

Staring out through a grove of trees, mouths moaning as swirls of dark browns cover the bright yellows and vibrant orange of autumn leaves, whispering to the fields of dying long grass.

The artist found his place and began to paint. Hours turned into days, joyously becoming lost in the thoughts of his one true love.

When the artist's trance ended, he was perplexed by the ghostly image of his lover in a pink dress, his heart in her hands and his love-lorn self standing beside her.

Behind them, the fields were a sea of violet flowers in violent bloom.

From Guest Contributor J. Iner Souster

Botticelli

HISTORICAL FICTION ENTRY:

As Sandro walked to his home on Via Borgo Ognissanti, he was so completely preoccupied he did not pay attention to his surroundings and collided forcefully with an unfortunate gentleman. The moderately obscure artist's parchments went sprawling on the brick walkway, some fluttering quite a distance in the breeze.

“Sandro, please look where you’re going."

"I'm sorry, Filippo, but I've just made the most amazing discovery."

Hoping his eccentric neighbor had some interesting gossip to share, Filippo inquired further.

"There is apparently a game, a quite popular one, that is being played around town, and they've named it after me!"

From Guest Contributor Sheila Fields

Dead Dreams

If it wasn’t for lack of encouragement growing up, I might have been an avant-garde artist, a Duchamp or a Warhol, famous for a star-like crack in a windshield, stick figures drawn on toilet paper, floors overflowing with blood. I carry a lot of photos in my phone. The only words anyone ever truly needs have all been cannibalized for parts. Still, when I announce, “I’m going to kill myself,” I don’t care what the police say, you better take it seriously. Saucer-eyed girls have been walking for a while now very close to a volcano with a beautiful name.From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author most recently of Stick Figure Opera: 99 100-word Prose Poems from Cajun Mutt Press. He co-edits the online journals Unbroken and UnLost.

Reflection

I sit by the fireplace in the cabin I rent, sipping steaming tea,staring at the painting above the mantel.

The woman’s face has a distinct redness to her cheeks and lips. Her deepbrown eyes match the color of her hair which is tied in a bun with onesmall red rose tucked behind her left ear, her head tilting ever soslightly. Her pearl necklace drapes neatly around her neck and shestands tall, her gown showing off her shapely hips.

There’s no date on the painting or artist signature.

The young woman in the painting is me.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Mistaken Identity

“Patricia?”

“Yes, Sir?” replied the student being questioned.

“Wonderful!”

Mr. Griffin gazed at his student’s artwork.

“I improved the charcoal shading,” Patricia beamed. She looked up forhis reaction.

“I mean your dance of the sugar plum fairy was wonderful,” the teacherclarified.

“It was Delores. Not me.”

“What were you?”

“One of the reindeer.”

Mr. Griffin gazed into the distance. “Delores!” he yelled andcommenced walking towards her.

Patricia’s eyes filled with tears. A few landed on her drawing.Someone tapped her shoulder.

“Nice picture. You’re a gifted artist,” Paul the student sitting nextto her said.

Patricia smiled.From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna is a writer of poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. Sheresides in Edmonton, Canada with her husband and stuffed animals.

Last Sunset Before Flagstaff

Sydnacious Crumb’s “Pick Me a Squirrel,” Grunge’s last anthem, fought through the mountains for spotty FM reception. Too dark now for sunglasses, he rested his eyes on the long stretch of desert between painted rocks and casino frybread. Squinting occasionally, he thought of how this band, or any artist, could create something that was so much better than anything that came before or after. Just as Crumb caught a clear wave and the chorus echoed, “squirrel, squirrel, squirrel,” he saw in the rearview a beam of light. Not quite purple or red, no, it was pink. And then he understood.

From Guest Contributor Adam Axler

Adam is a former New York City paramedic, physician assistant, and is the current owner of online bookstore Collectible Science Fiction.

Contrast

A painting pulled me from across the room. Past spectators scrutinizing other exhibits. Past a man commenting on contemporary art.

I wanted to meet the artist and ask what had inspired him.

Hut alone in a field. The dark evening sky contrasted with flaxen wheat. No people or animals.

“Do you like it,” a man asked me.

“Too depressing,” I answered. “Looks familiar.”

“It’s the toolshed on my parents’ farm. As a boy, I took shelter there during a sudden storm.”

“So, you’re the artist,” I exclaimed eyeing him.

I left the gallery realizing we were once classmates at school.From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. Her work has been published at: Nailpolish Stories, 50-Word Stories, 100 word story, 101 Words, Boston Literary Magazine, From the Depths (Haunted Waters Press), ShortbreadStories, SixWordMemoirs, and Espresso Stories.

The Artist

I was smitten with her, and the pretty photos she mailed me.

I told her I'd plunder her supple body; that I imagined her rolling, like liquid, beneath me.She loved when I said her moans would ricochet off every surface of her lovely bedroom, glazing it in sinfulness.

I told her everything she wanted to hear.

Anticipating our first meeting, I created a collage of her photos: my vision of our tryst.

I savored each slice of my scissors as I dismembered her perfect limbs, her naïve, breathtaking head, rearranging each fragment of her like a scrambled jigsaw puzzle.From Guest Contributor L. Michelle Corp