Wanting Something Is Not The Same As Something Wanting

Henry examined the brush strokes under his glass loupe. Everything suggested that this never-before-seen-or-even-mentioned Vermeer was a fraud. Yet even the finest details appeared genuine, from the composition of the pigments to the physical deterioration of the canvas, and Henry was beginning to have his doubts. Confirming its authenticity could bring Henry tremendous fame and many new clients; but a later retraction would be humiliating and likely end his career. He almost wondered if he should wash his hands of the whole affair.

Eventually, Henry trusted his method. The work was authentic. Vemeer had indeed painted Four Beagles Playing Pinochle.

A Ravenous Canvas

Walking forever through corridors of art, that's the fate I sought. If I were doomed to resurrect, as everyone was, why not wander eternally around beauty?

But when I tried to reach The Metropolitan Museum, the apocalypse stopped me. Manhattan's zombies swarmed my car, buried it in dead flesh. I'm trapped.

Now they're a ravenous canvas, pressed against my windshield. Their faces are yellow papyrus; their spoiling blood and bile are rancid inks and pigments, their viscera are rotting oils. This is their dead aesthetic; their moans exhort me to join it.

I'll starve.

I'll rise.

I'll create art too.

From Guest Contributor Eric Robert Nolan