Tag Archives: fiction blog

Painter

To say it caused a sensation in the art world would be an understatement.

The first painting from Laurent Saint Michiuex in over 30 years. An infamous recluse, Michiuex had a meteoric rise to art-world notoriety with his first exhibition, simply and bluntly titled: ART.

And then he never painted again. Until now.

A single painting. A single stroke of red paint. A singular masterpiece, the critics agreed.

It would break all of Sotheby’s records for a painting.

Decades later on his deathbed, Michiuex would make a terse confession to his nurse. A confession people either did not believe or did not want to believe.

“I was born Earnhardt Jones and 20 years ago a bumped into a table, spilled some paint on a piece of canvas, and became a millionaire.”

And then he died.

Title

His name was The Grand Supreme Leader Of Everything That Is, Was, Or Will Be.

He promised us inner peace, knowledge of things heavenly and worldly, a profound sense of purpose.

We could have all of this, The Grand Supreme Leader Of Everything That Is, Was, Or Will Be said, if we just trusted him completely.

That trust, he said, could be earned easily, quickly, and with a few strokes of a pen.

Just sign on the dotted line. Don’t read the document, just sign.

And so we did.

After two weeks of intense seminars, meditation, fasting, we signed.

And now we are the proud owners of a pristine beach-front property.

In Kansas.

General

“Alright, listen up you maggots! There’s no room for weakness in my platoon. You got that! I said do you god damn got that?!

We will advance on the enemy. We will fight the enemy. And yes, some of you may die. And some of you may lose an arm or a leg. And some of you will never be the same.

But ask me if any of that matters to me and my answer will be that it fucking does not matter to me what happens to you. Not one god damned bit. Do you understand?

What matters to me is that you don’t act like a bunch of motherfucking, cocksucking, wet pussy wimps. That’s what matters to me.

Do you understand, maggots?”

Reflected in the beady, black eyes of the bears and giraffes and one white and pink bunny was the image of a six year old kid in a way-too-big-for-him Army uniform, perhaps belonging to a man 30 years older than him who never came home.