Archive for June, 2013

The Painter

She smiled at him from across the pub and he gazed at her blankly for a second before breaking eye contact. He felt her gaze steadily on him  and he pointedly ignored her, focusing on his pint of lager.
Coming to an abrupt decision, he downed the beer in three large gulps and setting down the glass, he waved to the waiter and walked out of the pub to the car park. He had been passing by the unknown neighbourhood when the sudden need to drink drove him into the side pub; the sudden need to wash out the bad taste of the news his agent gave him more like.
“You have to do something or I’m afraid I’d have to drop you!”
He huffed now in irritation at the memory checking his pockets for his keys.
“I know who you are.” A female voice said behind him and he turned in surprise.
It was the woman in the pub.
His eyes narrowed and he turned back to his car as his fingers snagged his keyring up.
“And who am I?” He asked dryly as he opened the front door.
She walked closer to his side, a big grin on her face. “The Painter. Eugene De Croix”
His eyes narrowed further as her smile became wider.
“Former painter” he spat out gruffly manoeuvring himself into his seat.
“But a fantastic one!”
He made to shut the door but she stood in the way, holding the door.
He eyed her for a second, taking in her features with practiced eyes of one who observed human features for a living. She was unremarkable; a large forehead above wide set eyes and a hooked nose. Her only saving feature were her lips; small and full.
‘And not belonging to that face’ he mused sardonically to himself.
“What do you want?”
She hesitated suddenly unsure of herself.
“Well…Ummm… You’re a great painter. And I’ve studied your work. And I’m an art stude-”
“Do you want an autograph?” he interrupted rudely.
She bit her lip and his eyes strayed to them, tracing every curvature, mentally applying a vivid shade of red to them.
“I want you to paint a portrait of me.”
A cruel smile formed on his lips abd he snorted. “Ha! What?”
She stood straighter. “A painting. That is what I want.”
“Well Miss…”
“Miss Schronberg, yes. I do not receive painting commissions in parking lots. And even if I did,  certainly not from you or your type. You cannot afford me. And since you say you’re an Art student, you’d know I haven’t painted in the last three yea -”
“I know I know. But I do not think you do it for the money, your art.”
He laughed in derision. “Oh yea?”
“You don’t. Your paintings tell me that. And you have donated quite a lot of them. Don’t you miss painting? The thrill of producing something great like your ‘Selene on a Couch?’
He stared at her with renewed interest.
Could he…?
“Nah..” he murmured, shaking of his head an a short laugh as he dismissed her.
“Please Miss Scrotumberg. If you’d excuse me…”
Unoffended by the unconcealed insult, she refused to budge. “No.”
He snorted, amused by her defiance. “I would call the police, Miss.”
She smiled. “You wouldn’t. ”
“Oh yea?” He smiled.
She smiled back. “Oh yea!”
He huffed and suddenly his agent came to mind.
Another work…another work.
He stared at her again, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.
“Does anyone know you’re here” he asked suddenly and she frowned slightly at the awkward question.
“ Don’t live around here. On a mini-sightseeing.”
He licked his lips.
“Fine. Jump in”
She broke into a wide grin.


He arranged her lips for her and walked back to his easel where a canvas was propped. He eyed the figure and dipping a wide brush into a paint pot, he smeared his paint medium on the half-finished canvas, total concentration as he brought her alive on the canvas.

Running dry of dark paint, he took his paint bowls and walked up to her. With unusual gentleness, he lifted her head and squeezed her neck, until tiny drops of dark blood oozed into his pot where he had made his precise incision earlier.
Her dead eyes gazed unseeing, a look of surprised permanently etched on her face.
He smiled briefly at her cold body, remembering how good it had felt to take her home; to sneak up behind her and with practiced movements, slash her throat.
She wanted to be painted after all and it had been a while he had employe his special medium.
Staring at her now, his hands began twitching again in excitement.
After his self-imposed hiatus because of  a murder investigation which resulted in him being questioned, it felt good to be back.Smiling and humming a little tune to himself, he walked back to his canvas, fresh paint in hand.


“It is fantastic to have you back Eugene! And you work, SPECTACULAR!”
He smiled indulgently at the overweight man who stood in front of his canvas, staring.
“This would sell. Ah I see you used your signature colour! The curves. The swirls. The contrast on the white canvas. SPECTACULAR!”

The spectacular rang in his head as he smiled, giddy with triumph.
Unable to contain his excitement, he took a late-evening walk, aimlessly meandering through streets and alleys.
“Hey boy. Fancy a fuck?” a voice whispered out of the gloom.
He turned and thinking quickly as a woman walked towards him. “Only if you allow me paint you after.”
“Whatever. Gonna be 30 bucks. Got a car?”
He smiled at her in the darkness.
His fingers twitched.
He licked his lips.

The End.


I always find it cheesy writing The End. Dunno why. Lol.
Have yourself a lovely weekend.

“You don’t belong here” he stuttered angrily, wisps of sparse white hair waning as he shook his bony index finger in my face. I could smell the lingering odour of his hotdog lunch on them and wrinkling my nose, I moved his offending finger away from, making sure he noticed me wiping my hand on my trousers.
I chortled in my head at the hue of anger on his pudgy face, his walrus nose visibly flaring as his thin lips quivered
I stepped back.
“Well Mr Smibly” I said calmly, “I belong here just as much as you do. And there is nothing you can do about it”
I smiled sweetly at him and walked away, sitting at a corner where I knew he would be able to see me. I wanted my black ass clearly in his sight.
The racist cunt.

He took a deep drag and blew puffs of cigarette smoke into her face. He knew she hated it whenever he did that, which was the main reason why he did it anyway.
She’d complain but would never leave.
That was the nature of their friendship.
“What is love?” he said, repeating her question.
“Love is that special moment spent in between the legs of a street tart at night in Camden. That is love.”
She huffed in irritation.
She always huffed but never went away.
“Seriously! Just talk!” she said in her whiny voice.
He quite liked her voice; even more so when she was moaning in pleasure. It always made him giggle but she never noticed, too caught up in her ecstasy.
Love. What was love?
“Look, let’s forget love ok?”
He blew another into her face and laughed wildly at his antics and her deepening frown.
“Oh come onnn” he cajoled and she smiled a little, her hand subconsciously rubbing her unobvious baby bump.
How was she supposed to get him to love anything but himself?


She smiled at him.
“So… I am going to ask you out” he said rather ceremoniously.
“For breakfast?” A small smile played on her lips.
“Yes, breakfast. Then I’ll ask you out.”
“For lunch?”
“Yes, lunch. Then I’ll ask you out.”
“For dinner?”
She was clearly enjoying herself.
“Yes. dinner. Then I’ll ask you out.”
“Stuck?” he asked, an eyebrow raised.
She laughed. “Indeed. I am!”
He grinned and held her hands
“I’ll ask you out to he my girlfriend”
She raised an eyebrow imperiously. “Why?”
He shrugged. “I have no idea”
She burst into a fit of laughter, shaking her head.
“My, aren’t you a charmer…”
She nodded. “Sure”
A sly look crept into his eyes. “Why?”
“Yes, why?”
Imitating him, she shrugged.
“I have no idea”


So, decided to put this up instead of wait till Monday
Wrote these one day on the train and left somewhere in an obscure folder.
Writing it made me smile. Lol.
Oh and a private wink to whom it may concern. 😉

Have a lovely weekend… nah just kidding. 😛


The abandoned house groans like an old woman as a nifty wind buffets the shack.
Window frames bang against window sills routinely at different corners of the house.
The swing hooked to the old oak tree at the backyard complains as the rusted metals holding the contraption rub against each other with the force of the wind.
The front door had fallen off at one point and so the house invites us inside to take refuge from the billowing elements.
The front door leads directly to a large, almost empty space that should be a living room.
Wallpapers peeled off, plaster fallen off the walls in patches like fairy dust.
It is almost empty, save for a rocking chair.
It does not move, even as stray children of the wind find their way into the abandoned shack of a house.
Somewhere within the house, an old grandfather clock booms the hour and as if on cue, the house is whipped into a frenzy.
Moans pass through the walls and if one should press their ear to them, they’d swear they heard conversations.
The stairs squeak, as if someone of great bulk is climbing down.
The grandfather clock stops booming at twelve and suddenly, the rocking chair begins to move slowly.
Almost happily; like a dog that has sighted his master.
The stairs stop squeaking and the floorboards take over the squeak, almost sounding like footsteps that lead to the living room and eventually, to the rocking chair.
The chair rocks faster…
Almost in a frenzy that if it were human, it would have been foaming at its lips with excitement.
A big crash and as if a weight had fallen on it, it stops.

A low  murmur, old crooning…
The empty rocking chair begins to move, as if controlled.

There is just one glass that has not fallen off a window frame in the house. The glass is in the living room. The rocking chair faces the windows.
Reflected on it, a fat woman sitting, staring at the naive soon-to-be-permanent-guests of the house; You and I.
Face, as black as night.
Hair, as white as snow.
Teeth, as red as blood.

She watches us as we run into the house to take refuge from the heavy rain that just began to fall.
“Wow! That was bloody sudden!” you mutter as you look around and sighting the chair, make for it.
You sit on it and invite me with open arms to sit on your lap.
Together, we sit, gazing at nothing.
We do not notice the reflection.
We only shiver a little; maybe from a chill.
Maybe because reflected, she just pulled us into herself.
One big hug.

Face, black as night.
Hair, white as snow.
Teeth, red as blood.


Another flow of random energy amassed as words.
I would settle down soon enough for  proper story.

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