by Bob'n Around
Invisible matters of the mind turned real into the written word.
|SCREAMS daily co-win
“You call this art?” Amory Sill had paid good money for him and Silvia Morray to view the surrealist’s oeuvre. “I get that this is the artist’s whole body of works, I mean, this is one of his hands, right?”
“Don’t talk so loud. You are disturbing the other patrons,” Silvia Morray hissed, wanting to disappear. “Handprints In Ochre,” she read the painting’s title, gasped a little at the offered price and tugged her date past the closed sign of one of the darkened art gallery’s alcoves.
Amory Sill chuckled, pulling her into an embrace as he pushed her up against a wall, “Ooh, thought you’d never ask. Those hands all over the place gives me an idea.”
“Hurry up,” Silvia urged, biting a passing finger. She kneed Amory in the groin as a hand came out of the darkness from behind to strike the back of her date’s head with a sap. “Gives me the creeps getting these rapists off the streets for you. One of these times you’ll get here too late.”
“Sorry. I was painting in public as part of my gallery opening affair. Couldn’t get away. Give me a hand will you?”
Silvia’s hands came away the deep color of sandy brown ochre. The grit under her fingernails was still wet. “What the hell? How recently did you bury your last inspiration? This stuff is still damp.” Amory Sill lay limp at her feet, sighed and breathed out his last groan.
“Carlos? Are you in there?” The door to the alcove opened with a splash of glaring white light highlighting the artist, Silvia and her fallen date.
“Be right there. Making arrangements for my next model.” Carlos stuffed a fat envelope filled with bills into Silvia’s wet hand. He hurried off waving his hands and talking excitedly about the coming project to distract attention.
“What a woman has to do to make a buck.” Silvia kicked the still figure on the tiled floor. She’d been worried about this being number thirteen. The models were easy to find from the court records of accused rapists not prosecuted.
Getting paid by victim’s wanting their threat to disappear was doubled by Carlo’s desire for inspiration painting the gruesome displays Silvia made of her offerings. “You are a big lug. Why’d you have to have a weak skull?” The others were easier and more fun being tortured alive."
She dragged Amory Sill down the passageway where twelve others like him lay back of the gallery in a sandy mass grave.
The bidding price of 'Handprints In Red Ochre’ rose behind her. “Yes, Silas, that is art. Your hands could be a modern art masterpiece and famous if you hadn’t been in such a rush.”
Her last date’s anguished cries as she’d whipped him into a frenzy while Carlo’s turned the man’s bloody handprints into art made her anxious to get on to the next model lusting to rape her. It was nice being wanted. A grave and rewarding experience, indeed.