Over on Facebook, I periodically do Literary Freestyles. Basically, I take input from people and write stories based on what they say to me. The last one I did involved people posting random photos and then I’d write stories about them. It’s fun.
Here’s one from January. I’m going to start doing these more often, so head on over to Stuart Stutzman Literature on Facebook to get in on the nonsense. Thanks!
It was always his dream to be taken seriously for his art. He wanted so badly for thin, pale people in stiff black jeans and plastic-framed glasses to take long, contemplative drags of their imported cigarettes and release their carcinogenic joy into the air feeling that the dark inevitability of Fate and Death and Tragedy and Love was somehow darker because they’d now born witness to his art.
“My heart, bleeding and pained, throws itself scattershot and frenetic upon the canvas,” he tells his friend over lunch one dreary afternoon. “I wish I could control it,” he continues, “but this thought is mere folly. The heart pounces where it means to pounce, and we are nothing but spectators of this Cruel Sport, beholden to whims and whimsy of those who would prove to be Our masters.”
His friend looks at him and takes a drink of the water set before them. “You know we’re cats, right?” his friend asks after a long pause.
“You may be a cat,” he says with faraway, BFA contempt shining through his whiskers. “But I, I am Artist.”
Suddenly the apartment door swings open, and she strides in, laden with groceries. She drops the brown paper sacks onto the counter, removing only a small can with a replaceable plastic lid.
“Kitties!” she cries, leaning down towards them with an open can of fresh food.
He always wanted to be taken seriously for his art, but the overwhelming aroma of fish and whatever else was in that hypnotic can causes him to contort his body in near orgasmic joy. His friend stands there, ready to eat with a glimmer of light mischief dancing in his eyes.
“Shut up, Dennis,” he says, standing to face his smirking friend. “I am Artist.”