A new twisted short story for my Morbid Ink Project (my paid subscribers get the first look at all my stories). The final chapter will publish a day or two later. The tale will also be available for subscribers to Medium in the near future.
“It’s a fascinating juxtaposition about the world. The picture says so much. What do you think?”
The female voice behind me made me turn my head. She was obviously looking at the same picture. A large photographic print of a urinal with a rose pot placed in the drain hung on the wall as part of a gallery display. The woman was in her forties, trying to hold on to her college years. I could tell given her tight facial features from cosmetic surgery. She wore an expensive dress and held a nearly empty wineglass in her hand. The woman reminded me of the other creatures inhabiting the gallery that night, full of wealth and even fuller of themselves.
Pathetic bourgeoisie witch!
“I think it’s crap,” I replied with a sigh. “It signifies the photographer has minor talent and copies other artists due to his insecurities.”
The woman’s puzzled expression turned to a bemused grin.
“I don’t think that’s a good interpretation. He might strike you for saying such things. I’ve heard he’s intense.”
Turning back to the picture, I nodded my head.
“Yeah, I’ve been called much worse. I’m a real bastard around entitled Karens.”
Her gasp and retreating footsteps brought a grin to my face. It was the only bit of fun I had at this boring exposition of my recent work. A necessary evil for keeping an apartment and food in the fridge while cutting into the time to actually create. Still, I wasn’t lying to the woman. Passion and intensity were the hallmarks of my art. I manipulated anything that stood in my way in order to create the perfect shots. The witch probably talked to the models who hated me.
Calvin used to bring my models into the gallery during my exhibitions. At least until the models talked about me. Any pretty face who signed up to work for me as a model were not different from a whore. I would use them as I wanted, even if it felt like torture during my shooting sessions. An injury here or there was a small sacrifice for art. That’s what clauses in a contract are for.
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