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Crazy Art
By
Nancy May


Calvin was an artist. He charged admirable fees. The phone rang, Calvin answered. The night commissioned a new challenge.

“Cal, are you commissioning art work?” Calvin heard Zachary ask.

“Yes, my services are available. Have you visited my latest exhibition?” His pride declared.

“That’s why the lateness. Your ‘Genial Rhapsody’ resonated. Will you paint a beach scene?” Calvin heard. He anticipated his next illicit affair.

The gymnastic sun disrupted the next day.  Calvin rose. His home consisted of one room: his contribution extortions; his vernacular digestive and his recuperation. He dusted off the canvas’s umbrageous coat. He abhorred it. It situated, patiently. Unfinished portraits subsisted beside the easel’s notoriety.

His commission started. Calvin sterilised the art supplies. His hands disguised idyllic landscapes.

‘Colours need adding to the palette’. His inner voice said.

Calvin lifted the puppet palette. His idyllic landscapes punctured the canvas’s; bland vastness. His rugged countenance portrayed, lambency pauper.

‘Dormancy long exists. Can I differentiate the canvas with blue; yellow; brown; green and red?’ His inner voice said, deciding.

He selected colours.

‘The beach scene will contain scenic roots’. His inner voice thought, loudly.

Blue dazzled the canvas’s top. The blue dazzled canvas top mingled; pollution’s starvation. The blue dazzled canvas top played the skyline’s melancholy’s blossoms. He stood in his contribution extortions. It enclosed a window, locating the deceased skyscraper, outside. The skyscraper protected assaulting, foreign reinforcements. It masqueraded, forlorn destruction. Foliage prisons hanged, in adored adrenalin. Vandalism manipulated the skyscraper’s serenity. His countenance’s lips lengthened. His facial features contemplated disgust. His irises reflected false verdant.

His digestive vernacular, fed. Calvin captured little nutrition, purposely until his commission finalised. His digestive vernacular was propitious. He would lose nine pound, ratio average.

‘The untarnished sky is devoid, delicate flocks’. His inner voice, saddened at the canvas.

His countenance stained volcanic abrasions. Calvin’s perambulations slumped. He felt riddled as an osteoporosis skeleton.

“I would like to add particular detail”.  He heard Zachary interject.

“The beach scene is almost solidified; the tide washed dirt, away”.

“I wish the beach scene to contain the facial source”. Calvin heard Zachary ask.

“The countenance is sourced from kitchen appliances”. His voice said, in sonorous chains. For his commission extortions, kitchen appliances needed tickets obtained from the Pigeon Restaurant. Calvin eluded eating establishments.

‘That Pigeon Restaurant was inviting!’ His inner voice, remembered.

The Pigeon Restaurant had guarded vulgarity. Calvin had detested the walls. Gratitude had bounced. His seat had disposed bleak isolation. Words had stifled round from strangers’ rebellious cries. His cochlea’ had fed two words: ‘Scissor Museum’. Cigarette spirals had baked the pigeon’s flight. Pigeon Soup and Pigeon Sandwiches was the menu’s choice. He had deciphered strangers and waitress rank, by their perished uniforms. The waitress had delicately placed a plate; knife and fork into perfect alignment. Glasses: useless implements. Her eyes had scooped black diamonds. Her face had repulsed make-up remnants. Her fingernails had protruded, red hitchhikers.

“Can I take your order?” The waitress had asked.

“Two Pigeon Sandwiches, please”. He had asked, doubtfully.

“Two is a large number”.

“I am developing a project”. Calvin had said, reassuringly.

“Take the ticket”. The waitress had said; she looked sceptical at his reason.

The pigeon sandwich had fried barbecued chicken. The second pigeon sandwich inveigled his art supplies. Calvin unhinged the cooker’s door. The cooker door fixed upon the easel, like artillery batteries. He unscrewed the cooker’s hob rings. He dismantled the cooker’s temperature gauge. Calvin’s lengthened lips, contracted. His irises greeted their lids. His easel’s notoriety, disguised.

‘To sculpt facial features viscerally reflects repercussions’.  His inner voice decided.

The sculpture’s blankness promoted. The sculpture was mute. The sculpture was blind. The sculpture was deaf. The man made from kitchen appliances, appeared. Calvin drifted, in between perception and deception. Calvin was lost, inside the distant forest. The distant forest’s lost items suffered sacramental humiliation. Ears conducted hob rings. Mouth displayed the temperature gauge. The knife and fork consummated down the middle. The bones structure guarded, the kitchen appliances man’s elasticised skin. The pigeon sandwich stitched wisdom templates.

‘To successfully cement the extortions commission, eternal bonds need constructing’. His inner voice revealed.

Calvin feared eternal bonds. His artistic limits solemnised. The ambitious brush evolved tones. The art supplies created a glue circumference. The pigeon feathers stained, like formaldehyde. The pigeon feathers migrated, variant sizes. Calvin arranged them into size segregation, neatly. They cultivated aesthetic disastrous, overgrown hair styles.

‘Flamboyant is deviation’. His inner voice achieved fickle assertion.

Calvin’s restless disturbance, permitted. The knock, altered him. He was not expecting visitors. He had wrapped the sculpture in a robust packet. He opened his door, precipitously.

“Calvin, are you ready for our day trip?”  Zackary asked, inquisitorially.

“I have no requirements in the outside”.

“We arranged our day trip over the phone”. Zackary’s face drowned, realisation.

“Nonsense, I have just completed an extortion commission. It will be exhibited inside The Scissor Museum! It is the advancement over my, ‘Genial Rhapsody’ exhibition”.

“We said we would go to the beach today”. Zackary’s tone, infuriated.

“I did not hear that!”  Calvin rasped.

“You hear what you desire, with your agoraphobia”.  Zachary seethed.



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