Object d’Art ( a flash fiction horror story )

Nano Banana

INTRODUCTION

“Object d’Art” breaks all the rules.

It’s the story of a man who takes his press releases too seriously. And it’s the story of a woman who is just as serious about her revenge.

Finally, it’s a story about an industry that eats its own.

Not a single, likeable character in the bunch. Not one. They’re all assholes. You’re not supposed to do that in fiction. You’re supposed to write at least one character to which the reader can relate.

Oh well.

Luckily for you, dear person who paid 99 cents for this cynical morceau savoureux, it’s so short you’ll finish it before you can hate it.

Besides, there are industries out there, artistic industries, populated with assholes who would do just about anything to get in that last little dig, that final poke in the ribs, no matter the cost. Not that I would know anything about that.

Ahem.

There’s a line in this story I love. I rarely love what I write – my inner critic doesn’t allow such luxuries – but this line is just perfect, according to my writerly eye:

He was older, his Tuscanny suit hanging on him like a flag wrapped around a flagpole, his silk tie squeezing his head into a marsupial funnel of angular gristle and teeth.

I adore that line. It perfectly illustrates the character I was trying to describe – a thin, avaricious little man who can’t wait to get his hands on the cash. I was thinking opossum at the time. That’s what I was shooting for, a human opossum. That line succeeds better than I could have hoped.

Speaking of which, I hope you enjoy “Object d’Art” as much as I enjoyed writing it.

OBJECT D’ART

“He must not know,” Pamela told the gentleman, who slipped her an avaricious smile, then smoothed it into something more practiced and civilized.

“I assure Madame, he will not,” the gentleman answered. He was older, his Tuscanny suit hanging on him like a flag wrapped around a flagpole, his silk tie squeezing his head into a marsupial funnel of angular gristle and teeth.

But Pamela didn’t care. All that mattered was that she acquire the painting.

The last Brookenstein original.

“Our transactions are conducted in complete discretion,” the gentleman told her. “Mr. Brookenstein will not know it was you.” He fidgeted a moment, then asked, “And how will Madame be making the arrangements – ”

“Cash,” Pamela told him, opening her handbag. She withdrew a sheath of $1,000 bills and counted out 10. She folded and inserted them, as she might a business card, in the gentleman’s breast pocket. “Have it taken downstairs,” she said, turning and crossing the room. “It should fit in the trunk of the Ferrari.”

And she was gone.

—

Brookenstein had not visited Pamela’s flat in years. He will be astonished at the changes, she thought, as her assistant, Miss Deppler, showed the artist into the gathering room.

“Ah, Pammie,” Brookenstein said munificently as he spotted her, spreading his arms as if to gather her in. When she did not rise from the wingback, he lowered his arms and said, “Good to see you again.”

Pamela nodded. Brookenstein had not changed – oh, the cheeks pooched a bit and the gut spread to his waist, but other than that he hadn’t changed, she remembered with a shudder.

“Your invitation caught me off guard,” he said. “I thought I was persona non grata hereabouts.”

She offered him a thin smile. “After you abandoned me?”

Brookenstein effected shock. “After I taught you the exigencies of business?” he gasped. “Which I had heard, and now see, that you’ve put to good effect? What’s your net worth, Pammie? Ten mil? Twenty?”

“I loved you,” she said evenly.

“As I loved you,” he answered. “But I also loved art, and what better lesson could I teach you than the suffering any real artist must bear in pursuit of his vocation?”

Pamela motioned to Miss Deppler, who twisted a rheostat. The lights revealed framed paintings affixed to the walls … and a five-gallon can of gasoline.

Brookenstein’s eyes traveled the walls. “My paintings – ” He touched a finger to his lips. “All of my paintings. The extent of my creative output since I began selling professionally. Touching.” His gaze settled on the can, and his eyes brightened. “I understand now. You bought my work, then brought me here to witness its destruction. A flair for irony.”

Pamela arched an eyebrow.

“But it won’t work,” he said casually. “You own it; do with it what you wish. I am a creator. I will create.”

“You are a creator,” Pamela whispered slyly. “And I am a businesswoman. A wealthy businesswoman. No, Brookenstein, I don’t plan to destroy your creations. I plan to sell them.”

Brookenstein paused, a frown beginning to congeal.

“I plan to sell them as labels on products my company produces, Brookenstein – cans of baked beans, and disposable diapers, and children’s toys – ”

“What—” His face had gone the color of overdone sausage.

“And no matter what you ‘create,’ I will be there to purchase it,” Pamela went on smoothly, “and bring it to the art-starved masses, plastered across a can of spray deodorant – ”

“I am an artist!” Brookenstein screamed at her. “You bourgeois, impercipient capitalist! I am an ARTIST, NOT a day laborer in some graphics art factory!”

“Yes,” Pamela told him, “and as an artist, you must suffer.”

Brookenstein’s eyes darted rat-like about the room. He sprinted for the can and snatched it up, and splashed gasoline on the paintings lining the walls. When he was done, he held the can aloft, turning it upside down. Gasoline cascaded across his head and down his shoulders, plastering his blouse to his flabby paunch. He squinted at her with a look of pure malice.

“You’ll never get your hands on another piece of my work,” he seethed, and with that, he fished a Zippo from his jacket pocket.

He struck it.

“I am a piece of your work,” Pamela said, as her first work of art whooped into flames.

About the author:

Del Stone Jr. is a professional fiction writer. He is known primarily for his work in the contemporary dark fiction field, but has also published science fiction and contemporary fantasy. Stone’s stories, poetry and scripts have appeared in publications such as Amazing Stories, Eldritch Tales, and Bantam-Spectra’s Full Spectrum. His short fiction has been published in The Year’s Best Horror Stories XXII; Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine; the Pocket Books anthology More Phobias; the Barnes & Noble anthologies 100 Wicked Little Witch Stories, Horrors! 365 Scary Stories, and 100 Astounding Little Alien Stories; the HWA anthology Psychos; and other short fiction venues, like Blood Muse, Live Without a Net, Zombiesque and Sex Macabre. Stone’s comic book debut was in the Clive Barker series of books, Hellraiser, published by Marvel/Epic and reprinted in The Best of Hellraiser anthology. He has also published stories in Penthouse Comix, and worked with artist Dave Dorman on many projects, including the illustrated novella “Roadkill,” a short story for the Andrew Vachss anthology Underground from Dark Horse, an ashcan titled “December” for Hero Illustrated, and several of Dorman’s Wasted Lands novellas and comics, such as Rail from Image and “The Uninvited.” Stone’s novel, Dead Heat, won the 1996 International Horror Guild’s award for best first novel and was a runner-up for the Bram Stoker Award. Stone has also been a finalist for the IHG award for short fiction, the British Fantasy Award for best novella, and a semifinalist for the Nebula and Writers of the Future awards. His stories have appeared in anthologies that have won the Bram Stoker Award and the World Fantasy Award. Two of his works were optioned for film, the novella “Black Tide” and short story “Crisis Line.”

Stone recently retired after a 41-year career in journalism. He won numerous awards for his work, and in 1986 was named Florida’s best columnist in his circulation division by the Florida Society of Newspaper Editors. In 2001 he received an honorable mention from the National Lesbian and Gay Journalists Association for his essay “When Freedom of Speech Ends” and in 2003 he was voted Best of the Best in the category of columnists by Emerald Coast Magazine. He participated in book signings and awareness campaigns, and was a guest on local television and radio programs.

As an addendum, Stone is single, kills tomatoes and morning glories with ruthless efficiency, once tied the stem of a cocktail cherry in a knot with his tongue, and carries a permanent scar on his chest after having been shot with a paintball gun. He’s in his 60s as of this writing but doesn’t look a day over 94.

Contact Del at [email protected]. He is also on Facebook, twitter, Pinterest, tumblr, TikTok, and Instagram. Visit his website at delstonejr.com .