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The Art of One 


Bach’s Cello Suite No. 1 in G Major blared out from the surround sound speakers of the quaint, comfortable living space. The home, barring a few discarded items here and there, was tidy and pristine. Up in the art room, he worked tirelessly at his new piece of art.

Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.

He hammered away at his new piece as his face wore the look of determination that coursed through his veins. He had finally done it. They never believed he could be a great artist. They ridiculed him when he mentioned he could string things together and form a sight for sore eyes. He was laughed at when he made them know he could make simple brush strokes give off an aura of majestic opulence. But who’s laughing now? Well, he was of course. He was full of joy and happiness at the accomplishments he was making. Sometimes, if he really thought about it, maybe they hadn’t ridiculed him so much though.

Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.

Could it be that he hadn’t been confident enough to showcase what he could do, and that resulted in people not truly seeing what he could offer? Maybe it was how he fumbled the opportunities given to him that caused people not to really give him a chance any more. No… it couldn’t be that, could it? Sure, he had an inferiority complex… and maybe sometimes he wasn’t the most sociable person to be around. But he had talent. He had spunk. He could do so much good for the art community. Why couldn’t they see that? Why were they so blinded to the wonders that his hands could create?

He stepped back from his hammering to look at his work, nodding in approval when his eyes fell on what his vision saw. He took the bucket and splashed a bit of red here and there to add more oomph factor to his work, and his smile was a bright one indeed. He was definitely going to pat himself on the back for sure when this was over. Maybe even buy himself that dinner he had hoped to share with Ayomide.

Sigh… Ayomide. Why didn’t she feel for him the way he felt for her? His heart could power a thousand bulbs just so she would never know darkness… if only she let him do it. Instead, she was with that snob Oliver. Apparently he was too classy to call himself Dele. Such a person was despicable. He moved to spit on the floor, and then thought better of it. No need to waste spit over Oliver, especially as Oliver contributed greatly to his art. He smiled again, enjoying the plucked strings of the cello flowing through the speakers. What a great purchase the sound system was. He wasn’t an audiophile by any stretch of the word, but something about classical music really did it for him. He rolled some knots out of his shoulders and went back to hammering.

Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.

One time he actually got the courage to get his work displayed. And oh was he ridiculed to the bone. Those critics didn’t leave any meat on the bones by the time they were done with him. His name was dragged through the mud so much it may as well be filth. That was the day he had promised himself that he would rise above their petty banter and show them just how creative he was! And oh how he had shown them just that! Those that were… privileged to see his work gasped at the magnificence of it all. Their simple minds didn’t understand it, but that was to be expected. Simpletons always thought the works of great minds to be grotesque machinations of a mind gone awry.

He stepped back from his work and admired the pieces in his art room. From his Oliver Pop to his Critic of Ope and even the Banter of Nedu, they were all beautiful. He was currently working on his most prized possession, Joy of Ayo, and it was made primarily of the insides of Ayomide his love. What better way to honour her than to use her intestines as a symbol of love? It was fascinating just how long the small intestine was, and even more fascinating that it could all fit into the human body. In the centre of the intestine heart was Ayomide herself. Nailing her to the wall after removing her insides had been difficult, but he had been determined to make it so, and he had succeeded. Wonderfully, he might add. He definitely deserved a pat on the back. The splashes of red he had added for effect was her blood, and he relished in the coppery smell it left in the hair.

He walked to the small table in the room and picked up the glass with champagne in it. Beside the table was Oliver Pop, a piece that had Oliver’s (he felt disgusted saying the name) head resting on the wall, with a large opening on the back of it. On the other side, he had meticulously splattered Oliver’s brains to form an outward blast. Almost like a bullet went through the head and emptied the contents behind. He had whooped and danced when he got the grey matter spread evenly, and it had taken hours to accomplish. As a joke, he took Oliver’s genitals and stuck it in the open mouth. Overtime, the art piece had taken a macabre form that he couldn’t bear to change.

He looked at Critic of Ope, a piece that had required him to expend lots of hours and energy flattening art critic Opeyemi Jones just so he could slap her on a canvas and then paste her on the wall. And who could forget Banter of Nedu? He looked at his table and marvelled at how he managed to make a table out of a torso and limbs. He was simply amazing. He went to pick up the champagne bottle from the table and saw his pills. It had been prescribed for his schizophrenia, amongst other things.

He wasn’t crazy. He wasn’t psychotic or mad. He didn’t need help.
He was an artist, and he was great at it.

He filled up his champagne glass and made a toast to himself. No, not great. He was magnificent. 


Published inFictionShort Stories


    • PC PC

      Uncanny stories have a macabrely beautiful way of progressing. Not everyone would fully appreciate a bizarre piece. And for that, I thank you.

    • PC PC

      It is, sadly. But I’m definitely glad that you were enjoying it. It did its job right.

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