ART

He looked back and the paper he’d so recently placed on the table. To him it was art. ‘Of course anything could be considered art but this was really art. Good shit. Art that'd make waves in countries where it was really appreciated. Not here. People overseas understood that stuff like this was worth a lot more than something to look at. It changed life.’

Having processed this thought he gently lay down the yellow crayon. It’d done it’s job, having successfully created the sun over the beach. He felt like saying ‘that’ll do pig, that’ll do’ to the crayon. It would have made him laugh out loud, but on account of it being a strange thing to do when one was alone he chose not to.

His fingers stretched colourfully around the self-decorated paper cup. The effect was one of transparency showing a coffee based contents to the world. He’d used black instead of brown for that. ‘Artistic choice.’ Placing the cup back he paid extra care not to spill on what must surely be his finest piece yet. He left his chair contentedly, moved to the yard taking in sunlight and inspiration. All the while his lizard sat calmly in a cabinet across the room, watching, sensing.

A magpie that until that moment hadn’t offered any evidence of it’s existence decided the timing was right to relieve it’s bowels of all unwanted. One moments relief was all there was, broken by a sharp cry that rose from below causing the bird to fright and seek safer branches.

‘If only I could fly’, he mumbled to himself. ‘Then I’d drop my guts on every bastard crow there was.’

‘Humans, wings, crows’, he thought (mistaking the bird for something it wasn’t). The image formed instantly in his ambitious mind. It took only a few paces back inside before he’d started. To the lizard it seemed longer.

The falu red, black and flesh coloured crayons answered every demand, inspiration was drawn from the slightest thing. A blade of dewy grass still stained his heel. Inspiration drawn.

On turning he now saw the lizard on the right side of the cabinet. It had been longer than he thought.

Exercising the full capabilities of his swivel chair he returned to the desk taking in an horrific sight. Laying on his crowning glory, the one with the sun and the beach, in certain provocation, was a streak of Magpie shit.

“Bastard Crow”, he cursed, again incorrect.

A clock rested patiently at the bottom of the wall. To pass the time it told it. Had it had eyes it would have seen the whole drama unfold, right from the beginning, when the poo was carelessly flung from hair to desk.

The lizard lounged his tail in a small bowl of water. 

“Do you see this?”

The lizard chose not to respond.

“Bloody Crow.”

The fan rotated in time with the clock and sent down sweet nothings in an attempt to cool the heated atmosphere. It held a bird’s eye position during the challenging clean up. A precise process that required expert patience.

The fan turned.

The lizard moved from side to side.

Time ticked by.

Slowly, ever so slowly, the artistic merit returned. What had previously scarred now lay in a bin.

But the former glory was not yet restored. This was becoming a dangerous position to be in, one of nothing to lose.

The now falu red and yellow fingers stretched once more for his cup, they tested the water. Now moist, they took to the page and the remaining stain.

‘Fuck.’

It was that moment you know you’ve gone one step to far and made something infinitely worse.

The clock continued to break the now tense silence.

A great disaster had struck and all that was left was to sit and ruminate on what the world would say. Major galleries were out. A viral sensation was still a possibility but the probable outcome would be t-shirts.

T-shirt designs were always a last resort.

The page was torn in immediate unforseen rage. A ruined piece was a worthless piece, an embarrassment. Then it was torn again. A satisfying chill ran up and down his spine.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, aresholy Crow”, he cried.

Then he cried.

Slowly the resentment of all that had happened gently subsided. He felt the fans whispers on his head and was grateful of them. He thought about it’s ability to settle any drama over time. Time, the time that his clock so religiously counted for him and his lizard. His lizard.

‘The fan, the clock and the lizard.’ This was an artistic gun loaded with genius.

It should have started immediately had the stomach not disagreed.

Lunch was needed.

Having watched him leave the room now sat peacefully.

And somewhere far off was one just finishing lunch. Settling in a tree the digestive process took charge and ensured that a magpie took his second shit of the day.