Here’s something you can post on a blog but not on social media: a short story.
I originally wrote this for Blat #2, as it was an art-themed issue and I wanted to use as many different artforms as possible. But then I remembered that I groan whenever I find a wall of text in a comic book, so ultimately decided against it.
I worry that these kinds of short stories might be more fun to write than to read, let’s find out. Enjoy!
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The Open Exhibition
After fumbling with his key in the door, big George burst into the apartment full of bluster and red wine. Marguerite quickly emerged from the bedroom to find her husband searching for another bottle. She was surprised to see him home so early - typically drinking sessions would go long into the night. Marguerite had bowed out of the event, complaining of a stomach ache. George poured himself a glass and demanded food. Marguerite did not appreciate the command but agreed that he should probably eat something. She rustled together a meal as her husband began to rant and rave.
Since George had arrived in Montparnasse, he had attempted to ingratiate himself into the art scene with little success. Galleries showed no interest in his paintings and he lacked the connections to receive meaningful recommendations. His first chance to show came from an open exhibition where anyone could enter artworks for the price of 10 francs. The established clique had paid little attention to him so far, but by tonight’s opening had stopped hiding their bemusement. Smirking as he talked and turning to each other to giggle - his limited French filtered through a Bolton accent sounded exactly as you would expect it to. George declared that they were all fakes, hypocrites and philistines, amongst other shorter words.
What really stuck in his craw was that Jean Paul, a painter that George considered a peer as they had arrived in Paris around the same time, was the talk of the show. This incensed George, as Jean Paul had not even bothered to show up. George bitterly joked that he had probably got stuck between a woman’s legs on his way to the gallery. Jean Paul was a womaniser, an attribute George claimed was repugnant, but in actual fact was just another thing to be jealous of. He was certain that Jean Paul had made passes at his wife, though she had repeatedly denied it.
George stopped his ramblings dead and ordered Marguerite fetch a pen and paper. He had suddenly found clarity in the storm of his thoughts and needed to write down his manifesto before it slipped away. Marguerite hurriedly entered the bedroom to gather her writing materials while Jean Paul stood listening by the wall, having had plenty of time to get dressed by this point. The bedroom window wasn’t an option; the apartment was too high up. The only way out was through the front door via the main room.
Marguerite returned to the dinner table, dipped her pen in the ink and began to write as George launched into his diatribe against gatekeepers and tastemakers. Marguerite showed the whites of her eyes when she saw Jean Paul crawling out of the bedroom over George’s shoulder. He spotted her panic, but was quickly distracted by a rapping at the door. He rose to answer it while Jean Paul scurried behind the armchair. It was their neighbours - a short old woman who had been trying to sleep and her husband who was attempting to calm her down. This was not his first offense; George often returned home loud and in his cups. It was bad enough having to endure their lovemaking in the day, she protested, never mind the arguing at night. If it continued she would have no choice but to get the landlord involved.
George fell silent as the neighbours returned to their apartment. He hadn’t been intimate with his wife in weeks, due to impotency he suspected was caused by his drinking. He grabbed a knife on his way into the bedroom to investigate. Jean Paul leapt over the armchair and made a run for it. George heard the commotion and darted out the bedroom in pursuit as Marguerite screamed after them both. A couple of weeks after the incident, Marguerite decided to return to her family home in Nice. She said her goodbyes to Jean Paul at the hospital and George in his grave.
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