Still Life
By Brandon Allen Canvas, paint, an artists eye, and…something more. It was a painting. No ordinary painting, for it was so life-like that the Duke had it covered up when he held his „private meetings‟. The eyes followed you like a shadow and didn‟t extend the courtesy of ordinary creepy paintings by averting them when you looked. A sort of staring contest commenced and the Duchess swore that it smiled slightly when, inevitably, it won. “And I think it would be beneficial if we…um…if we. I say, that painting is staring at me!” The nervous businessman shifted in his seat as he pointed one thin appendage towards the gentleman in the frame. It was a scene common to the Nineteenth century, a top hatted gentleman easing gently into his latter years with a hunting rifle in hand and blood hounds pursuing an imaginary fox through the rolling green meadows of the background. The black eyes burned through the paint with a disapproving stare. “Oh, it does that, just ignore him and he gets bored.” The Duke turned to glance at the painting before returning to his drink. “Now you were saying?” “Yes, there‟s this mad hatter over in Germany. Goes by the name of Karl Benz. Says he has an idea that will change the world. Wants me to buy into his invention.” “And what did you say?” The other man snorted into his whiskey. “What did I say? Well I told him to run along before I called the Asylum. Really! A self-moving carriage, where do these nutcases come up with the ideas. The only horse power, I feel, should be in an animal, not some…cursed contraption! Do you know he drove it into a wall, the madman, clean in, spent a few weeks in hospital, and now he wants ME to get on it, crazy. I‟m not sure one could BREATH at fifteen kilometers per hour! Well he asked me to inform you of the offer. I‟m a man of my word, so consider yourself informed. It‟s your decision, but I highly advise against it.” “Hmm,” The Duke sat deep in thought, before suddenly straightening up again. “What was that Granddad? You think it‟s a good idea!” He raised his glass in toast to the painting as the businessman watched the mad masquerade. “Well then, why the hell not? Grandfather always was current with the times when it came to technology! So how much does this guy want?” The others jaw dropped open, the corners of the paintings mouth turned slightly up. Time passed, and so did the Duke. The Twentieth Century came and went, bringing with it revolutions, wars, political disorder, the Beatles, and the nuclear age. To all this the picture was oblivious, not aging a day, moving from house to house and shop to shop until finally, one day… The door clanged open, sending the attached bell into a frenzy of activity. A young woman stalked into the antique shop and after a cursory glance through some of the items, migrated up to the counter and its occupant. “I recently opened a business and I need a painting to show people that I have style. I want something classy, oldish-newish, preferably expensive looking but cheap.” “I have just the thing for you.” The overweight attendant shimmied out from behind the counter and led the way to a stack of paintings. Retrieving one he held it up for inspection. “This painting was one of many owned by a little known Prince, he was assassinated in the latter part of the Twentieth Century, apparently for having bad taste, it has…” He was cut short by the wave of a hand. “No, that‟s not what I‟m looking for, its too abstract, I need scene. I need…that!” Arms outstretched she advanced on the hunting scene. “I‟ll take it.” The world was an explosion of activity, rogue chairs floated across the room before being intercepted by determined desks crawling in the opposite direction. The office was a bustle of activity. An army of workmen shoved furniture around the room to the tune of shouted commands. A pair of movers shuffled through the huge doorway under the awkward weight of the giant picture, it didn‟t fit through but as movers do, they were about to make it. The same young woman who had previously purchased the
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painting rushed in to coordinate the rescue and setting up of the priceless work of art. The ecstasy of movement did not however, phase the impassive face of the hunter. The frenzy of the hunt paled this workforce and he would not allow himself to be moved by it. A week later the picture surveyed the now familiar surroundings. Its heavy oak frame creaked at the sight of the distastefully decorated room. A dark brown mahogany desk faced the newly installed double wooden doors, while a hazy, smog-diluted light filtered through the wide windows, dropping like a solid sheet over the grass-green carpets. A carefully selected pot plant bathed in the little light there was, its fronds drooping in sympathy for the lack of water. A truly dull and unoriginal decorating scheme, very different to the red leather couches and tall bookcases the painting was used to. Now a man lay underneath the desk. He appeared to be fiddling with the computer tower, strange that he couldn‟t seem to switch it on. Aa, now the painting saw the problem. These humans were so incompetent, it wondered how they could possibly create something as marvelous as itself! With a great deal of effort and pushing and pulling it lifted its hand free, then its arm and finally its entire upper torso could move freely. The painting braced itself against the frame and pulled the rest out. A little stiff, it thought, but not bad for nearly two hundred years. A black silhouette remained where the hunter had vacated his home. The painting stretched for a few minutes; now to help this poor imbecilic human, stiffly it reached out its hand and flipped a switch on the wall. Ah huh, it had solved yet another human problem. Slowly it melted back into its frame, leaving the man skipping along the floor and gaining a permanent perm. Smiling, the picture fell asleep.