Weekly Short Story

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Monster Art

“Thomas Seward?”

“The same.”

“Inspector Blair. I’m here to review your file before your trial.”

“Of course.”

“You’ve already pleaded guilty I understand.”

“Of course, why would I wish to deny my own accomplishments?”

“Case 12004. November 13, 1998. Bridget Morehead, aged 35.”

“Oh, yes, my very first canvas. It took me a while before I finally found the opportunity to begin.”

“You said in your testimony that your goal is to recreate art through human flesh.”

“Indeed. With her I was inspired by the ‘Cult Statue of Artemis at Ephesus’. You see there how I’ve recreated the multiples globular shapes attached to the chest?”

“With pieces of her own skin. Which you filled with air and stapled to the corpse.”

“Exactly! She was very thin so as you can imagine there was little material for me to work with.”

“Case 12844. February 4, 1999. Dwayne Wright, aged 23. Anastasia Pulaski, aged 19.”

“Oh yes he was difficult, he already had all those tattoos. But then I was looking for a challenge with him. I meant to recreate ‘The Great Red Dragon and the Woman Clothed in Sun.’ You can clearly see which is which.”

“The. . . wings?”

“Oh yes, had to remove almost all of her skin beneath the dress and the bones from his arms after I cut them off. Had to tan the skin carefully so I could stretch it without tearing. The best part was, I had just enough left for the horns and-.”

“No further details are necessary. Case 13141. June 15, 1999. Wendy Fincher, aged 46.”

“Picasso’s, The Weeping Woman. I love recreating his work particularly.”

“Case 13984. July 30, 1999. Melissa Wu, aged 24. William Bedford, aged 33. Silas Miller, aged 58.”

“The Rape of the Sabine Women. I had to stick steel rods into them to maintain the postures and-“

“Case 14266. October 13, 1999. Robert Richmond, aged 47.”

“The Death of Marat. Child’s play.”

“Finally, Case 14798. January 24, 2000. The Santos family. Jorge, aged 47. Maria, aged 45. Nick, aged 18. Juan, aged 17. Leon, aged 14. Phillip, aged 11.”

“Guernica, by Picasso. I got the horse as well, but the cow got away from me.”

“Which is how the police finally apprehended you. When did this begin?”

“What do you mean?”

“This. . . obsession of yours.”

“Obsession? I am an artist, Inspector. Why shouldn’t I devote myself to my craft? But if you must know it began with fish when I was thirteen.”

“Fish?”

“There was a lake not far from home and my father used to take me with him. While he fished for trout I would catch minnows and nail them together by the tails. I would arrange them into little wiggling flowers with silver scaly petals. I took art classes in school, but flat lifeless pictures and lumps of wood and rock stirred nothing in me. But in biology class, we dissected frogs, rats and pigeons. Even though they too were dead things, when I rearranged their innards and limbs it. . . it woke something in myself. The thought of flesh molded like clay. The one medium that no one has ever used to create art.”

“Surely you understand the reason why.”

“Sadly yes. Most people simply lack the vision. They are bound by restrictive conventions. That’s how Impressionists like Monet came about. It was rebellion against the strictures of the classics.”

“And you think you’re some kind of revolutionary?”

“I like to think so. I knew that society wouldn’t understand if I simply did my own work at first. That’s why I began with recreations. I show the world the same great, classic images, but in a new art form. After Guernica, I intended to start on some original works. It’s a pity really. Now there will be no one to take up the torch once I’m gone.”

“. . .That will be all, Mr. Seward.”

“You despise me don’t you? You hide it behind that stern experience of yours, but it’s still there.”

“Despise is too weak a word for you, but it doesn’t matter in the end. You’ll be gone before the year is out. Good day Mr. Seward.”