In the Painting

In the painting, I was three brushes struck together: one was my body, the other my limbs, and the other the connecting tube from my anuses (I had three now) to my mouth.

It had happened like this: I really needed my suppository medicine like right now goddammit I cannot take it anymore fucking hell, but when I was on my way there I saw it. A flea market. But it couldn’t have been for I remembered very clearly that the place where it stood was a club of male strippers (which of course, I knew because I was a well informed and relatively sexually healthy citizen interested in his local community), but now it was so gone that I shed tears of sorrow and got on my knees. I begged for the pain to be over, and just there and then, a woman with a dark hat came over and told me that the painting she was selling would cure all of my problems, and make me feel moderate happiness again.

I nodded and took the painting and hung it on my neck. I went to the pharmacy and everyone was so astonished at my beautiful ornament, so much that I blushed all the way through my house, feeling like the most beautiful man in the world.

While I was busy inserting all of my pills, I decided to look directly into the painting and examine it carefully: it was done in a beautiful post-impressionist style where I could see a couple of green hills in the background, a sky so blue, a forest of trees, a road to a cabin, and a nice little river with a bridge. It was so beautiful that it made me cry again, of a joy so incredible that I was almost blinded with my own elation, although much later I understood that was the medicine’s after effects.

Anyway, I touched the painting and just then a little person came out of the cabin and began to walk towards me and though normally it would have freaked me out there was something very funny about the whole situation: its soulless, sunken, abyss eyes, its arms stretching into oblivion, its soul barely contained in its carcass, and a smile so toothful and bloody that it covered everything in his face, and all that stuff, but he was also super athletic and made three cartwheels and when he got out of the painting, he kicked me right in the face and made me fall on my ass, finally getting inside that nasty, little, bulging, octagonal pill that was always a problem.

“Wow! Thanks! And who are you again?” I said and extended my clean hand but there was no time for cordialities apparently, because it just screamed into my own eyes and forced me to trade places with him and all that stuff that tended to happen in horror stories about paintings.

So, I was suddenly the guy inside the paint and he was outside taking my place and eating people and killing them and making a mess of my living room. I was fine with all of it, I just wished he had allowed me to at least put my pants back on before doing all of this. I could only move in the directions of my strokes you see, so there were no downwards movements of my arms for this fella, but at least I could enjoy the eternal forest in the eternal painted happiness for all time, which was alright. I also found a duck who was very cute and pink and it became my pet and I also found a little pitchfork which I used to pretend I was fighting monsters.

And that was pretty much my life until I was burned alive inside the painting, in order to stop the curse of my evil doppelganger like 1000 years later or something, even though I had nothing to do with it! It was so unfair! At least I managed to get my duck out, Mrs. Sniggles, gave her a kiss, and let her fly into the real world that never accepted me.


I like to write for some reason so I’m doing it here. I’ll try write something every day, and hopefully, get better at it.

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Eric S. V. B.

I like to write for some reason so I’m doing it here. I’ll try write something every day, and hopefully, get better at it.