I.

When people asked him what he did, he smiled and said he was an artist.
Technically, it was true to an extent.
He spent days at his canvasses, working until sweat poured down his brow into his eyes, and
then sometimes, when he was feeling particularly creative, he worked past that point to create
something truly marvelous. Bold reds and rich blacks and creamy whites formed a whole new world that
he immersed himself fully in. It was more than his hobby, more than his job; it was his passion.
a flash of light on steel
Then the people would ask to see some of his works for themselves, a spark of interest lighting
in their gazes at how animatedly he spoke of his paintings, his sketches. His smile would inevitably
broaden as he simply shook his head, saying that perhaps one day, he would reveal his art to the
public… but today was not that day.
a splatter of crimson on the tablecloth
He took pride and pleasure in admiring his own talent- for surely, that was the only thing it
could be called. A narcissistic gleam to his eyes, he wiped the perspiration from his hairline after a long
day of fruitful work, allowing himself the luxury of a last glance over the production of his endeavors.
True beauty in and of itself.
a scream for help, gone unheard
Yes, he was sure that even after his death, he would rise to fame, on a high tier with the likes of
Dali, Van Gogh, and Steenwyck. For what did it matter that his canvasses were corpses, his paint blood,
his brush a knife? Art comes in many different forms, each more unique than the last.

II.

She walked quietly and quickly, head lowered under her delicate black parasol and fur coat
wrapped tightly around her shoulders. In the sun, rain, and snow, she could always be seen, pacing the
same streets, the same buildings. Lingering under the same lamp-posts, pausing by the same corners.
Her face was veiled, so that no one could make out anything of her features.
She was feared by the town children, who made bold attempts to disguise their nerves by
throwing taunts and even threats her way. She never turned on them, never raised her voice, but would
only lift her head by a fraction of a degree, staring at them with grey eyes so mournful that, ashamed,
the children would turn on their heels and run back to their mothers and fathers. Several times, there
had been young men who, enamored with the beauty of her figure and convinced her face must have
been just as charming under her veil, fell into step with her and struck up conversation; but she would
never reply, only turning her head away from them and continuing on her way.
Over time, she came to be forgotten, ignored, as if she wasn’t there. People passed her on the
way to markets, churches, houses, without a second glance. Old women tottered past her clutching cats
in their arms; mothers strode by her with children in tow. It was like she was invisible.
Still she wandered, still she paced, the french heels of her dress-shoes making barely a noise on
the cobbled pavement.
One particular morning, the woman’s foot came down on a discarded newspaper. There was no
typical crunch of paper; no sound at all, as if there had been nothing there. Her hooded eyes scanned
the front article- something about a prisoner who had been transferred to a local mental facility after
murdering one of his guards in an apparent total loss of control. There was a photograph of the convict,
clearly a man out of his senses. Her silk gloves tightened into a life-or-death embrace around the handle
of her parasol. And for the first time, the woman’s expression changed. Her head came up, her shoulders
shifted-
and
she
smiled.
The next morning, that same man was found murdered in his cell. There was no evidence that
any guards had ended his life, and it was impossible that one of the other inmates had done it. Not
much was known about him except that his name was Lawrence Kemper, and he had been incarcerated
for the murder of his fiancee after she had discovered he was secretly courting another woman. The
case was never solved.
That same day, the silent woman with the veil disappeared, as if she had dropped off the face of
the planet like a ghost.

III.