Art Speaks For Itself

Alfred, the painting said.

Or that is how it felt. One moment, he, the great Alfred F. Jones, was heading for the boxes of vinyl records at the back while his brother got chatted up by the albino clerk at the register of this dilapidated antique store, and the next he was frozen, hit by a desire to possess something, one so strong he forgot to breathe for a few seconds.

The painting stood on the bottom shelf, forgotten and propped against the metal wall and surrounded by old radios and transistor parts. It did not belong there.

It was beautiful. It was stunning. It was a masterpiece.

Alfred had to have it, or it had to have him. He could not decide, but they were meant for each other. This was destiny.

The sound of that obnoxious Gilbert's laughter faded away.

Alfred dropped to his knees, jeans restricting around his thighs since he wore a smaller size to emphasize the muscles in his ass. His hands trembled as he reached for it, sighing in relief as his fingers pressed against the sides of the canvas.

He picked it up and held it tenderly, as one might a lover, and stood up, admiring his discovery. Dust coated the top, as though it had been there a long time, waiting.

For me?

His gaze focused past the field of sunflowers to the man in the center, a man standing in a beige coat. He faced away from the viewpoint of the canvas, staring off at a distant thatch-roof cottage on a hill. The bruised sky bubbled and brewed with a coming stormed painted with harsh strokes of purple and black.

The man had one hand slight lifted to cover his face. Blond-white hair fluttered in the breeze of the coming storm and the tail of his scarf whipped out behind him. The sunflowers leaned away, pushed by the wind who stood in the middle of the field.

"Al? Al?" He jumped in surprise as Matthew snapped his fingers in front of his face. "Are you okay?"

"Huh…" Alfred blinked, stunned how close his face had been, nose almost bumping the paint.

Matthew leaned around, looking at the painting. "Find something you like?"

"I certainly did," the cashier, a guy with Gilbert written in bright red on his black name tag, said, eyeing Matthew's ass.

Matthew rolled his eyes, his face hidden from Gilbert's view since he faced Alfred. To be honest, Alfred would prefer Gilbert over Matthew's actual boyfriend, Francis, who was a pretentious jackass in Alfred's opinion.

"How much?" Alfred said, shaking with the desire to own this painting. His mouth felt dry.

"For that?" Gilbert said, stuffing his hands in the pockets of brown apron as he trotted over, being sure to look over Matthew's shoulder and push into Matthew's backside. "Fifty bucks."

"Fifty bucks?" Alfred and Matthew said in unison.

"That's a rip-off," Alfred said.

"Take it or leave it. I suppose, I could give a small discount," Gilbert said, smirking at Matthew. "If this cutie would give me his digits."

Matthew went bright red. "Absolutely n—."

"Done!" Alfred interrupted, ignoring Matthew's aghast look.

"Al!"

"C'mon Matty, I'm not asking you to sleep with him."

"That's what I'll be asking for later," Gilbert said with a wink.

Matthew elbowed Gilbert, sending the albino reeling back with a "omph".

"Hard to get. I like it," Gilbert flashed another cocky grin.

"Just get the darn painting," Matthew grumbled, jabbing a finger at Alfred. "And you owe me!"

"Thanks Mattie," Alfred said, grinning at him.

Then his eyes returned to the painting as he carried it to the register, almost skipping as he went. He could not wait to take it home.

"You were ripped off," Francis said, sniffing loudly. "The artist was clearly an amateur. No talent."

"Fuck off," Alfred said.

He had driven Matthew back to his new apartment and eagerly unwrapped the painting from the paper and set it on his round kitchen table — purchased on ebay — when the doorbell rang. With a look of "please forgive me", Matthew pulled back the dead bolt to reveal Francis standing in an powder blue trench coat.

"Who said you could come?" Alfred asked. Francis pointed at Matthew who looked everywhere but at Alfred. "Mattie!"

"He offered to pick me up. I thought it'd be easier on you than having to drive me home," Matthew said timidly, fiddling with the end of his white sweater.

"Just fuck me," Alfred grumbled, running fingers through his hair.

"Well, I keep suggesting a threesome to bond us," Francis said with a shrug.

"I'd rather rip out my eyes and eat them."

"No fighting," Matthew said, stepping between them.

Then Francis saw the painting and stepped around Matthew before Alfred could hide it. "What's this? Art? In your home?"

"Just don't think of that shit you paint as art, doesn't mean I don't like art," Alfred said.

He should have grabbed it and hidden it from Francis' view, but he had hesitated, wondering what Francis would say. The man was an art student and he knew his material well.

"I play to hang it above the entertainment center, when I get one." Alfred pointed across the room to the blank wall of the living room that so far only had a green leather couch, torn in places, and found abandoned in a parking lot.

Francis' frown deepened as he studied the painting, touching his fingers to his lip. "That's strange."

"What?"

Francis picked it up, flipping it over, and then setting it back. "There is not signature of the artist."

Matthew came closer, and now they all three searched.

"Maybe he didn't want credit?" Alfred asked.

"Or it faded away?" Matthew suggested.

Francis shook his head, touching the corner of the painting. "Where did you find this? Home Depot?"

"No," Alfred said. "We stopped at the Old Fritz Vintage Palace. We had some time to kill while my truck got worked on."

Francis turned sharply to Matthew who gulped loudly. "Did that albino prick, that Gilbert, hit on you?"

"Erm…. just a little."

Francis's nostrils flared, his pink lips pressing together. "That man is a menace. Whatever you do, don't give him your number." Matthew and Alfred exchanged a look that Francis picked up on. "You didn't."

"It was for a good cause," Matthew said defensively.

"A discount," Alfred added.

"Mon Lapin, am I not enough for you?" Francis said, cupping Matthew's chin, oozing the charm.

Matthew went bright red, eyes going wide as Francis leaned over him.

"Have you eyes for another?" Francis asked in a silky voice.

"Get out," Alfred slammed a hand down. "These walls are a no-fuck zone for you."

Francis turned, lifting his nose and sniffing loudly. "I suppose we should return and leave your brutish brother to unpack and drool over his new art."

"But I was going to help," Matthew said.

Francis looked towards Alfred's bedroom that had a mattress on the floor with a pillow and a few American flag sheets. "We could break in the new bed."

"Hell no!" Alfred said, grabbing Francis by the shoulder and pushing him toward the door. "Go fuck on your own bed."

"Threesomes bring good luck to apartments!" Francis called as he was shoved into the hallway and Alfred shut the door in his face, turning the lock.

"Al," Matthew said with annoyance.

"What? I took out the trash."

"Are you sure you don't need help?" Gesturing at all the boxes.

"I'm fine. Go have… with that thing," Alfred said, grinning at his brother.

"All right. Call me if you change your mind," Matthew said, hugging his brother good bye.

"Oh my God," Alfred said, plopping onto his couch.

He had spent hours, unpacking and assembling the DVD shelf that stood in the corner by the window his living room and setting up the appliances and had finished 80% of the unpacking.

Laying on his back, he shrugged off his jeans and laid in his American Flag boxers and white T-shirt, staring up at the ceiling fan. It was not moving since he had it off. The heater was blowing, keeping his apartment toasty.

Several collapsed boxes were stacked on the beige carpet. He had propped the painting at the foot of the blank wall. Rolling onto his side, he stared at it, admiring it. The man looked so unafraid of the approaching tempest, like he were standing up to mother nature itself.

Alfred smiled, eyelids sliding shut and drifted into a strange dream.

He dreamed of a cool wind against his face, one that smelled pregnant with the promise of rain as it caressed his cheek and hair. He heard a far-off rumble of thunder, and thought lightening flashed purple behind his eyelids.

He turned away, hearing a sweet voice called, "Sunflower…. Sunflower."

He shudder, shifting deeper into the couch.

Sure, it was all a dream.

When his eyes cracked open, Alfred groaned and sat up, rubbing his sore neck, regretting falling asleep on the couch. He sat up, rubbing at his chest and planted his feet on the carpet.

He had to get ready for class and practice, or the coach would kill him. He stood up, stretching out his arms and paused, a hint of yellow on the carpet catching his eyes.

"The hell?"

He came closer and knelt down, picking up one of three long, yellow petals scattered across the floor, as if blown here by the wind. They looked like sunflower petals.

Impossible. Matthew must have tracked them in and I didn't notice, Alfred told himself.

But his gaze shifted to the painting and he crept closer.

"Don't be an idiot," he told himself.

There was a completely reasonable explanation. He might have let the thought die at that, until he saw another peculiarity. It had to be his imagination. Had to be. However, he looked at it, the painting looked somehow different.

The tail of the scarf no longer fluttered high in the air, but had fallen lower towards the ground, as if the breeze briefly gave out.

No! No! No!

He was just remembering it wrong. Paintings did not move. That was crazy, something out of one of his sci-fi movies.

Grabbing the petals, he tossed them in the garbage and scrambled around to get ready, telling himself 'get it together, Jones'. His sleepy brain was playing tricks on him.

It was just a painting, nothing more.

Note # 1 — Wrote this super fast. Sorry for any errors. What do you think of the premise? It's very short, maybe two or three parts to the end.

I was inspired by Stephen King's "Rose Madder", also about a painting that comes to life.

Except this painting may lead to a very different outcome for our hero.