03/14/2025
Finally, here is the first chapter of The Artiste, a fictional work. I share it seeking feedback. All comments are welcome.
The Artiste
Copyright 2025
by D. Bernard Thomas
1
Only the droning of a diesel engine disrupted the tranquility of the setting: Herman Lake, a tiny clandestine pond, slowly draining as it surrendered the ghost to new development, and a lone artist seated along its receding banks forever capturing the fleeing moments of splendor. Tiny indentations in the freshly exposed bank revealed the once-hidden sanctuaries of aquatic animals, lending the pond floor a sponge-like texture. Splintered fragments of downed trees spiked skyward through the moist silt, surrounded by a cache of glass and metal objects; and along the opposite shoreline, where the morning sun had risen above the tree line, the objects glistened like sequins beneath stage lights.
The rusted s vintage VW Beetle stood nearly upright upon its nose in the deepest section of the pond. Once completely submerged, the
receding water now crested near the center of its roof. A thick pine and maple forest casted the surrounding acreage deep into shadow. Here, moss, lichen and fern thrived. A tiny stream wound its way through the woods, feeding the north end of the pond with the constant trickle of rainwater runoff. But on the south end of the pond, a huge swath had been cut into the wood. And it was here that man had placed the huge diesel pump. The pump nullified the effects of the natural damn, slowly, yet effectively, strangling the pond.
In other times and seasons, the forest would be alive with the song of birds, and the scampering of wildlife; But the change of season, along with the intrusion of man, had chased both the seasonal and the timid. The onset of autumn had ushered in a color burst within the forest. The artist had come to capture this unique and vanishing scene in all its detailed splendor. With the tools of a professional, he transferred the essence of the scene onto the sketchpad before him.
Only when nearly finished, did he pause to access his work. Though satisfied, he did not smile. He experienced little pleasure from this aspect of his work; pleasure for him would come later. He remained expressionless throughout the task, his mind’s eye consumed by the image of the finished product.
Lastly, he began a faint, translucent outline of the VW. He chose varying shades of charcoal for this, fully aware of the distinctive focal contrast created.
He completed the ghostly outline of the VW’s shell before pausing for last assessment. Though the sketch remained incomplete, he was finished here, for now. The Artiste carefully closed his sketchpad and replaced the tools of his trade inside a distinguished leather case.
As he began his sojourn back through the woods along an overgrown and seldom used path, the first inkling of a smile tweaked the corners of his mouth.
He’d complete the Volkswagen in darker shades of grays to black and white.
All, that is, except for the blood.
The blood of course would have to be shades of reds: from a bright crimson where it had yet to dry; to deeper shades of burgundy; maroon; and oxford.
Now, all he needed was the body.
