Jodi MacArthur is the featured author in this quarter's fiction collection. Her story, below, called "Art" is an interesting take on a personal letter in a confessional style.
Dear Saul,
You have no idea how much I've missed our meetings. And although I can't stand you, can't bear to be with you, somewhere, deep inside, I have this sick obsession with the way your eyes crinkle when you smile, the way your hair flops over your ears when you tilt your head to listen. I'd like to say this isn't difficult, but it is. And I don't even have to tell you for you to know that. You sick puppy.
Do you have any idea what it’s like to feel cut up on the inside as well as the outside? Blood blooms on my wrists as I write. Some call it suicide. I call it art. My masterpiece. Each petal, each thorn carved to perfection.
My last painting on canvas, I’d chosen one word and left it dripping in Sepia. I mixed Scarlett with Serpent green and swirled them until the word was invisible. At our meeting, I thought you’d be thrilled. Instead you told me the economy was slow and you’d have to let go of the best. I watched your lips lie to me, like I knew they would. The canvas represented you and I, Saul. Why Didn’t you see that? The truth is hidden in lies. That is why I chose the word liar.
The truth, dear Saul, is that you couldn’t afford your wife to find out. She’s sitting on a green inheritance. Remember? You told me last fall while we moved against Merlot sheets and October frost.
You want to cut my commission and trash my work? Fine.
People will remember me. They will remember you. Amongst the thorns and perfect slashes on this canvas of skin, I’ve carved your name. My own life’s paint has sacrificed itself in your name.
You disgraced me. And soon, I suspect, your wife will disgrace you.
All The Best,
Amy