Apocalyptic Paintings (Until my Kingdom Comes): A Short Story by William Amari

Gazing upon the tail end of summer, a startling conundrum ignited my consciousness: Am I any more significant than the fly lost and alone on a window sill, the summer morning on one side, my bedroom on the other, unable to escape to either?

As I examined my inquiry, a sensation of pity washed over me as my friend, the fly buzzed from one glass to another, harnessing the weight of light upon the veins of its wings. Thud. Thud. Thud. The fly furiously slammed its insect body, growing increasingly flustered with each failed attempt at freedom. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. It cried like a patient locked in a padded cell, for which only I had the key. The heat absorbed the air within its filthy new world as it scurried up the glass as fast as its furry, little legs could withstand.

I am not responsible for its happiness, I thought. Yet, I wasn't entirely convinced I was responsible for its vexation either. The unfortunate thing was a prisoner, but my window was never meant to be a cell. If I were to pry the window ajar, letting the fly return home, I would signify the window as a prison. But if I were to ignore the fly, it would crawl itself towards the hoards of other flies that were once the subject to my paradox, but now deceased. Who am I to decide its fate?

I left the fly to swallow its grave conclusion, for I was stuck in a predicament of my own. I am at an age where I, too, am trapped. The world around me looks no different to me than it does for the fly. The sun rises, as it always does in the morning. With each second elapsing before my eyes, the sun grows higher and fuller, evincing its powerful light across the town, painting the shadows of the day. Its vivid rays convince my mind that it shines its light exclusively for me. But I know that cannot be true as I see the sun has risen long before my time, and it will continue this habit until the world ends. When that day happens, it will be casual and sudden. I sense the days of revelation deep within my soul. But until then, all I can do is watch the world go around.

To condone the fruitlessness of the ordinary, to distract from the morgue of flies forgotten on the windowsill, I have become fond of painting detailed apocalyptic scenes. I boast my illustrations to ornament my inanimate and material space— exerting a color of life with each one I possess. Whenever I shall return to my room, weary from the evening, I shall be welcomed by many allegorical faces: beautiful white horses with sturdy backs and angels blowing glorious tunes, ringing the songs of judgment out of the bells of trumpets.

My parents insisted University was my calling, and so University I must succumb. I've given up on finding a rightful home. I watch the clock tick as the professor asks to introduce ourselves through icebreakers. With my aching romp seated on a black-rimmed chair, I emphasize with my incarcerated friend all the more. How did I get here— lost in a room full of strangers, their backs hunched away from me? The image of the fly stimulated me once more, for I could relate to it far too sincerely. I pictured it cleansing itself, rubbing its forearms together, stroking away the remnants of its kind. If the fly had an icebreaker, what would it say? Where did it come from? How far had it gone to entangle itself in a dungeon with no other being around for comfort? I wondered how many other students were entrapping insects in their windowsill. I wondered how many of them were entrapping themselves. There is no point in worrying about other people. I am selfish, perhaps, but I am not heedless to brutal facts of the human condition.

We are all trapped.

"Hello," I said. I gave the class my name, my hometown, and paused for a good look around the room. Twenty sets of eyes were peeled towards me as I continued, "I'm an art student who's interested in how art imitates death and how death imitates art."

I have mentioned and therefore confessed my belief in souls. But I have not divulged to whom this forlorn soul possesses. I am the lone acolyte of the ascetic; my soul follows the spiritual path, not unlike the desert fathers who braved the desolate Scetes sands from long ago. I withhold the so-called "pleasures" of our modern era: gluttony, drinking, smoking, sexual activity, all of which I've abstained for the sake of appeasing my inner soul, my truest self. It is the one gift of life I can truly own. Not even my paintings are loyal to me.

To aid me from my wanton thoughts, I fantasize a simpler time— back to the days of yore— the late middle ages, when half a continent's population was wiped out by rats. During times of plague, The Masters would include The Danse Macabre motif in their frescos. Plagued skeletons danced in unison with living souls, a display of acceptance between the living and the dead.

There is one other companion. He is not the desert fathers of bygone years, nor is he the previously mentioned fly.

"Queen Mary popped her cherry. Where were the wise men? I'll never tell!" —It is my roommate, the poet.

I am the painter, and he is the poet. Huddled together on the top floor of the library, we studied page after page, scrutinizing each chapter and quizzing one another with ambitions of swelling our minds with creative thoughts.

"Who do you prefer?" I asked him quietly, "Dante or Milton?"

"Never heard of them," he replied, "I'm gonna write short and sweet poems like the one I read to you and then hide them around the school."

"That's not a bad idea," I admit to him, "Wish I could do that with my paintings."

I read a chapter on anti-Semitism in 15th-century northern Medieval art. I attempted my ekphrasis on a miniature manuscript created in Augsburg: Below a passing bird, a kneeling knight injects a sword into a bearded man with a pointed hat. This illumination was indeed a style belonging east of the Rhine, as a luscious, dense forest contrasted the background. It stood out from the Italian Chapel Frescoes and Altarpiece Triptychs, famous a century before. I took a photo of "The Murdered Jew" for my keeping— hoping to never forget the details of the servant's cloth. Illuminated before me, was our innocent victim arching his back in agony, pleading for forgiveness, for mercy, as his killer mounted his ribs, a startling act of violence plainly juxtaposed the lush and peaceful field around him.

In the peak of the twilight hours, I dragged my belongings home, kicking an empty beer can along Montgomery Avenue. My apartment lived on the corner of 18th Street, where there were flies huddled on a mountain of litter melting to the side of my stoop. I had retained my urge to paint, a yearning that bit the back of my mind like a mosquito. In the peaceful chamber of my room, I picked up a wooden palette and began mixing a few paints. I felt soothed as I continued to fondle the color. To paint was to release dopamine and experience pleasure.

Dashing the elegant, black lines across the canvas, absorbed all of my attention. I became so utterly entranced by the craft before me; I had failed to notice the poet resting on my bed by the candlelight. His voice startled me when he spoke.

"Didn't mean to scare you there," he said, approaching my work. "Say, I like where this one is going. Do you ever have thoughts of framing your work?"

He always delighted me with complimenting my paintings. I answered him as honestly as I could, "Sometimes," I huffed, "I have an immense desire to burn each one to the ground."

I turned at the candle and its dancing shadow on the wall. The natural light around my room made the poet appear tan and remarkably handsome. I said to him, "The fire within me is far more vigorous than any tangible flame. What sense is there to create and destroy, create and destroy?"

We took a short recess and entered the rooftop of our quiet abode through an attic window. Sprawled out and hypnotized by the moon, I felt in the center of it all. The moon was casting off feelings of the same faith acquired from the sun— that somehow that glowing grapefruit in the sky rose just for me and beamed down from the heavens for the sake of my troubled days. When the world dies, and our souls ascend high above the stars, would the moon remain as full as it is now? Would it be a crescent? Or absent from any view at all? Perhaps there would come this awesome syzygy, and everything would be so connected before falling evermore apart.

I leered at our peers, walking towards a party from below. The terrible bass drowned all thoughts of peaceful annihilation. I became mad; I became sad.

The young poet spoke to me, "I wrote a poem today. I think you might like it. Or at least you'll understand it."

"Let's hear it," I said to him.

He stood up to face me and revealed a crumpled up sheet of paper he kept folded in his back pocket. He took a deep breath and recited:

"The two of us are as low as flies

Picking at a rotten apple in the heat

There is no sense going anywhere

Or thinking about the future

As long as we have this apple

We are utterly content

Not happy necessarily, but content

—At ease

For little do we know

Clueless like any other fly

That when more flies take a bite out of the apple

You get less apple

Leaving the rest to have the core."

Yes, I considered his composition; there is no sense going anywhere. To think about the future is futile. But then why did the desert fathers walk all those miles amidst all those years— following the footsteps of Anthony? Was there any sense of sanctity? Or was the entire point to walking those desert miles to liberate the soul? Should I have sacrificed more of the apple, give away what I have left, and become one with my soul? What else is there besides the core of the apple?

Maybe I have asked too many questions for one day, and one conundrum is far more than my heart can withstand. I stood shoulder length apart from my dear companion and looked him dead in the eye. Under the moon, we simultaneously enjoyed a moment of silence. He was right about one thing, we are not happy, but we are content.

"I'm gonna go back inside," I told him, "I have a fly in my room, and it's time I let it out."

The poet agreed and held open the window for me, as I did for him and we bid each other a beautiful night.

Returning to my room I was pleased to find my friend, the fly still crawling over the hot glass. I lifted up the bottom rail and it flew away into the night. It buzzed over the moon, small and helpless. My eyelids were heavy, but the fly's departure awoke my soul.

Dear Desert Father, I no longer feel so trapped. Allow me now to finish my painting.

I used a landscape brush to create a strange sky with a mauve light engulfed by cirrostratus clouds— picturing the emergence of a winter's night. This depiction was good; there was much darkness. My hand brushed along the canvas, creating a dim moon above an empty glade. I wanted to emphasize the void, so I switched to a flat brush to create a bold raisin color of purple and gray. How divine. Using this rich mixture, I then constructed leaves and grass, which would be blown in the same direction as the wind. Good, good. With thick lines, I boosted the leaves from the ground making the scene nearly complete. Yet the painting called for trees. Using my favorite Fitch brush with its fine mongoose hairs, I blended in the different leaves, creating a forest. Then I let it be done, content with my creation. It was nothing masterful, but it was the genesis of something new.

Yes, Dear Desert Father, I will continue to offer my craft to you until my kingdom comes. I think it's safe to say I won't be burning this one.