“Where do I go from here, now that blood has been spilled on the canvas?”, Reanoldo wept, as he hit the machine. “I hoisted a flag to say I was done, was that not enough for you?, said while pounding furiously.
Reanoldo was a proud man, with the social skills of an aristocartic man of humble beginnings. Having excelled in The Arts, he spent a good portion of the last three months painting at night, while tending bar at the saloon just out of town most mornings. He never thought that he would become the next victim of burglary, which was on an upswing since King Thurber was assassinated.
If he thought anyone he knew would be in this sorry state, it would be the widow, Florence, she was always so loose with the company of townspople and travelling men calling on her at all hours. “Yes”, Reanoldo thought,, “ole Florrey could be the spiting image of a helpless victim”, when in her sad life, she was as ruthless as those who stole her bossom and left her with a quid.
Reanoldo was cetain that one of Florrey’s gentlemen callers came to his carriage house to destroy anything of his. Most townspeople knew of the torrid relationship between Florence and himself, and out of them, many wished he were dead, so they themselves may have a shot at gaining Florrey’s trust, and trustfund.
All of the smashed china and crystal did not matter to Reanoldo, not as much as the painting itself, for that would have been the gift for his betrothed when he knealt on his knee at the village ball, to announce his intentions to his prized model and to the town. But the blood was too much, and not enough to hold on to.
Reanoldo was too proud a gentleman, and drew his curtains closed before hanging himself next to his battered painting. He left the machine with a note atop to Florence. It told her that what lay inside was now hers… it was to be the dowery for when they married.
-dld january 12, 2011-
ThinkingTen Prompts: Where do I go from here?, blood,
a flag, pick, machine, travel, just outside of town