THE CANVAS
He ground his wife’s bones to use as paint.
He could not fathom why she remained dead—strange, strange indeed. He tilted his head; his fingers, not trembling—yes, they were not trembling. Why would they?
He looked at his hand, pausing, covered in her blood; it leaked from the brush onto his fingers.
“Fascinating,” he whispered, “so elegant, so beautiful, just as you are, my dear.” Do not worry, my love. I will bring you back to life.” He told the painting.
As an artist, he was envious of death’s meticulous artistry, sometimes desperately craving such mastery in his craft.
How bewitching he thought. Even when you sleep, my dear
Death’s art was always more alluring than his: delicate, with no muddled shades, no half-formed strokes—precise and entrancingly ghostly. Its breath was never a stolen shadow. His canvases didn’t trip; they were never black and white, and they were always traced carefully.
But not his—no matter how much he painted, the remnants of a barbaric entity always remained within them.
Hope. Hope that those who have tasted the scent of death in the in-between still exist. Those who have heard the ‘illusion’ of hope so many times, knowing they have been poisoned by it—a cruel lie that, despite every argument, every philosophy in every classical tale, remains deceptive. How ruthless it is.
‘You will forever be with me,’ he said gently, with a soft smile, before crunching the seventh bone.
With her, yes, he didn’t envy the stillness of death- it didn’t exist in his mind; death could never steal her away, he will be the better painter.
He—himself—was an artist, and as such, his sanity was lost; yet, in his madness, he found such comfort within it that he had forgotten the inevitable claws that had grasped him.
As all artists do in their madness, they find sanity- they find peace.
But when does need turn into greed?
He dipped his brush into the body next to him, tracing her lips with the thinnest, most delicate of brushes—both old and new. They danced on the canvas.
He let out a quivering breath.
“You will live forever, yes…forever,” he whispered.
About the Author
Jori Al Jiran is a writer, poet, and artist, Her works, often rooted in gothic literature, delve into the beauty and madness of the world, the fearsome grace of psychology, and the horror it embodies. She admires the haunting depth of Edgar Allan Poe, the sharp wit of Oscar Wilde, and the psychological complexity of Fyodor Dostoevsky
Her writing revolves around philosophy and the raw complexities of human nature. Her publications include ‘The Canvas’, previously published on Maudlin House, and ‘Dear William’ on the Poetry Light House
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