Red Paint

Feb 18, 2020 | Fiction

I sat on the floor, cross-legged, “Lotus style,” attempting for the 5,678th time to transcend something or other by way of meditation. This was supposed to be therapeutic; instead, it made me itch. Invisible hives. I fidgeted, waiting for the tranquil chime that would signal the end of this torment and let me get back to work. My Captain thought this would be “therapeutic.”

Work. The work was therapeutic. The work was killing me. Not working was killing me faster.

How could I sit here, clearing my mind of all thought, focusing on nothing, when out there – out there – were children being bought and sold like blow-up vinyl sex toys? Made to endure unimaginable things, things that were taboo even in the fantasies of normal men and women? Working undercover had given me urgent purpose, but a deep sickness had taken root in my mind, and in my heart.

This was not the cure.

I no longer understood the term, “tolerant.” My Captain thought my devotion to the job was “unselfish.” Far from it. The last case had unfolded like layers of filo pastry, each one revealing an oppressive layer of nuts beneath treacly sweetness. Slender waifs, dressed up like dolls, used up, discarded–at first, we had thought it was a warehouse for mannequins from the children’s department. Disjointed arms, legs akimbo. Our minds refused to process the scene.

No. Center. Listen to the burbling of the artificial waterfall at the front of the studio. Make the mind a blank.

No, not “unselfish,” Captain. Unselfish would be helping those children, not sitting here with taboo fantasies of my own. I imagined those men we’d arrested, three weeks ago. Imagined them, walking free on some technicality while their slick dick of a lawyer grinned, the way one does after winning a Chess match, crushing the King in a meaty fist. Nothing more than a game, to him. I wondered if he kept a spare set of pawns at home. I imagined those men, their blood splattered like crimson paint from a can lobbed by a cannon against whitewashed walls. I imagined the art gallery where that wall might hang, even as I might hang for painting it. That was…satisfying, if not positively uplifting.

Center. Focus. The work was killing me. Not working was killing me faster.

At last, the chime sounded, and I was free to return to the work.


This story inspired by  and the words: Tolerant, Transcend, Tranquil, Therapeutic, Taboo, Undercover, Unselfish, Uplifting, Urgent, Unfold.

To whomever romanticized the notion of the writer, hunched over a bit of parchment in an attic room, eating nothing but gruel and subsisting on cheap whiskey or laudanum, go jump in a lake. I am suffering from seasonal allergies and find that, and lack of sleep, to be not at all conducive to creative thought. Sure, we slog through. But this is not the dream. The dream (and I am living it) is a well-functioning computer, a soft blanket, a comfy armchair, and hefty doses of pseudoephedrine, washed down with filtered eau du tap, and a good snort of oxymetazoline hcl. Not having a stuffy nose would help a lot.

Prunebutt the Muse is back. “Excuses, excuses,” he sneers.

Funny, Prunebutt the Fuzzball makes a decent handkerchief.


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