Years ago I wanted to be a writer. I participated in an online workshop with Hugo winner Damon Knight, one of the great old school science fiction writers and editors. He was a patient teacher. I also briefly exchanged critiques with fantasy writer Pat York, a Nebula Award finalist. She, too, was a patient teacher. Sadly, both are now dead. I’m sure I would have been a disappointment to both of them, because I don’t write much anymore. I managed to get a fair number of short stories published in small circulation magazines. The pinnacle of my horror writing career was the publication of a 750 word story in Horrors!, a Barnes & Noble anthology. I made little money at it, but it was fun. I did much better as a non-fiction writer. Anyway, something I saw here reminded me of a story I wrote back in 1997. I unearthed a copy of the magazine in which it appeared and read it for the first time in more than a decade. It’s not an example of my best writing. Too many adjectives and not much depth. Still, I think some of you may find it amusing. It is the story of a painter who yearns for greatness.

Hunger

by

T. W. Kriner

Freedman turned off Route 219 at the sign for the Poelzl Colony. He stopped on the gravel road and considered driving his rusted Maverick to the McDonald’s he’d seen a few miles back. The pride he’d felt after skipping breakfast was gone: he was famished. The urge to turn around for a Big Mac was strong, but it wouldn’t look good to arrive late for his appointment. He prodded his belly to quell the grumbling, then drove up the hill to the tree line and the Colony office. Maybe they’d have lunch waiting for him.
...He parked in the shadow of a pine and plodded up the granite steps to the fieldstone building. He felt to make sure the knot of his tie was straight, and mopped the sweat from his face with a red handkerchief. The door swung inward just as he raised his hand to knock. An old man in a black suit stepped into view.
... “Please come in, Mr. Freedman.”
...Freedman jammed the handkerchief into his sports coat pocket and followed the man to a spacious office. His host took a seat behind an immense desk and gestured to a chair in front. Freedman sat.
... “I am Professor Spitalsfield, the headmaster of Poelzl,” the old man said in an indefinable European accent. He made no offer to shake hands. “Welcome. Did you bring the contract?’
... “I brought it,” Freedman replied, “but I haven’t signed it yet.”
... “No?” Spitalsfield frowned. “Is there a problem?’
... “Well, it’s just that I know so little about this place.” Freedman had already decided to sign, but he didn’t want to look like an idiot who put his name on a contract without at least asking a question or two. Yet it was true that he knew virtually nothing about the Colony.
...Two months after mailing his portfolio he had received a vague acceptance letter and a contract that Faust would have recognized. Sales of his paintings would subsidize his stay at Poelzl, and he would remain “until mastery of the canvas is achieved, but for no fewer than three years.” The document did not explain what would happen if he did not meet expectations.
...His old rival Rudy Bowen had told him about the place. Bowen had spoken mysteriously—conspiratorially—about the Colony. He claimed Poelzl had changed his life. Apparently it had: the old Rudy Bowen was a frivolous, lazy painter, while the new Rudy was a darkly serious master. His work was the rage of the New York galleries.
... “You’ll learn all you need to know in due time,” Spitalsfield said.
... “But thee years is an eternity! Maybe I’m not ready to make that kind of commitment.”
...A smile creased Spitalsfield’s wrinkled face. His sharkish eyes twinkled. “The contract specifies a minimum of three years. Kerchner remained with us for five years. Oddly enough, he expressed doubts in the beginning, too.”
... “Goslin Kerchner? He studied here?”
...The old man raised an eyebrow. “You thought Bowen was our only graduate? There have been a few. Several of the great painters studied here.”
... “But, Kerchner?” Freedman could feel his eyes bulging. Bowen had said nothing about Kerchner. “He has no peer in this century.”
... “He was nothing before he came to us,” the old man said, as if stating a mathematical certainty.
... “But I thought he studied at the Sorbonne.”
...The professor sneered. “That place,” he said at length, “teaches technique. Painting is more than technique—it is perception and wisdom, don’t you agree? It is the translation of life experience into a medium that forces change in the psyche of the audience. Painting is an exposition of the soul—not the feeble, callow soul of a middle class boy who hungers for greatness and wants it spoon fed to him, but the soul of a man who knows hard work, the soul of a man who has witnessed and experienced suffering. That,” —he pointed a bony finger at the wall opposite the desk— “is painting. The Sorbonne can’t teach that.”
...Freedman swiveled in his chair. The broad canvas hung in an alcove above the door. A Kerchner; his powerful surrealistic style was unmistakable. The painting depicted a sprawling wooden structure engulfed in flame. Torrents of red and orange rushed from the windows of the building. A small central tower hovered in partial collapse amid the conflagration. Sheets of flame leapt skyward. Clouds of black smoke billowed from the inferno. Tiny blazing figures fled from the main entrance, while other fiery people plunged from upper story windows or wandered, dazed. In the middle ground, a blazing man clutched the blackened corpse of an infant in scorched swaddling and ran headlong as if to leap from the painting. His face was stretched in an accusing scream. In the periphery and the foreground where his tormentors: cadres of shadow men in black uniforms, the fires glinting off the sinister curves of their coal scuttle helmets and automatic weapons. Several had rifle butts poised to greet the burning man.
... “‘The Persecution of the Branch Davidians’.”
... “Yes,” Spitalsfield said. “One of his most sublime works.”
...Freedman grunted as he wriggled from the chair to approach the canvas. He fumbled in his pockets and produced a cigarette and a book of matches. After inspecting the Kerchner more closely he turned and expelled a funnel of smoke from his pursed lips. “It’s the original, isn’t it?”
... “Of course.”
...Freedman nodded and puffed his cigarette, then faced the canvas again. “God, if I could paint half so well.”
... “You can. Maybe better. Your portfolio is a bit thin, perhaps, but your abilities are manifest: you have more raw talent than the man who painted that.”
... “You really think so?” Freedman looked over his shoulder.
... “It is my business to know these things.” The old man waved impatiently at the chair. “Sit. Please.”
...Freedman resumed his seat and ground out the Benson & Hedges in Spitalsfield’s crystal ashtray. He slipped the contract from his coat pocket and scanned the pages, but his eyes just wouldn’t focus. “I just don’t seem to have the drive, the energy.” He bit his lower lip and frowned.
...Spitalsfield proffered a black fountain pen. “Sign.” He exposed a mouthful of thin, yellow teeth in a mockery of a smile. “We will be your drive. We will provide the energy.”
...Freedman took the pen and flipped back to the first page. “Three years is a damned long time.”
...Spitaisfield sighed. “Young man, our background check shows you to be an excellent candidate for us: you have the requisite talent and, as fate would have it, you are a loner. You have no friends or family to distract you.”
... “You investigated me?” A bubble of fear rose in Freedman’s stomach.
... “Of course,” Spitalsfield answered. “That is how we knew you to be fat and weak and undisciplined. What you must know is that without our assistance your talent will be frittered away on foolishness. You will spend the rest of your days on the public dole or perhaps airbrushing T-shirts in the carnival sideshow. Here you can achieve greatness.”
...Freedman glanced at his abdomen and blushed. The fabric of his shirt was drawn so tight that pale flesh puckered through the slits between the buttons. His thick fingers quickly shifted his tie to cover the seam.
...He wanted the greatness. He wanted to be mentioned in the same breath with Monet, Kerchner, Cezanne. His hunger for it had only increased once he’d learned of the Poelzl Colony. But three goddamned years? “The third year is when I get to paint what I want, right?”
... “As stated in the contract, your third year and any subsequent years will be given to projects of your own selection—under guidance, of course. But you will also spend much of your time instructing new students. Remember, though, that the first two years will be a blend of training, hard work, and painting. You will paint what and when you are told. You will earn your keep through the sale of your work and, as I said, the work will be hard. Sleep, meals, personal hygiene—every aspect of your life will be controlled by us.” Spitalsfield cocked his head and scrutinized Freedman’s slouched figure.
... “You will hate us. You will beg to leave, but you will go nowhere. For at least three years you will have no contact with the outside world and if you graduate you will not divulge our method to anyone upon leaving this place.” Spitalsfield looked sternly at Freedman. “If nothing else, you’ll learn that much.”
... “Kerchner did this?”
... “We gave him that greatness. We made him.”
...Freedman took a deep breath and brought the pen toward the paper, but the professor’s hand darted out and clutched his wrist.
... “Not yet.” The old man pressed a button on the intercom.
... “Yes, sir?” a raspy voice crackled over the speaker.
... “You’re needed.” Spitalsfield released Freedman’s plump wrist. “Our notary will be here in a moment,” he explained pleasantly. No sooner had he spoken than there was a knock at the door.
... “Come.”
...Two men entered. Both wore navy blue jumpsuits and engineer boots. They might have been twins: six feet tall, broad shouldered, with fair skin and bristly, straw-colored hair. One took a position near the door, feet apart and hands behind his back. The second man stood next to Freedman.
... “This young man has expressed the desire to become a painter, Herman.” Spitalsfield tapped a finger at the document. “Kindly notarize his contract.”
...Herman pulled a chair up to the desk. “This is more of a gentleman’s agreement than anything,” he said to Freedman. “Not one of our contracts has ever been challenged in a court of law. Isn’t that right, Professor Spitalsfield?”
...The old man barked out a short laugh. “Quite correct.”
...Herman sat and emptied the contents of a small leather case onto the desk-top: an ink pad, a rubber stamp and an embosser. “Go ahead,” he said.
...As Freedman signed each page of the contract, Herman stamped and dated them in turn. He signed each sheet and pressed his seal into the paper with the embosser then handed them over to Spitalsfield.
...The old man shuffled the papers into a neat stack and slipped them into a manila folder. The folder went into the black filing cabinet behind him. ‘Thank you, Herman.”
...The notary rose and packed his case, then returned the chair to its original position. He moved to the door and adopted a stance similar to his twin’s.
... “Empty your pockets,” Spitalsfield said. He placed a large envelope on the desk and produced a clipboard. “Your personal effects,” he explained in response to the bewildered expression on Freedman’s face. “They’ll need to be stored, as will your automobile.”
...Freedman fished the wallet from his back pocket. There wasn’t much else: some loose change, car keys, nail clippers, a penknife.
...Spitalsfield snapped his fingers and held out his hand. “The cigarettes, too. Smoking is not allowed in the compound.”
...Freedman reluctantly placed the Benson & Hedges on the desk along with his book of matches.
...Spitalsfield examined each item and made a notation on the clipboard. When he came at last to the package of cigarettes, he shook one halfway out and extended it. “A last puff or two, yes?”
...Freedman snatched it greedily. Spitalsfield lit it for him then put everything into the envelope and licked the flap. He smoothed the envelope’s seal with his gnarled hands then filed it in the cabinet. He examined Freedman with his piercing shark eyes and nodded. “You have made a wise choice. Shall we begin?”
...Freedman nodded and took one last drag on the cigarette before butting it.
...Spitalsfield placed some clothing and a pair of battered work shoes on the desk. “You will need these. This, too.” He put a thick book on top of the shoes, a red leather volume with a hubbed spine. “This will be your Bible.”
...Freedman gathered the things in his arms and stood. His lungs were already hungry for another cigarette.
... “To the compound now, Louis,” Spitalsfield said to Herman’s companion.
...Louis held the door and Herman stepped out onto the porch. Freedman followed him, with Louis and the old man bringing up the rear. They marched down the steps and into the woods. Shafts of late afternoon sunlight poured through the canopy of leaves overhead to produce the effect of golden pools in an otherwise dark sea of vegetation. An Indian summer breeze whispered through the trees and ground cover. Birds chirped. A woodpecker went about his business on a nearby tree, making a sound like a toy machine gun.
...The trees soon thinned out into a meadow and the woodland sounds yielded to the noise of heavy machinery. An asphalt road ran along the east tree line, roughly parallel to the path they had taken. Two tractor trailers lumbered along the road, back toward Route 219. The trailers proclaimed in large black letters: ‘ART SALE OF THE CENTURY” —and in smaller print— “The Poelzl Colony.” Freedman stopped to watch the trucks. The drivers waved just before disappearing into the woods.
... “Soon your work will go out on trucks like those,” Spitalsfield said. He gave Freedman’s back a firm shove, and the younger man began walking again. Herman looked over his shoulder and flashed a smirk at Freedman before resuming the march.
...A barrier lay across the meadow ahead. At first Freedman thought it must be chain-link fencing. He could see the figures of men moving behind it, but as they drew nearer he saw that it was barbed wire. His pace slowed to a shuffle then, and Louis nudged his back with something hard.
... “Hey!” Freedman looked back at his grinning escort.
... “Keep moving.” Louis held a plastic truncheon. He jabbed it into the middle of Freedman’s back a second time.
...Freedman gasped and walked faster.
...The path ran by a sentry box just before it passed through a gate in the wire and into the compound beyond. The party halted as a man indistinguishable from Louis and Herman emerged from the box to open the gate. Several hundred yards beyond the wire was a cluster of long wooden buildings that looking like military barracks. A grimy brick structure rose in their midst like a nineteenth century factory. Its towering smoke stacks spewed clouds of soot into the azure sky.
...Scores of men stood in the muddy field between the buildings and the barbed wire. Each man had an easel and seemed to be racing to finish the painting before him. A handful of tall, swaggering men in blue jumpsuits and engineer boots moved among the easels, as if inspecting the works in progress. The uniformed men carried truncheons.
...The painters wore only baggy shorts and tattered work shoes. They were impossibly thin men, mere skeletons with scarcely a trace of muscle on them. The man nearest Freedman stopped his painting briefly, as if sensing the newcomer’s gaze, and turned toward the gate. His features were more skull than living face: eyes sunken in blackened sockets, gristly depressions where cheeks should have been. The man shook his head slowly then daubed his brush on his palette and continued working.
... “My God, what’s wrong with them?” Freedman’s voice was thick with alarm and pity as he faced Spitalsfield. “Are those men sick? They look at though they’re starving.”
...The old man exposed his yellow teeth in a tiny smile. “Of course they’re starving. Hunger produces greatness.” He nodded at Louis, who immediately rammed his truncheon into Freedman’s massive belly.
...The artist snorted in pain and shambled backward. “Make him stop that!”
...Spitalsfield smiled. The guard jabbed him again.
...Freedman wheeled about and hurried toward the open gate.
...“’Hunger was then my faithful bodyguard,’” the old man called after him. “’He never left me for a moment and partook of all I had ... my life was a constant struggle with this pitiless friend.’ It’s in your book!”
...Freedman scarcely heard a word. He looked up as he approached the gate and read with horrified fascination the motto emblazoned on the arch above him.

WORK MAKES YOU FREE

...His trembling legs stiffened as he came to a halt below the arch. He began to shake his head, slightly at first, then with the sweep and rhythm of a metronome’s pendulum. “No,” he said in a soft voice, his head wagging back and forth. “No.” He dropped his bundle and turned, intent on walking back up the path and away from this hellish place, but Louis and Herman barred his way.
... “Pick those things up!” Spitalsfield’s voice was cold steel.
...Tears welled in Freedman’s eyes and coursed down his blanched, fat cheeks. “No,” he said still shaking his head in disbelief. “I’m leav—”
...The pain was like nothing he had ever experienced—an explosion of white light and flame that tore from the back of his legs where the sentry hit him, to the base of his skull. He fell to the ground with a girlish shriek. Louis and Herman joined in with their truncheons. Freedman writhed and squirmed beneath the rain of blows, the three guards beating his fat thighs, flanks and arms, a barrage of bone-jarring, stinging impacts that didn’t stop until he had scurried to the things he had dropped.
...Mewling like a whipped dog, he gathered the clothes and work shoes to his chest with shaking arms. Lastly he picked up the book. As he lifted the volume from the hard-packed dirt of the path, he saw the title: Mein Kampf.
...And then the beating resumed.

© 1997 by T. W. Kriner

Nice work. I enjoy your writing style. I could literally hear Spitalsfield's dialog in my head...I kept thinking of Anton Ego from Ratatouille.

I found it a particularly amusing horror. Thank you for sharing your work. It was a good read. In fact, it would have made a fantastic Night Gallery segment.

very good work T

- but psc reminds you of that?

stunning deliverance, it is like I was there watching these scene unfold before my eyes, loved it

I'm glad to see some folks enjoyed this.

the202: I enjoyed that movie--and the character.

Tarmac: I grew up on Night Gallery, The Twilight Zone, Thriller, and The Outer Limits.

Now, just for fun, is anyone up to the challenge of illustration?

Anna, it's a story. It was inspired more than ten years ago by a "Starving Artist" sale I attended. I wondered where the seller acquired the thousands of lousy paintings he offered. Many were black velvet. Someone here recently used the phrase "starving artist"--it may have been WhimSea. The phrase recalled this story. I offer it here to entertain, not cause distress or criticize PSC.

--twk

What's this? You're kidding... right? You mean you want one of us to illustrate, under your direction, as the taskmaster for your illustrations? Hmm, on second thought, you might be right. Being a Severity School rehash, it might be better told to the public in comic book form, or Reader Digest style, rather than as a a work interpreted for film. Thanks for the offer, however no thanks Ted.

Tarmac, I said "for fun." I would have absolutely no use for such images apart from their entertainment value. Like Chop the Chopper images. However, if you wish to sign a contract, I'll get my plastic truncheon ready.

I rather liked the tale. I don't think there are too many adjectives at all. I think it's appropriate that a story dealing with protagonists who create visual works should be very descriptive.

Ah for fun. That's a two sided word. I think your Huron god side is showing just a bit. Maybe Gran might be interested in helping out. He had that whole anti-trans-fat-chicken-&-chips thing going for a while. What you say, Granulated? Want to illustrate for an anti fat lazy life style short story?

Anna, that's really good, though I think it's better without my name and title. Did you do that on paper and scan it, or did you use a mouse or stylus? I'd fav this if I could.