Alexander Liddell was hardly a remarkable looking man. In all reality, he was quite forgettable. Brown-haired and brown-eyed, he held a presence that was easily dismissible. He was somewhat pale, not from any deficiency, but from a lack of venturing outside. Silver rings lined his ears, remnants of a bygone era of rebellion and his mother would hardly be able to stand it if she knew how skinny he had become. He would argue with her and tell her he was lean, not skinny, but no matter what his status was, his mother would vehemently declare that he did not eat enough. Alexander, having the appetite of a pig, never quite understood this. However, she was his mother, and it was simply what she did.
Lean or skinny, Alexander did walk with a certain sense of pride. Maybe he knew some secret to which the rest of the world was not privy. On the other hand, it could have been because his last painting had sold for a ludicrous amount of money, and he now found himself rising to the top of the art community. Avarice had sold for far more than Gluttony or Sloth, and if this trend were to continue, Pride, Wrath, Envy, and Lust would provide him with more than enough money to continue his trade. These paintings were a series of surrealistic works (Alexander’s forte) based upon the Seven Deadly Sins. In fact, upon the completion of his series, the paintings were to be displayed in one of the newest museum wings in the city. It was quite an honor, to be sure. Mrs. Liddell had made all of her friends, acquaintances, fellow teachers, utility workers, passerby and second-cousins-twice-removed very aware of that fact. Mr. Liddell grunted, mumbled, and handed the phone back to his wife.
Though he would never even begin to admit it to himself, much less anyone else, Alexander had started to become far more interested in the revenue than the artistic meaning. He had just purchased a very nice apartment using some of the money from Avarice, but hadn’t gotten around to furnishing it yet. He had his easels, paint buckets, palettes, brushes, knives, watercolors, pencils, pens, pastels, mirrors, and a camera somewhere that he would get around to finding sometime just before the Second Coming. Then, in one corner, there was his mattress and in the other corner, something that passed for a kitchen. Perhaps the only room not devoted to art was the bathroom, where Alexander did his best thinking.
Alexander himself sat in the center of the room, staring at a blank canvas, chewing on a fortune cookie while he listened to his mother speak to him over the phone. She had just finished informing him that Mrs. Prescott, the obnoxious elderly woman from across the street, had died and that it would be nice if Alexander were to arrive for her funeral. Frankly, Alexander had been waiting for that crotchety old woman to die for the last decade, but he assured his mother that he would try. His mother started again, and Alexander rolled his eyes.
“Yes, I’ve eaten today. Of course I’m telling you the truth. Wh-…mo-…I’m eating right now!”
She didn’t believe him, and he gave up trying. Dinah, Alexander’s cat, hopped onto his lap, having decided that she was no longer content simply sleeping next to the stool. Alexander absentmindedly stroked the cat’s brown fur, bid his mother farewell, reassured her that she was loved at least 15 times, following her prompting, and hung up. Dinah looked up at him and in response to his petting, purred and stretched. As she did so, her claws extended for a moment and pinched Alexander. He winced and kissed her to make sure she knew she was in disgrace. Satisfied, Dinah curled on, flashed Alexander an expectant look that demanded he keep petting, and attempted to sleep.
Then he heard it. Through the thin walls (both a blessing and a curse), he heard the familiar jingling of keys and the slamming of a door. It was her: Laura Haire. Alexander shifted on his stool to stare at his door. It was a decidedly less interesting sight than Laura. There was a thump, a muffled curse, and a tube of lipstick rolled under Alexander’s door.
Lean or skinny, Alexander did walk with a certain sense of pride. Maybe he knew some secret to which the rest of the world was not privy. On the other hand, it could have been because his last painting had sold for a ludicrous amount of money, and he now found himself rising to the top of the art community. Avarice had sold for far more than Gluttony or Sloth, and if this trend were to continue, Pride, Wrath, Envy, and Lust would provide him with more than enough money to continue his trade. These paintings were a series of surrealistic works (Alexander’s forte) based upon the Seven Deadly Sins. In fact, upon the completion of his series, the paintings were to be displayed in one of the newest museum wings in the city. It was quite an honor, to be sure. Mrs. Liddell had made all of her friends, acquaintances, fellow teachers, utility workers, passerby and second-cousins-twice-removed very aware of that fact. Mr. Liddell grunted, mumbled, and handed the phone back to his wife.
Though he would never even begin to admit it to himself, much less anyone else, Alexander had started to become far more interested in the revenue than the artistic meaning. He had just purchased a very nice apartment using some of the money from Avarice, but hadn’t gotten around to furnishing it yet. He had his easels, paint buckets, palettes, brushes, knives, watercolors, pencils, pens, pastels, mirrors, and a camera somewhere that he would get around to finding sometime just before the Second Coming. Then, in one corner, there was his mattress and in the other corner, something that passed for a kitchen. Perhaps the only room not devoted to art was the bathroom, where Alexander did his best thinking.
Alexander himself sat in the center of the room, staring at a blank canvas, chewing on a fortune cookie while he listened to his mother speak to him over the phone. She had just finished informing him that Mrs. Prescott, the obnoxious elderly woman from across the street, had died and that it would be nice if Alexander were to arrive for her funeral. Frankly, Alexander had been waiting for that crotchety old woman to die for the last decade, but he assured his mother that he would try. His mother started again, and Alexander rolled his eyes.
“Yes, I’ve eaten today. Of course I’m telling you the truth. Wh-…mo-…I’m eating right now!”
She didn’t believe him, and he gave up trying. Dinah, Alexander’s cat, hopped onto his lap, having decided that she was no longer content simply sleeping next to the stool. Alexander absentmindedly stroked the cat’s brown fur, bid his mother farewell, reassured her that she was loved at least 15 times, following her prompting, and hung up. Dinah looked up at him and in response to his petting, purred and stretched. As she did so, her claws extended for a moment and pinched Alexander. He winced and kissed her to make sure she knew she was in disgrace. Satisfied, Dinah curled on, flashed Alexander an expectant look that demanded he keep petting, and attempted to sleep.
Then he heard it. Through the thin walls (both a blessing and a curse), he heard the familiar jingling of keys and the slamming of a door. It was her: Laura Haire. Alexander shifted on his stool to stare at his door. It was a decidedly less interesting sight than Laura. There was a thump, a muffled curse, and a tube of lipstick rolled under Alexander’s door.
