finally ventured to the foyer. Blank-faced movers nodded to her as they hand-carted in more boxes. When none of them were looking, Paul silently mouthed I love you to her.
Just you wait , she mouthed back, then mockingly cleared her throat and said, “Is it okay for me to look around the upper floors? I mean, is it safe?”
“Oh, sure, everything’s up to code if that’s what you mean.” He seemed to turn toward the bar, then thought better of it, which pleased Cristina. She wouldn’t exactly say that he drank too much , but she felt much better when he refrained. “Third and fourth floors aren’t even Sheetrocked yet, but the second floor is, and it’s all wired. Go ahead and check it out if you want. You might get some ideas about how we should refurbish the rest.”
“Okay,” she said and skipped up the dark-scarlet carpet.From the landing she could see unfinished doors standing open, filling the hall with fading daylight. She browsed around each empty room amid the scent of newly cut Sheetrock, but instead of thinking about redecorating she found her mind locked on her new line. Evil Church Creepies , she mused. The Noxious Nun …
Would she have the same dream to night?
It didn’t matter how bizarre the dream might be, nor how disturbed she was by it. I used it to my creative advantage , she knew. Now I just need it to sell—BETTER than Cadaverettes . Bruno von Blanc, the owner of the development company, assured her that Evil Church Creepies would outsell everything else on the market. “Your creative visions are right on the pulse of the marketplace, Cristina,” he’d insisted. “You thought we were taking a chance on Cadaverettes, remember? You thought they’d been branded as derivative. But I knew before we even signed you up that they were exactly what the market had been waiting for. Everything else is derivative, Cristina. Cadaverettes are the only original figurines coming out now, because they mix the old with the new. And Evil Church Creepies isn’t just an extension of that; it’s a new avenue. The preorders alone will be through the roof.”
Cristina hoped so, and it had nothing to do with the money. If anything, she still couldn’t relate to that part of it. She’d made a phenomenal amount off the last line, yet most of it was stuck in the bank, somehow defying her awareness of it. She merely needed her creations to perpetuate, to be enjoyed by others—preferably lots of others.
Semi- immortality , she thought, and wandered into more rooms.
The front room. What looked immediately back at her from the great bow window was another window: a great wheel-window of stained glass, accented by intricate traceries. The church across the street , she recalled. So far she’d scarcely noticed it but now, from this higher vantagepoint, it appeared quite grandiose, almost a mini Notre Dame, with buttresses, pointed iron crockets, even a belfry. It looked drab, though, unused. Cristina understood that the house in which she and Paul now lived was originally some sort of an annex building for the same church.
Staring at it now reminded her that she hadn’t been to church in over ten years.
She left the room in a rush, electing not to confront the subtle guilt.
Oh, wow. Now this is something …She’d drifted into the rearmost room, as wall-patched and unfinished as the others, but found herself spellbound. High lancet windows made the room appear galleryish, and let in radiant blocks of late-afternoon light. This room is it , she knew at once, and in her mind she already envisioned how it would be painted, carpeted, and arranged. I doubt that Paul will be hurt that I like this room better than the studio . It was the feel of the room, even in its denuded state, that instantly appealed to her artist’s perceptions. The view looking down wasn’t much—just the boring alley—but it was the way the windows let in all that light that made her fall in love with the room.
My new studio ,
Just you wait , she mouthed back, then mockingly cleared her throat and said, “Is it okay for me to look around the upper floors? I mean, is it safe?”
“Oh, sure, everything’s up to code if that’s what you mean.” He seemed to turn toward the bar, then thought better of it, which pleased Cristina. She wouldn’t exactly say that he drank too much , but she felt much better when he refrained. “Third and fourth floors aren’t even Sheetrocked yet, but the second floor is, and it’s all wired. Go ahead and check it out if you want. You might get some ideas about how we should refurbish the rest.”
“Okay,” she said and skipped up the dark-scarlet carpet.From the landing she could see unfinished doors standing open, filling the hall with fading daylight. She browsed around each empty room amid the scent of newly cut Sheetrock, but instead of thinking about redecorating she found her mind locked on her new line. Evil Church Creepies , she mused. The Noxious Nun …
Would she have the same dream to night?
It didn’t matter how bizarre the dream might be, nor how disturbed she was by it. I used it to my creative advantage , she knew. Now I just need it to sell—BETTER than Cadaverettes . Bruno von Blanc, the owner of the development company, assured her that Evil Church Creepies would outsell everything else on the market. “Your creative visions are right on the pulse of the marketplace, Cristina,” he’d insisted. “You thought we were taking a chance on Cadaverettes, remember? You thought they’d been branded as derivative. But I knew before we even signed you up that they were exactly what the market had been waiting for. Everything else is derivative, Cristina. Cadaverettes are the only original figurines coming out now, because they mix the old with the new. And Evil Church Creepies isn’t just an extension of that; it’s a new avenue. The preorders alone will be through the roof.”
Cristina hoped so, and it had nothing to do with the money. If anything, she still couldn’t relate to that part of it. She’d made a phenomenal amount off the last line, yet most of it was stuck in the bank, somehow defying her awareness of it. She merely needed her creations to perpetuate, to be enjoyed by others—preferably lots of others.
Semi- immortality , she thought, and wandered into more rooms.
The front room. What looked immediately back at her from the great bow window was another window: a great wheel-window of stained glass, accented by intricate traceries. The church across the street , she recalled. So far she’d scarcely noticed it but now, from this higher vantagepoint, it appeared quite grandiose, almost a mini Notre Dame, with buttresses, pointed iron crockets, even a belfry. It looked drab, though, unused. Cristina understood that the house in which she and Paul now lived was originally some sort of an annex building for the same church.
Staring at it now reminded her that she hadn’t been to church in over ten years.
She left the room in a rush, electing not to confront the subtle guilt.
Oh, wow. Now this is something …She’d drifted into the rearmost room, as wall-patched and unfinished as the others, but found herself spellbound. High lancet windows made the room appear galleryish, and let in radiant blocks of late-afternoon light. This room is it , she knew at once, and in her mind she already envisioned how it would be painted, carpeted, and arranged. I doubt that Paul will be hurt that I like this room better than the studio . It was the feel of the room, even in its denuded state, that instantly appealed to her artist’s perceptions. The view looking down wasn’t much—just the boring alley—but it was the way the windows let in all that light that made her fall in love with the room.
My new studio ,
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