The Great Static Cross
Andrew D. Miller

Joseph Wagner awoke without sunlight in his bedroom. His blinds were securely
fashioned, encapsulating the studio in undiminished darkness.

The morning ritual began with the blind hazy sketching of his dreams from the
night before written, in a little black book never far from his bed.

"One day is any day and everyday is just as the other." He paused for a moment
nibbling on the end of his pen.

His eyes began to adjust to the darkness of his bedroom.

"No man can exist on an island." He imitated his writing with the words from
his lips. ".I have proved them all wrong."

He rose from his mattress, preparing for the day by bending and squeezing the
tension from his bones. Turning from the tangled sheets, he pulled the chords to the
blinds and bathed himself in the sunlight of morning. Each of the blinds, a row of fifteen,
folded on top of each other and flipped inside a metal apparatus. Squinting from the
sudden change of illumination, his eyes slowly began to adjust as he scanned the city
streets below.

Joseph scratched his head and yawned in the morning sun. Every moment wasted
in the comfort of his bedroom was sacred time that could be spent on the possibilities of
his craft.

He vanished from his chamber, past the heaps of art displayed and waiting for
sale, into his kitchen. The coffee maker hummed to life with energy as the alarm
*beeped*.

The shades of the kitchen window were opened as every corner of the studio was
now full of bright sun and completed with warmth that cascaded over his flesh. Waiting
for the coffee to brew, he took his favorite blue mug from the sink and cupped it in his
hands. His eyes were heavy and his body was still not awake.

There was no rush, he thought as the sunlight naturally awakened him from his
heavy sleep. He didn't have far to drive, or even walk for that matter. The only deadlines
or commitments Joseph ever had, were those placed upon him by himself as a man of
independent wealth.

The sounds of The City.


The serenading voice played at his heart strings and was a comfort from the dead
stillness of night. He turned from the window and leaned against his counter. As he
waited, his eyes scanned the walls of his studio, the popping and fizzing of the coffee
maker performed for him.

His studio apartment, spacious and comfortable, was a painter's paradise: plenty
of light and windows, eyes for inspiration from The City. The multi-colored drips and
drabbles of his art lined the walls as thick cheap wallpaper. Watching each of his children
quietly perform with their colors and characters, he pulled the coffee pot from the heater
and stared at it blankly. His blue mug was returned to the sink as he pulled the plastic lid
off of the pot of coffee. Blowing on the top of the liquid, the vapor turned slender as he
sipped on the scalding coffee. He winced and suddenly found himself awake.

Straightening his back, the artist stepped into his studio and began to work
towards his deadline.
________________________________________________

It was lunch time when the drag of the day began to take its toll. Joseph had been
painting for eight hours when he couldn't resist the hunger any longer. His funds, being
limited as they were between checks often reduced him to drinking lunch rather than
eating. A large, hot cup of French Roast blend and a multivitamin allowed him to
maintain the stamina for a new piece.

He rubbed his temples as he could feel the headache coming. For the past three
days, he had been battling an efficient wave of depression that was now crashing on top
of him. The tricks of sunlight played with his imagination, forming a symbol of the
greater place. The sun filtered through the dirt of the window as the city below raced to
and fro.

Finishing his lunch, Joseph was able to break through his depression for a time
when a smile came to his face, the familiar memories of his recent experience with the
Dark Walk.

He turned from the window and looked towards his art.

"I swear." talking to nobody that could respond, but himself, ".every time I
turn my back, you move closer trying to swallow me."

His art stood in silent reply.

As he stepped back into his studio, he took his place on the painted plastic throne
before his future depiction. There were roads, characters, colors, dankness...

He picked up his brush and dipped the horse hair into the gray pile of paint.

"The Dark Walk..." he whispered. The brush smoothly rolled over the canvas as if
geared with bearings. Last night felt like a dream when he was a creature of the Dark
Walk.

The canvas before him was the latest showpiece he hoped to sell. The one thing
critics had taught him was you paint what you were able to at least comprehend.

Nine feet by nine feet, the canvas was abashed in the glory of dark colors and his
experience from the previous night.

"I will title you, the Dark Walk." Spoke Joseph to himself.

At the base of the canvas, the small brush painted the quick words:


Where my dreams could take me to somewhere new instead of a worn, rusted dungeon. It seems only in my dreams I am capable of becoming who the world could truly fear.