Creative writing – “artist”

(writing exercise for our writing group using the word “artist” as a seed)

The Detective slid the manila folder across the worn steel table to Cassidy.  Cassidy shifted in his chair and looked down at the folder.

“Don’t you want to see the results of your handiwork,” asked the Detective.

Cassidy looked up from the folder and met the Detective’s gaze.  “Not particularly,” he said.

The Detective leaned back in his hard, uncomfortable chair.  He looked at the huge two-way mirror covering one wall of the interrogation room, and bit his lower lip thoughtfully.  No one was behind the mirror, but it usually helped if the prisoner thought there was.  The idea of a faceless, scrutinizing judge was much more imposing than a small, Canon digital video camera.  The whole sterile, hard, cold room was designed to put people off balance, to make them feel alone and controlled.  It worked much better on some than others.

The Detective pressed on.  “You seemed to take a lot of pride in what you did, why wouldn’t you want to see it?” he asked.

Cassidy cocked his head, puzzled for a moment.  “It wasn’t pride, Detective,” he said.

“Then what was it?  Revenge?”

Cassidy leaned forward slowly, pushing the manila folder to the side.  He clasped his fingers and leaned on his elbows on the table.  The Detective tensed, not that anyone else could see it.  He didn’t think this scrawny stick was any danger, but you can never tell.  If this fool got the advantage on him, he would be a laughing stock.

“Do you have any children, Detective?  A daughter, maybe?”

Now the Detective sat upright.  “None of your business,” he replied.

Cassidy shook his head. “I’m not asking for details or anything, but you asked why I did this.”

“My children have nothing to do with it one way or another.”

“I’m an artist, Detective. Art is about helping people to connect on an idea, an understanding, or an experience. It’s a common medium for us to share our private views of the world.  I’m trying to find that common medium with you so I can explain.”

The Detective drummed his fingers on the table.

Cassidy continued, “I know you’re probably supposed to be the Bad Cop, but I’m not trying anything funny.  Really.”

No Good Cop could be spared to tag team on this loser, so the Detective finally responded “Yes, I have a daughter.”

“A baby?  Graduated?  Teens?” asked Cassidy.

“In her teens,” said the Detective slowly.

“Ah, so you’ve had some time to watch her grow up.  To go from the beautiful ideal you had for her when she was an infant, to making her own choices.  To getting tarnished a bit.”

“Careful,” cautioned the Detective.

Cassidy spread his hands, “I’m not judging her at all, Detective.  But no daughter, no son, no child has ever grown up without changing in their parent’s eyes.  Becoming something they didn’t expect, wandering off the path a little bit, or maybe a lot.”

“As a parent you love your children anyway. I’ve had mothers in this very room sob over their gangbanger son as we put him away for years over some driveby shooting.”

“Exactly,” said Cassidy. “You love them anyway, and you forgive their faults, but what if you found your daughter fell in with the wrong crowd?  That she was being abused, used in some horrible way, would you let it happen?”

“My daughter wouldn’t end up with punks like that. I’ve raised her better.”

“What if it wasn’t her own choice?  Someone forced it on her?  Wouldn’t you rescue her?”

“Of course.”

“That’s what I did here. My art… this was not what it was for, what I intended, what it wanted.”

“That isn’t the same at all. Your art wasn’t a living, breathing person.”

“It was my child.  Parent to child, artist to art. My art could not speak for itself and it was being abused.”

“So you destroyed it?”

Cassidy sat back.  “I saved it.”

The Detective slid the manila folder back in front of Cassidy.  “And the rest of what went along with it didn’t matter?”

Cassidy shrugged.  “You and I are both artists, just working in different mediums, Detective.  Where would you stop? What would be too much for you?”

The Detective shook his head.  “That’s not the same thing at all.  You don’t really expect me to buy that, do you?”

“I suppose not,” said Cassidy.  He put his fingers on the folder and flicked it across the table to the Detective.  “After all, I guess being misunderstood is part of the profession.”

About Jeff Moriarty

A dabbler in many arts, from Ignite Phoenix to Improv, and from Information Security to Screenwriting. Jeff loves creating new things, and tries his hand at many forms of writing from screenplays to prose. He pontificates on his personal blog, and helps authors get their works online.