WordWhore

“I can’t believe it’s finally happening,” Spencer looks forlorn but somewhat relieved. “The Spatulate Center has been in my wife’s family for years. Passing through these doors every other Monday… years and years flew by with nary a whimper, my dearest Margaret will miss her studio and her… uh… friends.” He glances at a small frame containing an even smaller photo, “This Flannagan Wilder… a kind person?”
Bernja Dean smiles. “Yes, of course. Oh, Spencer, it is time to let it go. Margaret is in no condition to handle her responsibilities. She needs to be home with Mother baking scones and rejoicing in the aftermath of that which came before it. And you.. dear cousin, you need time to grieve. Losing an entire collection, witnessing a fire of such magnitude, your nerves must be shattered, your window panes split with tiny hairline fractures, and your hammertoe must be goutlike. I know I speak gibberish but such is the Spatulate Center way. As you well know, your grandfather founded this amazing society to foster artistic expression in a natural compassionate way. With a glue gun and some spackling.”

“Who is this year’s visiting artist?” Spencer asks as he trims his fingernails and bites his cuticles.

“Flannagan Wilder. From Hillstone Rambling, the gallery near Sportlin. She’s been the lead dimensional heroine for over 12 years. We’ll have a series of her slides displayed here soon, followed by actual life-size pieces of her work. We’re looking for a mid-January completion.” She turns from the parapet and leaps across the skylight. “Until tomorrow, then…”

Spencer begins to weep. Dear Margaret slips up the narrow staircase and grabs his hand. “We will be fine, you know. The Spatulate Center will continue to carry out our grandfather’s wishes and instill his virtues upon mankind forever. Come… let’s have some peanut butter.”