Red 2 (a 400-word freaky flash fiction short story) by Oren Shafir

Part of my brain can see that Paul grows tired of my chatter, but another part of me knows that he must recognize the truth; Truth is rushing through me like blood through my veins and only some act of violence can stop it. I cannot stop talking.


“Painting is a faith that inspires us to disregard public opinion; It is like love, yes like love, and like love, it is eternal, the aspect may change but not the essence, don’t you see – the essence comes from the dream, and the dream is all around us – those who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only at night."

Then, I have a true insight.

"Paul, great things are done by a series of small things brought together.”

He turns away. I fear I have upset him,.but I must make sure he understands. This is too important. I want to slow down, but everything is happening as if from some other source. My hands are peeling an apple, skinning it in one go, perfectly, and I’ve never peeled  an apple like this before in my life. It’s as if they are someone else’s hands. I can see everything so vividly; everything has meaning: Every shade of red on the apple, the yellow light striking the table between us, the pristine whiteness of the tablecloth. And the words keep flowing out of my mouth.

“I know I am high-spirited; I know people find me strange or even think I am crazy, but they do not understand. You understand for you are like me; you are an artist. You know that sometimes what appears to be mistakes turn out to be love, to be true art. Sometimes if we go further, dig deeper, we can find the truth. Sometimes you have to see things with new eyes. If we work together, Paul, we can find new shades, new combinations, new colors."

I know that I am screaming now, but I cannot stop.

“Paul, there is no blue without yellow and orange, and there are hundreds of shades of orange, of blue, of red!”

Paul grabs the knife from my hand and lunges. It is almost a relief to stop talking for a moment. Then, he is holding the tip of my ear in his hands. It is dripping blood onto the tablecloth.

“Oh my God, Vincent," he says, I’m sorry.”

“But Paul,” I say, “Look at the tablecloth. That shade of red. Isn’t it beautiful?”