《The Queer Anthology》


 1.1 Rudolf

    Moon down, sun up.


    I don¡¯t know how long I¡¯ve been awake or how many cups of coffee I¡¯ve had. Light breaks through my curtains as I stare down at the clutter on my dorm room floor.


    Paintbrushes, papers, palettes.


    I take an awkward step to try and avoid the mess, but end up knocking over an open bottle of blue paint. The color dumps out onto the polished cement floors. I bend over, grabbing the bottle and closing the cap before setting it aside. I stare at the puddle of paint for a second, then dip my paintbrush in it and get back to work.


    I try to put feeling forward. I¡¯m not very good at knowing what it is I¡¯m feeling, though.


    I make my best art when I¡¯m alone. That¡¯s why I coop myself up in this cinder block jail cell all day. The building where most of my classes are held has a drawing porch on the third level that most of the painters use, but I can¡¯t get into it. I hate the feeling of people looking over my shoulder. It¡¯s claustrophobic.


    I dab my brush in the floor paint a few more times and fill the spots on my paper that seem lacking. This still isn¡¯t even close to being done.


    I should probably shower at some point today. My hands are a mess of colors and my clothes are no better.


    After a few more minutes, my stomach starts gurgling. I should probably eat. Coffee¡¯s so much less satisfying when it¡¯s the only thing in your stomach. I consider cleaning up my floor but end up deciding that ultimately, it doesn¡¯t matter.


    It¡¯s not like I¡¯m going to be having people over anyway.


    I put on a pair of slippers and shuffle down the hall, making my way to the stairwell and down a few flights. It¡¯s lucky that I live in a building with a caf¨¦ on the first floor. I don¡¯t have to go outside for anything other than class now that the city is buried in snow.


    Moving to the middle of the country to attend the Minneapolis Academy of Art was an uncomfortable change of pace from what I was used to. The first winter here was rough, but hey, at least I got to learn what it felt like to have my nostrils freeze!


    I reach the bottom of the staircase and do a loop, turning a corner and heading to the main part of the building. I usually avoid the student lounge because I feel like people are watching me. It¡¯s a large, open space that¡¯s stupidly bright thanks to a string of window-walls. On the opposite side, there¡¯s the entrance to the caf¨¦. I head inside and am met with full tables of students chattering loudly.


    This makes me sound lame as hell, but I haven¡¯t made any friends yet. I¡¯m in my second year and all I have are acquaintances. I feel like I should have gotten somewhere by now with all the people I¡¯ve met. None of them interest me, though, and I certainly don¡¯t seem to interest them.


    Maybe it¡¯s not them, though. Maybe it¡¯s me and my inability to hold a conversation.


    I find the back of the line and try not to take up too much space. I haven¡¯t figured out what I want yet, but that¡¯s okay because I know I¡¯ll be waiting here a long ass time. The guy who works the cash register on weekends is chatty and he asks a lot of questions. He must enjoy getting to know the students who go to school here, but usually, I just want my drink and to be left alone.


    I scan the pastry case to see if there¡¯s anything I can eat, which there isn¡¯t.


    How shocking.


    Instead, I end up picking out a couple of oranges that all do their best to roll off the counter as soon as I set them down in front of the cashier.


    ¡°Hey, Rudolf,¡± he greets me with a nod. ¡°Anything else I can get for ya?¡±


    ¡°Coffee,¡± I grumble.


    He doesn¡¯t bother asking if I want room for cream because he already knows I don¡¯t. It¡¯s surprising how much he manages to keep track of considering I can¡¯t even remember his name.


    I gather up my purchase while the barista fills a cup for me and sets it on the counter.


    Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators!


    ¡°So, what¡¯s up with you?¡± he asks while I fumble for my wallet.


    ¡°Um, nothing really¡­¡± I say with the hope that it will keep him from asking anything else.


    ¡°That¡¯s too bad,¡± he takes my card from me and rings it through. ¡°None of your classes speaking to ya?¡±


    ¡°Mmm,¡± I shrug.


    After returning my card, the barista passes the coffee off to me and tells me to have a good day in that peppy customer service voice he always uses. I mumble a curt thank you and then debate on whether or not I want to try and sit in here.


    I quickly decide that I don¡¯t. It¡¯s loud and crowded and I don¡¯t really want to be around this many people.


    So, I retrace my steps, heading up the stairs and back to my dorm room.


    Inside, I''m careful not to knock anything over this time. I kick off my slippers and sit in the center of my bed, peeling the oranges and sipping my drink. I should probably force myself to have some water, but right now I feel like I¡¯m crashing. I need caffeine if I want to stay awake for the rest of the day.


    I shouldn¡¯t have pulled an all-nighter, but I didn¡¯t feel like stopping. When inspiration strikes, it¡¯s good for me to go along with it. Sometimes it¡¯s hard to quit once I get started and if I force myself to, the inspiration is gone by the next time I pick up a paintbrush.


    When my coffee starts to get cold and I feel recharged, I toss the cup in the trash and turn back to my project from earlier. The paint on the floor is crusted over at this point, so I end up squeezing what¡¯s left of the bottle onto my palette.


    I pull out my flat brush and start applying the color broadly. I make long, sweeping strokes with the bristles. The colors go on smooth and deep.


    I hope I don¡¯t just fucking hate this when I¡¯m done. There¡¯s nothing worse than putting hours of work into something only to realize that it¡¯s not what you wanted it to be. I can¡¯t let myself think about that, though. I can¡¯t allow myself to stop. I want to finish this.


    If it¡¯s what I want it to be in the end, I¡¯ll let myself relax. I¡¯ll clean. I¡¯ll tidy up the tornado of art supplies that hit my room. I¡¯ll chip that blue stain off the floor. I¡¯ll drink a bottle of water. I¡¯ll eat something else. I¡¯ll take a shower. I¡¯ll go to bed tonight.


    This stupid thing isn¡¯t even for an assignment. I started painting because I felt like it and now I¡¯m sucked in. I drive my instructors insane because I can never get anything in on time and I¡¯m always making crap that doesn¡¯t fit the rubric. The rules aren¡¯t even that strict, but I still can¡¯t seem to make it happen. The professors aren¡¯t exactly understanding, either. Half of art school seems to be learning how to meet a deadline and I have no idea how to keep up. I get way too invested in my own ideas.


    I feel like college might not be the place for a person like me. I lack structure, but...I¡¯m still trying to push through. Ideally, I¡¯d like to make this work. I don¡¯t want to waste my money. It¡¯s not like I have the cash to spare.


    I still don¡¯t really have a plan, though. I should have come to school with some sort of goal in mind, but I didn¡¯t. I have no idea what I want to do with my degree. What can a person do with a degree in art? Not much, unless they get lucky, maybe.


    I keep painting and eventually switch to a round tip brush. Faintly outlining a figure in the center, I get a better idea of where this is going. The head blends seamlessly with the swirl of blue around the rest of the page.


    When I feel comfortable with the way it¡¯s turned out, I add a second figure over top whose neck meets another streak of color.


    Eventually, I¡¯m satisfied. As satisfied as I can be, at least.


    There¡¯s a chance I¡¯ll wake up tomorrow hating everything about what I created. But for now, I screw the caps back on the paint tubes and set them aside.


    I cross the room and grab a crumpled towel from the floor near my desk. It¡¯s still a little damp, because I never hung it up, but I don¡¯t really care. Slinging the towel over my shoulder, I gather up my palette and brushes and carry them down the hall to the bathroom.


    Nobody¡¯s in here, thank God. I grab my shower caddy from its cubby and take the stall in the back, setting my supplies down on the tile by the drain. I pull the curtain closed and get undressed, doing my best to catapult my clothing to the bench set up on the other side of the room. My shirt doesn¡¯t quite make it, but whatever. I¡¯ll pick it up later.


    I turn the water on and aim it at my palette. Everything turns a deep blue, including my feet. When it¡¯s up to me, I only paint with acrylic, so this will come off easily.


    When I¡¯m done, I grab a toothbrush out of my caddy along with a bottle of soap and pick my brushes up off the floor. I pour soap over the bristles and press the brushheads into the wall, scraping them with the toothbrush. I repeat the pattern three or four times and then toss the brushes aside, finally lathering myself up.


    Sometimes I forget how nice it feels to shower. It always seems like such a chore until you step under the water. I could get lost in it.


    I duck my head under the nozzle and rinse away the suds. I spend a few minutes just standing still. It¡¯s warm. I miss the heat. It¡¯s always so cold here, even inside. I hate it. There¡¯s nothing worse than the feeling of the wind blowing straight through each layer of your clothing.


    When the water turns lukewarm, I turn off the tap and dry off before gathering all of my shit in my arms. There¡¯s a bit of paint left on the shower walls, but I leave it.


    The cleaning staff must hate me. Hah.


    I should probably feel guiltier than I do, but I pay so much to go to this damn school.


    I pick my clothes up off the bench and throw them back on. My shirt is wet. Nasty.


    I head back to my room and drape my towel over my desk chair, setting my brushes down. Then I glance at the dried paint on the floor. Instead of trying to scrape it up, I use my foot to move a piece of scrap paper over a couple of inches and cover it.


    Good enough.


    I turn off the lights and immediately climb over the footboard of my bed. Navigating my room in the dark is impossible. I know I¡¯d end up stepping on something, so better not to risk it.


    I¡¯m tired. Really tired.


    I¡¯m only now realizing it.


    I flop down face first and then roll onto my side, closing my eyes. It¡¯s going to feel good to finally sleep.

 1.2 Rudolf

    [Image Caption: Rudolf Stonem painting in his abstract art class.]


    I wake up with a dry throat and bad taste in my mouth like something crawled in and died halfway through the night.


    Then I remember I never drank water. There¡¯s a faint headache spreading through the top of my skull.


    So, I spend Sunday trying to take care of my health. I eat breakfast. I clean that paint off my floor. I drag my ass downstairs to finally do my laundry. When my clothes are clean, I carry the basket back to my room and don¡¯t bother folding anything. I just jam shit into my drawers.


    I feel good, though. I feel productive.


    Monday rolls around and I feel mostly rejuvenated. I don¡¯t bother changing out of the clothes I slept in, but I do put on a sweater and my jacket. After layering up, I snatch my backpack and head to class.


    Today is a critique day and by the time I¡¯ve trudged across campus, the other students have already started putting their pieces on the wall for display. This course is focused on abstraction, so most of what¡¯s hanging up is just a barrage of color.


    Unsurprisingly, I hate most of it.


    I hate what I made too though. My canvas is sitting on the other side of the room on an easel that I haven¡¯t touched since last Wednesday. It isn¡¯t even done...but I guess I¡¯ll wing it?


    I cross the room and pick up my piece, giving it a once over. I wish I didn¡¯t have to do these assignments. I can¡¯t wait until I get into my upper level courses and we¡¯re allowed to do portfolios.


    Finally, the instructor appears. A few other students scramble to finish their setup, but just I give her a long, dull look as she eyes my painting with obvious disappointment.


    Ugh, she totally knows I didn¡¯t finish it.


    She doesn¡¯t say anything, though. She can¡¯t. She can¡¯t prove I didn¡¯t finish it. So, whatever. I don¡¯t even care. I just want this to be over with. It¡¯s awkward watching everyone tear into one another. It makes it hard to make friends. Everyone is such an asshole. Even if someone liked another person¡¯s art, they probably wouldn¡¯t say it. They¡¯d rip into it just for the sake of it.


    Things get so competitive. It¡¯s sickening. It¡¯s like no one can afford to be nice to one another.


    When all the art is up, everyone takes their seats. My work looks pathetically bland in comparison to some of the other more elaborate pieces. I look over them, trying to figure out how I feel.


    There¡¯s a few pieces I really like and even more I couldn¡¯t care less about. There¡¯s two that seem technically skilled but are just really lacking in substance, one of which I pause in front of and try to examine for a signature.


    There isn¡¯t one, which tells me this person probably hated the assignment but wants a good grade. It¡¯s not that surprising. These art movement specific classes are hard on some people. I got lucky because I actually really love abstraction.


    After everyone has had a chance to peruse the room, we sit in a semicircle facing the wall and I try to pair each painting with the artist.


    It¡¯s weird. I¡¯ve had classes with a few of these people before, but this assignment is so outside their areas of expertise. Their work is unidentifiable.


    ¡°All right,¡± the instructor says, indicating the painting I was examining earlier. ¡°Let¡¯s get started with this one. Whose work is this?¡±


    The girl seated a few chairs to my left raises her hand lazily, and it surprises me. Her name is Avery Barron. She¡¯s got this short, curly, brown hair and a don¡¯t fuck with me sort of vibe that makes her intimidating as hell. It doesn¡¯t help that she has a good four or five inches on me and always looks like she¡¯s ready to curb-stomp someone.


    What throws me off about this particular painting is that I saw her art hanging in the school gallery last spring and this is not what it looked like. This is just a combination of rough shapes and blending technique painted with a variety of oranges and browns.


    That explains the bitterness that¡¯s coming through.


    This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.


    Her usual style is so cool. She¡¯s always trying to capture this sense of vileness in animal nature and uses a lot of fine lines to depict toothy creatures ripping off their own fur or limbs. It¡¯s grotesque, but in a hypnotic sort of way.


    It¡¯s kind of a pity she has to take a class like this. I bet it feels like a massive waste of time.


    Lately, she¡¯s been on a prehistoric mammal kick. I follow her on Instagram, which I¡¯m a little embarrassed to admit because she has no idea who I even am. She¡¯s just stupidly good at posting about her work, which is something I¡¯m terrible at.


    I really ought to take a course on how to better market myself.


    ¡°Any first impressions?¡± the instructor asks, opening up the discussion to the rest of the students.


    ¡°I still see a figure in this,¡± some boy with a long ponytail comments. ¡°You could have tried harder to make it more organic. This is also just your usual color palette, so maybe branch out from that a little more.¡±


    ¡°Okay,¡± Avery responds flatly.


    She seems completely unfazed. She¡¯s a senior, so she¡¯s probably used to this type of criticism, but what this guy¡¯s saying doesn¡¯t seem right to me. If anything, the painting is a little lackluster. There¡¯s nothing technically wrong with it. The balance of the piece is good, it¡¯s just obvious that she didn¡¯t care. The professor seems to agree with me, because she points out that it¡¯s obvious Avery followed the rubric but didn¡¯t go above and beyond.


    A few more students make pretentious comments and then we move on. Eventually we work our way through the rest of the art on the wall. Most of it¡¯s...fine. One girl gets her piece really torn into and looks hurt, but she sucks those feelings right back in and sits through the rest of her turn.


    When we finally get to me, I¡¯m full of dread.


    ¡°This is your piece, right, Rudolf?¡± my professor makes eye-contact with me.


    ¡°Yes,¡± I say awkwardly.


    She seems annoyed. She probably knows I¡¯m better than this. I know I¡¯m better than this.


    ¡°Okay, what do people think?¡± she asks.


    Everyone stays quiet for a moment, like they¡¯re trying to figure out what to say. Avery rests her chin on her hand and looks unimpressed.


    ¡°It¡¯s very subtle,¡± a girl sitting across from me finally says, ¡°but the negative space you have going on here is really expressive.¡±


    I have to hold back a laugh.


    How nice of her, but that blank space is literally only there because the painting¡¯s not finished.


    ¡°I agree,¡± a second person chimes in. ¡°The range of colors you used is also really tasteful.¡±


    Oh my god, seriously?


    Well, that¡¯s flattering, I guess. I do like this style. Maybe I¡¯m better at it than I thought.


    ¡°Thanks,¡± I decide to respond. ¡°That¡¯s¡­That¡¯s what I was going for.¡±


    The professor gives me a lame look and I smile weakly.


    She¡¯s totally going to make me finish this later, regardless of what my classmates think.


    When we¡¯re finally done, I pull my painting off the wall and return it to my easel. I stare at it for a few minutes while the other students pack up and leave, ignoring my professor as she approaches me from behind.


    ¡°Rudolf¡­¡± she starts exasperatedly.


    ¡°I know,¡± I say before she even has the chance to finish speaking. ¡°Can I get it to you next week?¡±


    ¡°You have until Wednesday. I won¡¯t take it after then.¡±


    ¡°All right, sorry,¡± I mumble, trying to sound confident that I can have it done by then. ¡°I¡¯ll bring it to your office.¡±


    ¡°Good,¡± she nods, and with that she walks away.


    Ugh.


    I gather my things together and follow the remaining students out of the classroom. Sucks that the professor caught onto me. I can¡¯t believe no one else figured out my painting was incomplete. That¡¯s so funny.


    As I walk down the hallway, I round a corner and immediately bump into a sturdy body. Before I can stumble backwards, two hands grab me firmly by the shoulders, steadying me and then letting go.


    I look up and see it¡¯s Avery.


    ¡°Careful,¡± she warns, and her voice sounds flat and hard, the same way it sounded in class.


    Maybe she just always sounds this way?


    ¡°Sorry,¡± I apologize quickly.


    She smirks, tilting her head to the side like she''s analyzing me. It makes me feel kind of shy, but I don¡¯t say that. I don¡¯t say anything. I just wait for her to respond.


    ¡°Rudolf, right?¡± she finally says, still looking entertained. ¡°So, did ya get caught? Did the professor know your piece wasn¡¯t done?¡±


    ¡°Oh, uh¡­yeah,¡± I pause, unsure of how to respond.


    This is so humiliating.


    ¡°Hah,¡± she snorts, ¡°I could tell by your face. You looked fucking mortified when we got to you.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m going to finish it this week,¡± I justify poorly. God, Avery probably thinks I¡¯m a total jack-off for not being able to get my shit turned in on time. She didn¡¯t like the project either and was still able to pull something together.


    She continues to tower over me and presses her tongue into the back of her lip, pushing out the post of her lip piercing.


    ¡°Yeah, professors won¡¯t fall for that crap,¡± she tells me with a shake of her head. ¡°They¡¯ve pulled out all the stops themselves, so they know exactly what bullshitting looks like.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, I know,¡± I murmur. ¡°Thanks. I was just distracted this week.¡±


    It¡¯s such a poor excuse, but it¡¯s the only one I have. I just didn¡¯t want to do it. I felt like doing other things instead.


    Do I regret it? Not really, if I¡¯m being honest.


    ¡°Yeah?¡± Avery laughs. ¡°Well, better try and find some time to finish your painting. Now run along!¡±


    With that, she waves her hand at me in a sweeping motion, telling me to leave. I don¡¯t bother responding. Instead, I do just as she says. I run along. I turn around and walk awkwardly down the hallway, feeling like a child who¡¯s just been scolded.


    This is the worst. I feel like such an idiot. It was bad enough for our professor to call me out, but the last thing I needed was to hear it from a classmate, especially one I look up to.


    It¡¯s really my fault. I should have finished.


    I wonder if this feeling will ever go away. This bad feeling that my art isn¡¯t good or that I¡¯m not good or that this is all just a waste of time. I want to believe that I¡¯ll adjust and be able to handle criticism the way Avery did, but something tells me that she never really cared in the first place.


    [Image Caption: Avery Barron stopping Rudolf outside of class.]