This short story was published by AHOY Comics in Edgar Allan Poe's Snifter Of Death # 6 earlier this year. It was written in 2019, and it was my second fiction sale.
THE PICTURE OF AMONTILLADO
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| Illustration by Elliott Mattice |
by Carl Cafarelli
Dorian Gray--not the famous one--fancied himself a painter. Dorian favored still lifes; people made him nervous, and nude models made him really, really nervous. He knew his talent was modest, but he enjoyed the process, and held no illusion of his studies of fruit bowls and sunsets ever gracing the walls of a gallery.
On his birthday, Dorian set up his canvas and assembled his materials, intent on creating his latest ordinarius opus, pleasing himself if no one else. As he scanned his apartment for inspiration, he was interrupted by the doorbell: a delivery person--cute, female--bringing a birthday gift from Dorian's old college bud, Wild Edgar Poe. Not the famous one. Good ol' Edgar! It was a bottle (not a cask) of amontillado, celebrating Edgar and Dorian's shared past as drunken English majors. Dorian signed for the gift, tipped the delivery person an appropriate amount, and tried not to blush when she smiled at him.
Good ol' Edgar. Dorian set the still-sealed bottle on a counter, fixed it in his gaze, and began to paint a picture of amontillado.
Although Dorian lacked flair, he was dedicated and painstaking. He completed his painting and stood back to admire his work. It was pedestrian, sure, but it was his. And he'd earned a drink. Time to break the seal on that cask...bottle. Good ol' Edgar!
Dorian sipped his sherry, savored its sweet taste. He helped himself to another, but, feeling a need for moderation, did not finish it. He corked the amontillado and turned to wash his glass. His painting caught his eye.
His painting. His painting of a bottle of amontillado. His painting which now showed an open bottle and a half-empty glass. Buzzed, Dorian nearly swore What the actual...? before catching himself, embarrassed by the language he almost used. He looked at the glass from which he'd sipped his amontillado, and at the bottle from which he'd poured it. His glass was clean. The bottle was still sealed.
Feeling an uncharacteristic sense of adventure, Dorian said Okeydokey. He opened the wine again, poured himself a glass again, and drank it down again. He poured a second glass, and drained that one as well. A third. A fourth. A...hic. Four was enough for now, on top of the previous one and a half. Dorian looked at the painting: a much-depleted bottle, five empty glasses, plus another half-empty. He looked at his clean glass, and the still-sealed bottle of amontillado. Hic.
Dorian uncorked the bottle, spilled it accidentally. The painting now showed a prone, empty bottle, a wet and sticky carpet beneath it. The real bottle remained sealed.
The doorbell rang. Dorian stumbled to answer it, knocking into the bottle, causing it to fall, crash, and break. The painting showed the bottle's messy demise. Dorian placed the magically intact bottle on a shelf. Enough was enough with the damned amontillado already. He opened his door and the delivery woman stepped inside.
"Hi!," she said. "Your friend Edgar hired me? He said you might be ready to paint a live model?"
Dorian chuckled, feeling looser than he'd ever felt before. Good ol' Edgar. Yeah, thanks, come on in and get situated. Um--is it okay if you keep your clothes on? He was still modest. But he was coming out of his shell. Good ol'...hic! Whatsisname. Edgar. Yeah, that guy. Good ol' Edgar. Hic....
On his birthday, Dorian set up his canvas and assembled his materials, intent on creating his latest ordinarius opus, pleasing himself if no one else. As he scanned his apartment for inspiration, he was interrupted by the doorbell: a delivery person--cute, female--bringing a birthday gift from Dorian's old college bud, Wild Edgar Poe. Not the famous one. Good ol' Edgar! It was a bottle (not a cask) of amontillado, celebrating Edgar and Dorian's shared past as drunken English majors. Dorian signed for the gift, tipped the delivery person an appropriate amount, and tried not to blush when she smiled at him.
Good ol' Edgar. Dorian set the still-sealed bottle on a counter, fixed it in his gaze, and began to paint a picture of amontillado.
Although Dorian lacked flair, he was dedicated and painstaking. He completed his painting and stood back to admire his work. It was pedestrian, sure, but it was his. And he'd earned a drink. Time to break the seal on that cask...bottle. Good ol' Edgar!
Dorian sipped his sherry, savored its sweet taste. He helped himself to another, but, feeling a need for moderation, did not finish it. He corked the amontillado and turned to wash his glass. His painting caught his eye.
His painting. His painting of a bottle of amontillado. His painting which now showed an open bottle and a half-empty glass. Buzzed, Dorian nearly swore What the actual...? before catching himself, embarrassed by the language he almost used. He looked at the glass from which he'd sipped his amontillado, and at the bottle from which he'd poured it. His glass was clean. The bottle was still sealed.
Feeling an uncharacteristic sense of adventure, Dorian said Okeydokey. He opened the wine again, poured himself a glass again, and drank it down again. He poured a second glass, and drained that one as well. A third. A fourth. A...hic. Four was enough for now, on top of the previous one and a half. Dorian looked at the painting: a much-depleted bottle, five empty glasses, plus another half-empty. He looked at his clean glass, and the still-sealed bottle of amontillado. Hic.
Dorian uncorked the bottle, spilled it accidentally. The painting now showed a prone, empty bottle, a wet and sticky carpet beneath it. The real bottle remained sealed.
The doorbell rang. Dorian stumbled to answer it, knocking into the bottle, causing it to fall, crash, and break. The painting showed the bottle's messy demise. Dorian placed the magically intact bottle on a shelf. Enough was enough with the damned amontillado already. He opened his door and the delivery woman stepped inside.
"Hi!," she said. "Your friend Edgar hired me? He said you might be ready to paint a live model?"
Dorian chuckled, feeling looser than he'd ever felt before. Good ol' Edgar. Yeah, thanks, come on in and get situated. Um--is it okay if you keep your clothes on? He was still modest. But he was coming out of his shell. Good ol'...hic! Whatsisname. Edgar. Yeah, that guy. Good ol' Edgar. Hic....
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