Today's #flashfiction Ghost Of The Gallery

“Color inside the lines.”

Jackson Pollock* #quote

Remember, when you see a falling star catch it so it doesn't get hurt. Anyway onto the flash fiction!

Ghost Of The Gallery

           Underpaid, overpaid, just right. Fake. Fake. I appraised each piece of the gallery with a simple glance. I'd been haunting the gallery for one hundred years and seen enough pieces sell to figure out buying habits of people to give a true appraisal for each work of art. There always existed the rule that something really is worth only what someone is willing to pay for it, but I've seen enough to know what most people will pour their money out for. It helps when an auction house took residence inside the art gallery.

          I couldn't see myself in any mirror but by looking down I saw body existed as a pitiful, thin, fog. My mind sometimes felt the same. I tried to retain the social aspect of being a person by I even pretending to part of conversations with the living. I've fooled myself enough it works to some degree. I've always wondered what kind of unfinished business I could have in this art gallery. After one hundred years what could I have not seen?

         I saw the manager of the auction house holding a painting, talking to the owner of the gallery.

         “What's that?” The owner asked.

         The auction house manager replied, “Some lost inventory apparently. It was wrapped up good, but mislabeled so it was never pulled out to be auctioned. I really have no idea how long its been there. I wanted to ask you before opening it.”

         The owner replied, “Well, if it isn't labeled right then I guess that's the only thing we can do.”

They unwrapped the painting. I looked at the painting. The artist painted it with great skill. A generic landscape though. Unless it's a well known name I don't think it'll be very valuable besides its age. Whatever that was.

        The auction house manager looked at the name, “I'll be damned, this was made by Richter Uwelon”

         “Richter Uwelon? I didn't think the founder of this gallery painted, I thought just appraised art. Didn't know he painted so well. Or wanted to sell it.” The owner rubbed his chin in thought.

The auction house manager then said, “So I guess you're going to give it his family or put this in the lobby as something made by the founder?”

        “No, he doesn't have any living descendants. If the painting was there in inventory to be auctioned that's what he wanted. The money can go to one of the twenty charities Richter started all those years ago.”

        Richter Uwelon. That was my name. I hadn't thought about my name in one hundred years. You didn't need a name when you're a ghost. And now a strange happy feeling filled my gut. Or whatever form of gut my ghostly body possessed. I knew now someone else would know of my art, and now I began to move on.