The Black Hole

I noticed a black painting in the window of this very old shop. It was totally black, with a frame which had received some gold painting a very long time ago. I came closer, and I saw a label underneath the painting, saying “the black hole”. Well, I thought, another simplistic expression of contemporary art.

- Are you interested, young man ? a voice asked.

I hadn’t heard the door opening. There stood an elderly woman, as old as the shop.

- How much is it ? I asked, almost as a reflex.

- Money, sighed the old woman. People only talk about money. Come in, young man, I’ll show you something.

I hate when someone calls me young man. I’m not a little boy any more. But I didn’t want to offend the woman. Once we were inside, she turned the black painting towards us, and she said:

- No money will be enough.

She took a bank note out of her pocket. Suddenly I noticed she was using only one arm; since the beginning she had been keeping her other hand hidden in the other pocket.

- Look, young man, she said with a mysterious voice.

She threw the bank note towards the painting, and the bank note was swallowed, as if it had fallen in a well.

- The black hole! the woman whispered.

I smiled.

- Nice trick! I said jokingly. How does it work?

I pointed my finger to the surface of the painting.

- Don’t! the woman shouted. Don’t get too close. It can swallow everything.

She took her hidden hand out of her pocket. But there was no hand at the end of her arm.

- You might lose it, she added.

I was beginning to feel dizzy. This wasn’t funny anymore. I walked to the door.

- Thank you, madam. Have a nice day.

- Wait, young man. Do you intend to leave without paying?

- I don’t want to buy it, madam. I’m sorry.

The old woman turned to the back of the shop.

- Max! she shouted.

A huge, fat guy appeared from behind a curtain. He was bald, with an ugly face.

- Yes, mummy? the monster said.

- This young man doesn’t want to pay for the black hole, the woman said.

- Shall I throw him in? he asked, with a sadistic smile.

That’s how I ended up with a black painting in an old golden frame in my living room. I have tried to throw several objects at it, they always have fallen on the floor. But somehow I never dared to put my hand close to its surface.

BIO: Antoine Alpaca is an award-winning French playwright, actor, and comedian based in Paris. Every morning, he enjoys writing an English short story as a creative warm-up. Learn more at https://acmstudio.net/gmwp/

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