Rotten Art

I just bought the oldest house on the block.

Unlocking the basement door, I couldn’t believe what I’d discovered.

Old rotted out artwork.

I had to find over three hundred pieces.

I found old melted crayons, chemically bonded to a dry section of an oil painting.

I tripped on a piece of abstract work dimly lit by some light flowing through a foggy spiderwebbed window.

In the old musty basement bathroom I found an old painting of a Buddhist monk stuck in what looked like a bucket of old tar that tipped over and fell on the painting.

This was no art museum. Time had taken old master pieces and had its way. 

This place had been forgotten and every artist had been unknown.

On my way out, I found a note, it read:

“If you found these pieces of work, then fate brought you here. When you leave this basement, we artist who provided you with the smell of old rotten art would prefer to be unknown. Don’t put our art in some fancy museum in your rundown hometown for display. Leave our work here to rot.”

Rotten Art