#whackijacki

A secret my muse is keeping from yours.

whackijacki 

Like everyone else who grew up with technology, Zachary had been dragged into the world of social media. He’d made a Facebook, a Tumblr, and a bunch of others as well. But the only one he enjoyed was Instagram. It wasn’t that he cared to use these things to keep in touch with friends, most of the friends, followers, or whatever that he did have were complete strangers, or business acquaintances, but at least he could use Instagram for his art. Once in a while he also used it to follow people around town, and other artists too, but mostly it was a place to put his art until people actually went out to see it. It was a start for him.

Zachary checked his Instagram once in a while, sometimes out of actual curiosity, but more often than not it was just to do something with his hands. That day, however, a particularly strange thing had happened. Graffiti he’d sprayed up on a wall, a studio somewhere in town, was the background of a photo of some girl that one of his acquaintances followed. For a long while it had him standing there, dumbfounded. Art like that, the kind that was technically vandalism, that he painted when someone pissed him off and he needed to get revenge, was painted over. Usually in a matter of days. Hell, most of his art was. This was the first time he’d seen a piece still standing. So he knew what he had to do, he had to go see it.

The building was only a few blocks away from where he had been waiting in line at the bank, something he could attend to later. It was locked, of course, but Zachary knew how to get around that. How else could he have gotten in to vandalize in the first place? It was an easy lock to pick, and it was only a matter of minutes before he was in the studio, looking up at the eerie mural of a very mangled dancer in awe. Zachary reached out, tracing his hand over it, but other than that he didn’t move, eyes darting all over the mural as he tried to understand.

“How are you here?”