By Jack Mint
EDITOR’S NOTE: The following is the first in a series of short stories written by local thespian Jack Mint. Mint submitted these stories for a 250-word writing contest. The writing contest is called NYC Midnight and hosts short-story and screenplay contests nationally where writers are tasked with writing and submitting a story in 24 hours. Others writers interested in participating in the contest can go to nycmidnight.com.
He points at the 200-foot-long wing and says there’s 100 nozzles for spraying paint.
The reporter’s face crinkles at this. Fumes worm into the roof of her mouth. Tongue pressed against the hard palate to keep out the taste of acrylic paint.
“So, with the two arms on this ship, you can douse a width of 400 feet?”
The man hooks his thumbs into silver coveralls. His tan skin crackles as he squints through the harsh light against the neon yellow landscape.
“I reckon.” He didn’t trust the clear-eyed girl. He spits to the side. The phlegm stands at a bubble on the harsh neon plate. The paint fumes are terrible and too much. But the man who makes his living on coloring the landscape says with new pride, “In one run, this can cover an entire square mile with new color.”
A ship flies overhead and sprays the mountain bright yellow.
The spit next to the painter doesn’t seep into the ground.
The paint fumes drop from the reporter’s head down into her chest like asbestos.
“What about all the plants and animals you spray?”
“Oh, they die. The weak ones anyways. But we are here to do a job. It’s simply the cost of painting this planet for advertising.”
“That seems like a flawed rationale.”
“Come on, ma’am. Everybody knows that 51% of life is advertising.”
“You don’t care about these plants and creatures dying from drowning in paint?”
“That 49% doesn’t count.”
