The Ironist

The Assignment: Create an observer of events outside her own direct experience, someone who knows more than she lets on, who jokes with us (the readers) but who also indirectly reveals a complex reading of events she is describing.  M.H. Abrams, in A Glossary of Literary Terms, says, "...in Greek comedy the character called the eiron was a dissembler, who characteristically spoke in understatement and deliberately pretended to be less intelligent than he was." This will be a little like unreliable narrator, but there is the crucial difference that the unreliable narrator doesn't know that he's unreliable.  The dissembler or ironist or trickster is a wiseass, a clown perhaps, a teller of tall tales. 500 words.

My Response:

They say he was the worst of criminals. A string of deaths followed in his wake. Like children following the fabled piper out of Hamlin, he attracted death. Revelled in it. Soaked in the blood of those slain, and craved more.

I suppose that could be true. I certainly know nothing of such events. I am a simple seamstress that works in a shop on butcher street. I answer to my boss; a cow of a lady that demands I work late every night without recompence if I have so much as a single seam crooked. What could I possibly know of a killer?

If I’d had a mother, she might have worried over my safety. But as she died while birthing me, I needn’t be burdened by the knowledge of another’s worry. I was alone in the world, and I preferred it that way.

This story, though, is not about me. No, it is of the killer.

DaVinci, he was called by many, though the police frowned upon the nickname. They thought it encouraged the killer. I am not certain that the people cared. A sense of fear has always given men motivation. Perhaps they enjoyed the uncertainty, the tantalizing thrill that ran down their spines with the thought that it may be them who would never return to their homes.

Regardless, that was his name. Because of what he did with the blood.

I have not seen paintings of the like in any museum upon this earth. Not that I have attended all that many museums. As I said, I am a simple seamstress. But I imagine that they could not compare.

The way the specks would tarnish the walls, dancing across each other. Each of them showing the slaughter under a new light. Only a true artist could have created the picture that each scene portrayed.

Nearly fifty deaths were attributed to DaVinci. I have always thought that the number must be much higher. That an artist such as himself could not simply stop. That there must be some out there that they never found.

The police, though, claim that he has ceased to kill. That we can walk from our homes, free of worry.

Life has dulled since then. It has been implied that something tragic must have befallen DaVinci. And yet, not a single word has been spoken of his fate. I do not know if even the police are aware of it.

Some say that he is dead. I am not so certain. I think that, perhaps, he simply tired of his work and is looking for new motivation. His own muse to once more create the art that he is so passionate about.

Of course, that is nothing more than a theory. One that I simply don’t have time to dwell on. I have seams that require sewing, and I do not relish the thought of staying late into the night once more.

As always, I would love to hear what you think of my response.  And, if you've come up with your own response, please feel free to post it here as well in the comments section below.

All exercises are taken from The 3 A.M. Epiphany by Brian Kiteley