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eBook Category: Horror/Dark Fantasy
eBook Description: Vita brevis, ars longa: Life is short, art long ... unless your art is graffiti. Satan is the King of the Murals, the best graffiti artist in San Francisco, and he knows it's a short life for both himself and his art. Then a vampire offers him immortality. A creator of blasphemous art, Satan believes he has nothing to lose and everything to gain. But he may lose much more than his immortal soul. He may lose everything he truly values.

eBook Publisher: Fictionwise.com, Published: Blood Muse, ed. Esther M. Friesner and Martin H. Greenberg, 1995
Fictionwise Release Date: August 2003

12 Reader Ratings: Great Good OK Poor

Available eBook Formats [MultiFormat - What's this?]: Adobe Acrobat (PDF) [71 KB], eReader (PDB) [30 KB], Palm Doc (PDB) [16 KB], Rocket/REB1100 (RB) [15 KB], Microsoft Reader (LIT) [66 KB] - PocketPC 1.0+ Compatible, Franklin eBookMan (FUB) [87 KB], hiebook (KML) [68 KB], Sony Reader (LRF) [44 KB], iSilo (PDB) [14 KB], Mobipocket (PRC) [17 KB], Kindle Compatible (MOBI) [45 KB], OEBFF Format (IMP) [26 KB]
Words: 4891
Reading time: 13-19 min.
Microsoft Reader (LIT) Format: Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud ENABLED
Adobe Acrobat (PDF) Format:  Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud DISABLED
All Other formats: Printing DISABLED, Read-aloud DISABLED

On the J Church tracks, a windowless wall fresh-painted white: a blank canvas calling me, man! And I'm burning, the Krylon cans streaming, the spray flowing out of my hands like my life--art flowing out of me like the blood out of Jesus's nail holes! The bright colors are climbing to the stars, a cross ascending from a mob. Christ twists on the cross; he is a muy guapo Anglo, a black-bearded beauty dying at the hands of brown and black and white dudes and chicas in jeans and T-shirts and hightops: a party crowd, celebrating a second Crucifixion.

I'm standing at a bend in the Muni Metro track, on a hill between high buildings, the city spread below me in a million white knifepoint lights on black, looking like the stars above, and reflected in San Francisco Bay; it's like I'm standing in the middle of the universe, empty except for me and the stars and the great white wall. At any moment, one of those ridiculous little Metro trains might come around the bend, the J Church, electric, silent, and smear me across my work like red paint flung out of a gallon can. In the morning, the owner of the building will cover my work with whitewash.

Nothing lasts, man. Nothing.