> ## Content Index > Fetch the complete content index at: https://www.writingintheshadows.com/llms.txt > Use this file to discover other available public pages before exploring further. # Pablo Picasso was an Asshole. - URL: https://www.writingintheshadows.com/pablo-picasso-was-an-asshole/ - Published: 2024-11-22T00:00:00.000Z - Updated: 2026-09-20T15:10:13.000Z - Author: Ken Preston - Tags: Short Stories Mother hefted the sledgehammer over her shoulder, and Dora said, ‘Every act of creation is first an act of destruction.’ Mother swung the sledgehammer and smashed it against the mausoleum door. Dora sat cross legged on a tombstone, the kit bag between her legs. Mother had told her, *that’s your job, look after the bag, that’s all you have to do*. Sheltered from the downpour beneath an ancient oak, Dora watched Mother. Rainwater poured down Mother’s face and off her chin. Long, grey hair plastered against her skull. She lifted the sledgehammer again and, with a grunt, slammed it against the door once more. The mausoleum door now had two shallow indentations in it. In the light of Dora’s torch, the door’s painted decorations glowed softly, bringing the dancing female forms to life. *That man never had an original bone in his body*, Father’s dealer had muttered at the funeral, just loud enough that Dora and Mother could hear him. *But he had self-belief in spades.* Dora said, *Good artists copy, great artists steal.* A droplet of rainwater hit Dora on her head, and ran down her scalp and her neck. Back at Ravensmoor she would be in bed, covers pulled up to her chin, waiting for the soft click of the lock, the scrape of the door against the threadbare carpet tiles. The thump of the sledgehammer against the mausoleum door, the sound dead beneath the downpour. Mother was now concentrating her attacks on the door’s lock. What would Frank do when he found Dora’s bed empty? Wipe a trembling hand across his mouth and then turn and shuffle back to his own room, no doubt. He would keep quiet. Act surprised in the morning with all the rest of them. But then Dora wondered if it was Frank’s turn tonight. Or was it one of the others? A parade of men through her room and her bed and her body. Who would they turn on next when they realised Dora had gone? The soft tapping on her window, muffled calls through the glass, had carried Dora outside, through the asylum grounds beneath the heavy cloud cover, with Mother urging her on — *This way, quickly now, hurry!* Mother always had a scheme brewing. At least the kit bag was lighter than the sledgehammer. But then Mother was always the strong one. From the ground beside the tombstone, a muffled grunt. Or was it a word? Was Paulo trying to say something? Dora found it difficult to understand Paulo with the rag tied over his mouth. *We can’t risk him screaming his head off*, Mother had said. *You know what he’s like.* But who on earth would hear him now, in the darkest hours of the night? Especially underneath the pounding of the rain against the ground. Dora leaned across the tombstone and risked a look at him. When Paulo saw her head appear, his eyes grew large and he squirmed and kicked and muffle-yelled from behind his gag. Dora put a finger to her lips. With his arms tied behind his back and his ankles bound together, Paulo wasn’t going anywhere, but Mother wouldn’t like it if he got excited. This time, when Mother swung the sledgehammer, the clank of metal breaking apart cut through the sound of the rain hitting the ground. Dora stood up. Held the bag close. Mother’s chest heaved as she dropped the sledgehammer. The mausoleum’s lock lay mangled on the ground. The door had inched open, a sliver of darkness visible in the gap. An opening into possibilities. Mother, always finding doors to open. New possibilities to play with. Always searching for answers. Meditation and Yoga had come first. Then falling over in the Holy Spirit, and roaring like a lion in the Church. But Mother never did like being told what to do, so that didn’t last long. Paganism next, followed by Witchcraft. This was all later, of course. After Mother ran away, and Dora was committed. Rivulets of rainwater ran down Mother’s face, illuminated by the lamp on the ground next to her. With the shadows thrown upward on her features, she was a demon haunting the cemetery. A ghoul, digging for food. Mother pointed at Paulo. ‘Let’s get him inside.’ That was Mother, always with a plan. Paulo shook his head, muzzle-shouting and bugging his eyes at Dora. Between them they managed to drag him inside. The rain thrummed against the roof. Mother closed the door, hiding the soft glow of the lamplight from view. Mother knew, you could never be too careful. That’s what Doctor Gilles said at the asylum. *You can never be too careful.* And Father had nodded. Bruised nipples, teeth marks in flesh, a torn perineum, all of these things would be hidden here. And Father could visit anytime he wanted. Even if he had to share Dora with the inmates. Mother leaned over her son. ‘Scream all you want, Paulo.’ She pulled the gag off. Paulo took a deep breath and screwed up his face. Like he’d had constipation for a month, and now was the moment he’d been dreading. ‘What the hell?’ Paulo yelled with an explosive breath. ‘What the actual fucking hell?’ Mother took a hand-rolled cigarette, flakes of tobacco sticking out of the ends, and placed it between her lips. The flare of the match lit up her face like she was a hackneyed, sinister magician on the vaudeville circuit. Paulo squeezed his eyes shut and tears squirted out from between the lids. ‘Ow, ow! My head hurts! What the hell did you do to me?’ Mother winked at Dora. *Wait for it.* Right on cue, Paulo groaned. ‘Oh God, she spiked my drinks, didn’t she? You set me up with that bitch, I knew she was too easy.’ ‘Luna always gets her man.’ Mother puffed on her cigarette. Mother loved her little schemes. Paulo squirted more tears. ‘She told me her name was Sienna. Said she was a marketing consultant with a side gig as a sex therapist.’ His eyes popped open. ‘Tell me none of your crazy friends date raped me.’ Mother blew a cloud of cigarette smoke. ‘Don’t worry, Paulo, your back passage hasn’t been violated.’ ‘Don’t call me that! You know I hate that name.’ He glanced at Dora. ‘Hey, Dora, you want to untie me? You don’t have to do what Mother tells you, not all the time.’ Dora, sitting cross-legged on the tomb, said, ‘To arrive at abstraction, it is always necessary to begin with a concrete reality.’ Mother pulled a crowbar out of the kit bag. Paulo strained against his bindings. Dora climbed off the tomb, and Mother wedged the end of the crowbar under the seal and leaned her weight on it. The tomb’s lid groaned and shifted. The rain hammered against the mausoleum roof. ‘No-no-no-no-no.’ Paulo was shaking his head, his wet hair slapping against his face. ‘Are you two fucking bat-shit crazy?’ The tomb’s lid rumbled as it shifted. The light from the torch flickered as the lid hit the floor and cracked in half. ‘Hey, Dora, listen to me, okay? This is all Mother, I know it is, I know what she’s like, I know she kidnapped you out of the hospital and she brought you here and none of this is your idea and it’s not your fault, listen to me, okay, just listen to me, you’ve gotta untie me, okay? Okay? Dora? Untie me. Do it now!’ Mother tilted her head back and blew smoke rings at the mausoleum ceiling. Mother took every opportunity to strike a pose. Mother pulled a steak knife out of the kit bag. Dora said, ‘Art is the elimination of the unnecessary.’ ‘No, no wait, just wait one fucking minute.’ Paulo’s eyes bugged, Loony Tunes style. ‘You’ve done it, okay? I’m scared so bad I’m about to crap my pants, all right? That’s it, you’re done. Put the knife away and untie me and let’s get the hell out of here.’ Dora and Mother lifted Paulo up and dragged him to the tomb, where they lay him face down on the ground. Paulo squirmed and kicked. Mother sat on him. Dora took the small brass bowl from the kit bag. ‘Here, hold it just here,’ Mother said, and sliced the steak knife across Paulo’s palm. Paulo screamed and blood dribbled into the bowl. Paulo sobbed, and Mother took the bowl from Dora. Mother and daughter peered into the tomb. Mother had talked rapidly in the car, on the way to collect Paulo from Luna, the rain slooshing down the windscreen as the wipers struggled to keep up. Luna was the one introduced Mother to the coven. The hazing was the first part of the initiation ritual. Contemplate every terrible thing that might happen to you. Imagine the worst you might have to endure through the initiation into witchcraft. After that, everyone got naked and ran through woodland under a new moon. Except Mother, who had to wear a blindfold, hands bound behind her back, and made to stumble with the coven, hands on her, guiding her. At midnight she was buried in fresh dug soil. Later she was hauled from the ground a new being, infused with the elemental powers of magick. *Here’s what we’re going to do*, Mother had said, cigarette smoke filling the car until she cranked down the window and let in the rain. Her idea of revenge was a simple one. Bring Father back from the dead so that she could kill him again. Dying in a car crash was too good for him. Mother needed the satisfaction of killing him herself. Father in his tomb. Hair still attached to his rotting scalp. Lips pulled back from elongated teeth, grinning, grinning. Mother held out the brass bowl and tipped it. Dark blood dribbled over Father’s skull, filling the empty eye sockets until they turned into scarlet pools. Two deep red eyes, staring into Hell. Sweeping her arm in a wide, arcing motion, Mother sprinkled fresh dirt over her husband’s remains. ‘For thou who sleeps in earth and clay …’ More soil, falling from her hand like black snow. ‘… heed this call, rise up and obey …’ Flakes of paint, scraped from a self-portrait. ‘… trek on through the mortal door …’ Burnt umber, ochre, yellows and reds. ‘… assemble flesh and live once more.’ The rain thrummed against the mausoleum roof. Torchlight flickered. The cubist figures danced on the walls. Dora said, ‘For me, there are only two kinds of women; goddesses and doormats.’ Something stirred within the open tomb. Curled up in a dark corner, Paulo cradled his injured hand, and cried. Dora said, ‘Women are machines for suffering.’ Mother threw her head back and cackled. Dora said, ‘Every time I change wives I should burn the last one.’ A rotting hand rose out of the tomb. Dora said, ‘That way I’d be rid of them. They wouldn’t be around to complicate my existence.’ The brass bowl fell from Mother’s nerveless fingers as she took a step back. Dora said, ‘Maybe, that would bring back my youth, too.’ Fingers of pale bone scraped the walls of its prison. Dora turned to Mother, and said, ‘You kill the woman and you wipe out the past she represents.’ And in the flickering torchlight, something with deep red eyes grinned as it hauled itself out of its tomb.