The Starving Dreamer: Part 5 — The One Who Steals the Flame
A painter once filled with colour now trembles in grayscale.
In Part 5 of The Starving Dreamer, Zach hears the confession of Joe Vandelay—an artist whose gift was not lost but taken. A gallery that shifts like a maze. A painting that breathes. A shadow with a syringe. And a question that begins to echo across time:
What hunts the dreamers?
Something ancient. Something cold.
And it leaves its victims hollow.
This tale unfolds like smoke in the mind—layered, surreal, and stained with magenta mist.
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The next door is already creaking open…
Part V:
The young man turns his head rather furtively. As he does, his mop of curly brown hair bounces, and his shirt hangs out as he stands loose and casual, with the gaunt lines of his body slack—it all screams artist, and a starving one at that.
He bears a young, soft, and kind face, which wears a naïve expression that exudes a shyness—dichotomous to my loud and sometimes brash persona.
“Yeah, I’m Joe. What can I help you with?” he asks calmly.
“Joe, this is going to sound a little strange—well, completely strange—but I’ve come here urgently to ask you a few questions about your art. I saw one of your paintings in a café a few blocks away.”
“Right, okay. Yeah, I remember the piece. That was one of the last paintings I did and sold, in fact.” A flicker of pride glows briefly across his face.
“It’s a striking painting. Bold colour. Really lifts the vibe of the place. But I heard you’re not painting anymore?”
“That’s right. I’ve hit a wall. Now I’m here selling bookmarks and postcards with pictures of the Guggenheim. The pay’s alright. Plus, free admission to the exhibitions.”
“That creative wall… that’s actually why I wanted to talk to you.”
Joe shifts uncomfortably. Something in his posture tightens.
“I guess Simon at the café told you about the surreal thing I mentioned—the shadowy entity stealing my creativity.”
“He did. Said people probably think you’re nuts.”
“They do. Every time I try to explain it, folks pretend they’re cool with it—like I’m just being poetic. But I see it in their faces. They think I’ve lost it.”
“Well, tell me. I’m curious. I’ve hit a block myself. And maybe I’m the first person who won’t think you’re crazy.”
He lets out a soft laugh.
“Alright. Let me dump this rubbish, and we’ll go out back. This isn’t something I want to explain here.”
We slip out through a passage to a small yard cluttered with bins. I notice the sky’s fully darkened—dazzling stars, a radiant moon—and an autumn chill gnaws through my blazer.
Joe nods toward a wooden garden door. “This way. Quiet spot. I come here every night.”
“By the way,” he says, pausing, “what’s your name? You never said.”
“Zach Francis. I’m an artist and writer. Queens.”
“Well, through here’s the park.”
He leads me into a secret little green patch of Manhattan. Benches. Trees. A narrow stream. Victorian streetlamps line a path through the grass, glowing faintly.
We sit. He lights a Marlboro Red. Cowboy Killers. Offers one. I decline. The smoke dances like ghostly ribbons in the air.
“So, this thing—whatever it was—when did it begin? What were you doing when it showed up?”
Joe takes a long breath. Then:
“It started back in March,” Joe begins, eyes fixed on the dark, voice calm but loaded. “I’d just had a solo exhibition at Henley’s Gallery—75th Street. Good space. Great lighting. White walls so clean they practically hummed with judgment.”