Point of View

What an entirely new way of looking at things, thought the artist formerly known as School Janitor. He'd stumbled upon this new activity quite by accident. Leather boots that would usually remain on a back shelf adorned his bare feet. He'd tried them on while wearing socks, but they hadn't felt right. Also, he'd climbed up onto this contraption fully-clothed, at first. But even that hadn't seemed right.

Any of the students at his previous place of employment might have called the police, or the shrink, if they'd happened upon him now. All, that is, except for Wanda Crow. She'd been different, alright. For one thing, she never judged the artist. Not that it wasn't in her nature to do so, but that he was beyond judging, in her humble opinion. Everything he did was artistic; didn't anyone else understand that?

Moving the television had been a bitch. But it was now worth it, the artist mused. His muse, Ms. Crow, was outside for the moment. Although her entire time spent outside today would be educational, her location had been chosen specifically for a hot summer's day like today. The petite graduate student was also unclothed at the time. But then, that was part of the experiment, wasn't it?

Jordan the artist shifted his gaze slightly. Now, instead of looking out the window, his gaze was in the reflection from the mirror fifteen feet away from the window and angled to show the lovely Wanda in all her glory. To say that she was bound would not be completely incorrect. However, there was nothing sadistic in her bindings; that is to say, nothing one would find particularly unpleasant to view.

She, too, was enjoying the new viewpoint, thanks to the artist she worshipped. She'd serve him wine on all fours, if he so desired; she was that dedicated. If she strained her near-sighted eyes (Jordan refused to let her wear her corrective lenses) she could just make out his manly figure inside the house, out of the blazing gaze of the midmorning July sun. Even in northern Canada, the sun was beating down brutally.

But Wanda knew only that she needed to please the artist. Her body had become his canvas. He displayed her to the world on his various websites. She recalled lying next to him and having him paint her body with watercolors, in Barcelona. Or the night spent in a kayak on the Mississippi River, the victim of dozens of mosquito bites. She'd hated him then. But now...

The artist moved his legs slightly, creating yet another new angle for his camera lens. He shifted his gaze to the television monitor on the far right wall. She was still in focus. Jordan the man had to adjust himself again. Only this time, it was for his comfort alone. He checked his watch. Four more hours and he'd haul in his easel and unwrap her from it.

A light buzzer sounded on the artist's desk, signaling the end of his session. With a heavy sigh, he reached up to the bar near his feet. With an acrobat's practiced skill, he slipped each ankle from its holder. When the weighted boots hit the floor beneath him, he chuckled. Nothing like an upside-down gaze to change one's perspective. Of course, Ms. Crow didn't see eye to eye with him on this.

At six p.m., Wanda the canvas was unbound from her precarious easel perch. Despite the butter that had been liberally applied to her sensitive skin, there were obvious patches of overexposure to the harsh rays of the sun. Luckily, the artist held the cure in his right hand. It had already been tested and was perfectly harmless. All Wanda had to do was trust him.

When he injected the elixir into her bloodstream, she immediately felt the effects. The four-foot, eleven-inch tall woman eyed the artist's boots and asked where she could get a pair to fit her dainty feet. Jordan pointed to a cardboard box by the umbrella stand in the front hallway. Before she could get the second boot secured, the urge struck her.

Then she realized it was true. The only way to cure skin cancer was through the strangest mixture of all. No, it wasn't eye of newt and wing of bat. It was bat urine. Diluted to one tenth its original potency, strained through a bag of powdery cocaine and let set overnight, this was the panacea the artist had been searching for, all this time. So what if he preferred to look at the world upside-down?