The Screever
by Tom Allen
Monday, June 13
The Screever is a stranger to us all. No one in Laurel had set eyes on the old man till he appeared this morning outside Silas Finch’s house, drawing marvels with chalk on the pavement. Gnarled fingers danced as he sketched and filled, and the dust flew off like mist into the gathering crowd. I’d post pictures but, unaccountably, none have turned out, so this blog will have to suffice.
His work portrayed Finch as King Midas, feasting alone in a lavish hall. At the investor’s touch, a ripple of gold fanned out, half the sumptuous meal now gleaming. With his other hand, he drained a goblet of molten wine, oblivious to the gaunt, angry peasant looking in the window.
The sidewalk artist had captured the face of our town’s reclusive tycoon with such accuracy that I felt sure they must be acquainted. I inquired, but the Screever refused to say anything, even after I promised him the front page of the Laurel Weekly. He just shook his wrinkled head and continued to draw like a man possessed.
Abruptly, he finished and packed his colors in a weather-beaten satchel. The crowd milled around him, gawking and chuckling over each detail.
Suddenly, Silas himself pushed through the group and took a long look at the portrait, cheeks growing redder and knuckles whiter by the second. He swore at the Screever, who simply tipped his Panama hat and departed. Then Silas turned and yelled at the crowd to disperse, and he called for his groundskeeper to bring out a hose. We left before he decided to turn it on us.
Tuesday, June 14
Word of the overnight stock collapse that ruined Finch only burnished interest in the Screever when folks discovered him outside Le Friand in midmorning, hard at work on a depiction of the fanciest restaurant in town. Gordon Ames, the owner and head chef, stood in a kitchen full of rotting food, lowering a Disneyfied rat into a boiling stew while a harried waiter rushed by in the background, arms overburdened with plates of glop.
Now, portions at Le Friand are generous and cheap, and the chef is always ready with a wolfish grin, which the Screever had rendered spot on. I asked the old man if he had a bone to pick, so to speak, with the management. In return I received only a piercing glare from milky, unblinking eyes.
Shortly before eleven, as the artist was adding his finishing touches, Gordon pulled up in his Lexus. He examined the caricature for a few moments and the Screever for another few, then forced a smile and walked inside. Minutes later he returned with a pot of soapy water and doused the sidewalk with it. The old man shook his head at the smearing colors, shouldered his satchel, and disappeared into the muttering crowd.
An outbreak of food poisoning this evening put seven people in the hospital, including the chef. Someone jokingly dubbed it the Screever’s Curse.
Friday, June 17
What began as a wisecrack has grown to a conviction. First, the Screever accused Marie Vionnet of selling counterfeits at her boutique, and a fire destroyed her warehouse. The next day, he showed our star linebacker injecting steroids and the poor kid suffered a heart attack.
This morning, a fractious crowd gathered outside St. Agnes’s to behold his latest creation. It verged on blasphemy. Reverend Michael was posed with his hand on the head of Ella, the oldest of the Lambert kids. He looked like Jesus blessing a child but, on closer inspection, one saw he was forcing her to give him fellatio. Even if photographs of the Screever’s work did resolve, I’d never post such a picture.
One man grabbed the artist by his sweat-stained collar and threatened to throttle him. Another tried to snatch away his satchel, but the artist held on to it with surprising tenacity. Some folks, though, defended him and castigated the pastor. The crowd ended up chasing the Screever off, while an onlooker scuffed away enough chalk to make the girl’s face unrecognizable. That, sadly, was too late.
Saturday, June 18
News of Ella’s attempted overdose so inflamed opinion that one mob showed up at the sheriff’s office this morning to demand the Screever’s arrest, and another to protect him and his revelations. I half-expected a riot. Instead, we all discovered his latest: a portrait of Sheriff Kane asleep at his desk, pockets overflowing with cash, while his cousin packed up a briefcase full of meth.
I have been pondering all week: mudslinger or straight-shooter, the old man’s power comes from the secrets we conceal. Erasure only leads to disaster. So, when the deputies brought out a power washer, I tried to stop them from obliterating the painting. They shoved me aside.
I stumbled in the street, almost slipped on a stick of chalk that the Screever had left. When I picked it up, I felt an uncanny prickling, an urge to redraw the figures that the police were blasting away. I started forward. A moment later we heard the sheriff’s gunshots inside, and the prickling vanished.
Sunday, June 19
I met the old man before dawn on the steps of City Hall. He’d finished his masterpiece, a huge tableau of the town and its residents, most of them recognizable even in miniature. They were fighting, looting, burning with hatred. Some of the scenes happened last night; others, I suppose, are yet to come. I can hear arguments in the distance even now.
I felt the itch of the chalk and added a few stray lines. The Screever, looking it over, nodded his satisfaction. Then, without a word, he handed me his satchel.
I hear the colors whispering to me. I don’t think I’ll write anymore.
Work in Laurel is finished. The chalk is drawing me on.
Copyright © 2026 by Tom Allen
