THE ARTISTS' COMMUNE

The office was too boring for their artistic temperaments; so musicians Nina and Wilf, writer Maddie, sculptor Angus and film maker Gigi found a remote, converted barn and set up a commune.  There were four rooms; bathroom and kitchen downstairs, living room and communal sleeping quarters in the high hayloft.  They’d got on well at work, so believed that living together in cramped conditions would be fine.  Angus made the kitchen his studio, the communal sleeping quarters were Maddie’s and Nina and Wilf set up keyboard and drums in the living room.  Gigi started filming.

The day the wine ran out, Angus appeared in the living room; “Guys, come and look.”  He’d been in the kitchen, forbidding entry, they’d had to order takeaway with the last money.  They rushed through to see what Angus was going to sell to keep them in red wine and pizza.  There was a large, expressionless duck on the floor, restricting access to the cupboards. 

“Angus,” Wilf asked, “where’s the oven?”
“It’s irony, usually you cook duck, but I’ve destroyed the oven to make a duck from its metal.  It’s one for the Turner Prize.”
Gigi’s camera captured Wilf’s horrified expression, no-one would buy that soulless duck and there’d be no more hot food.

They lived on cold tinned beans and sausages.  One night, Gigi filmed as Wilf and Nina tried to make music together, but Nina’s keyboard sounded like angry bees and she glared at Wilf from narrowed eyes; “You’ve lost your rhythm.”

“What?”
Maddie came storming in; “I’m trying to sleep!”
“So you can wake us with the fucking tap-tap of your laptop while you produce drivelling doggerel at stupid-o-clock!” shouted Wilf who was a late sleeper.
“I do my best writing at 6am, I’m a lark,” Maddie replied.
Bashing noises came from downstairs, the barn shook, no-one took any notice.
“Nina, what do you mean I’ve lost my rhythm?” Wilf demanded, voice hysterical, stomach so empty it hurt.
Nina having made adjustments to her keyboard, began to play, the sound was chalk across a blackboard.
Maddie put her fingers in her ears.
“Nina!” Wilf yelled.
“Wish we all could die, wish we all could die,” Nina chanted into the microphone.
Wilf went to the cupboard where the last of his Scotch was waiting – only it wasn’t.
“Where’s my fucking booze?” he cried, as there was another huge bang from downstairs, causing the barn to reel.
Maddie held up the empty bottle she’d been clasping behind her back, admitting; “I can’t write without alcohol and thought you wouldn’t mind.”
Wilf had been woken early, was hungry, his whisky was gone and his rhythm lost; violently he grabbed Maddie’s throat.  Gigi continued to film, so Nina obligingly played sinister music to add a backdrop.  Another crash reverberated around them as Maddie smashed the bottle against Wilf’s head.  “Miserly bastard!” she screamed.
He staggered, blood pouring from his temple. “Talentless, thieving bitch!”
Angus called from downstairs; “You guys, I’ve just knocked down the wall between the kitchen and bathroom, so I can make a swan out of stone.”
Gigi looked round her lens; “That’s a load bearing wall.”
Her camera caught it all, Nina clinging to her keyboard while she fell with the masonry, Maddie and Wilf in a murderous embrace as they too plummeted with the collapsing floor.  Gigi clung one handed to a picture on the foundation-less wall that wouldn’t hold much longer.  Grimly she turned her camera to herself and said; “Should’ve stayed in the office.”