The Woman in the Portrait by ToothyMaw
A deaf muse;
A vessel into eternity
This throne
Built on our backs
Lowly, guttural, and mute;
The screaming of the animals
Entry #1
Agony is a friend. The pain that started since I began using the artifact has only gotten worse. Its like my mind is being flayed. It reminds me of her. Sharon really was one of a kind - even among shapers. She was real, like the pain. They say that we only had real shapers by the time people were born in the light of the Sphere. First gens like Sharon and I were always more cautious than the second or third gens, but we have always shared the same goal: shape the world into a utopia with the magic given to us by the Sphere. Or let it be consumed by the schizo-plague.
Entry #2
The council is in shambles and Sharons absence is felt sorely. My mind is expanding? I dont know how to explain it. When I look at someone I see more than I should - opportunities, contingencies, intentions. That last one is the scariest. And the schizo-plague is actually from radiation. Yeah. I would blow the whistle and tell everyone if it wouldnt get me silenced by whoever had the means to hide such a thing. To think that each of us is so close to being the next person to be put in a straitjacket and locked away.
Entry #3
Sharons memorial service was today. I spoke and so did some of the other council members. It was acceptable. Her schizophrenic nephew showed up, although he was of course inexpressive and wore a decidedly ill-fitting sweater. But I suspect there was more going on beneath that perpetual, slight upturning of the lips than meets the eye. They say that its the medications that do that - they lock your face into screwed up expressions. He shook my hand and told me that he had loved his aunt and was happy she wouldnt have to see the end of the world.
Entry #4
[i]Were at each other's throats - like a bunch of goddamn animals. Thats what we are. A bunch of animals screaming out for an end to the worry, the pain. To uncertainty in a world whose end is all too certain. Theyre screaming at me. The way Sharon did. I dont recognize any of them anymore.
[/i]
Entry #5
She came to me last night - shrouded in a darkness thick enough to consume my feverish apprehension. She laid next to me, her horribly twisted and charred body bare, and we talked through the night about how the animals would be set free, how the weight of worry would be lifted.
Entry #6
They took it. The artifact. They took it before I could use it, and now they will all pay the price for their arrogance. Who are we to presume ourselves innocent? They tell me Im a madman. Someone said that burning down the council building would be a bizarre crime the likes of which hasn't been seen in years, committed by a genuinely insane person. Its a fundamental misunderstanding. I would be acting for the good of humanity; madmen dont do that. And I know you read my journal entries, Dr. Smith, you fucking rat. Ill see this through no matter what. You couldnt stop the memorial service and you cant stop this. It will be a mercy.
Entry #25
I see you in my dreams, Esmerelda. You are alive again, alive and vibrant and beautiful. Im so sorry for what I did. Im weak. I have always been weak. Dr. Smith says you dont really exist - that you are a product of my guilt, my fucked up psychology. Of my inability to face my own mistakes. But he doesnt know you. Doesnt know what we were, how great life was. How in control I felt.
Entry #27
When I look in the mirror, I see my skin blistered and rotted. Yellow around the eyes. It itches horribly. I grab my face, tear at it with my fingernails, and the putrid flesh just falls off the bone. Like some sick joke it gets itchier and itchier the more I rip off. I hit bone and then it burns - God, does it burn. I scream out for whiskey, for morphine, for anything that could anesthetize. Christ, just put me out...
Entry #(unknown)
[i]Lily came to visit me today. My sweet Lily. She tells me she still loves me so much despite my mistakes. That we dont need to make things right with Sharons family. She wants to take me from this place to the cottage in Maine. But I need to be on my best behavior and take my medications. Otherwise, theyll be forced to keep me and continue the shock therapy - at least so long as the delusions persist. She says she doesnt want to lose her father too, that the car crash took enough from her. I could climb a mountain with her in the fall and paint the landscape like I used to, with all of the beautiful colors. We could escape.
I told her I would still hear the screaming.
I told her Dr. Smith tells me that Im stuck in a cycle, but that there is a way out if I would just agree to surgery. Lily listens and tells me I should do it, given the risk is minimal. She says it could make our family whole again, that if it goes right maybe Ill never feel the desire to pick up another drink. It could make the screaming end.
They have no idea how powerful I am. I could erase them from existence with my mind. Why would I let them poke around in my brain and extract that power? Do they think I am a fool?
No, I will not capitulate. Not even for my own daughter.
There is only one way this can end, and it is with the demise of her tormentor.
I love you and your brother more than anything, and thats why I need to join your mother - so the two of you can be free, my rambunctious little sparrow.
Goodbye, both of you. [/i]
Lily wipes tears from her eyes, a mixture of emotions swelling up inside of her.
You did it for us. Oh god, dad, you knew on some level, didnt you? That you would never have been the same. You chose to die rather than face it. Jesus. I wouldve helped you. The surgery could have helped you Lily takes her head in her hands and cries. Eventually Commando descends from his perch on the couch and licks her, brushes up against her leg. He eventually gets her attention, and Lily sniffles and rubs his back. He purrs and slinks away.
Shafts of golden sunlight filter in through the blinds, both accentuating and undermining the forms of the plethora of handmade vessels, vases, mugs, and bowls arranged on shelves and tables throughout the apartment. Many cast long shadows against the far wall. Lily places the bright red notebook back on the pile and stands, feeling an emptiness in her soul. She turns off the reading lamp and opens the blinds to let in the mid-morning sun.
She considers the conspicuously plain metal urn on her kitchen table.
This will be a masterpiece, she thinks. Then she gets to work.
She deftly wedges the clay and forms the body from flat, supple slabs; a unique symmetry is the goal.
Symmetry. She remembers working with her mother and father in the garden as a child. Lily asked her father why all of the lilies had three petals and all of the petunias had five and why they all looked the same when you looked down at them.
Nature has a way of repeating itself, of producing patterns that biologists call symmetry - such as that of a five-petaled flower. They call that pentamerism. Can you say that, sparrow? Pentamerism?
She couldnt. Well, she couldnt at the time.
Lily allows the clay to dry until it is ready to be fired. She sits cross-legged on the floor and sips tap water from a large canteen. The canteen is a beloved birthday gift from her brother, ideal for long hikes in the mountains.
[i]Lily stands in a patch of shade beneath the red oak in the grassy knoll behind the cottage. Her brother, James, a tall, broad-shouldered man in a heavy grey coat smokes a cigarette and stands in the sun a few feet away.
I could stop, he says.
You said that before last Thanksgiving. You really -
Lily, I thought we agreed we wouldnt talk about Thanksgiving, he says. He field-strips his cigarette and puts the butt in his pants pocket. His breath smells like alcohol.
Well, Im here. You said there was something you needed to tell me? He strokes his well-kept moustache.
Lily looks him in the eye and clenches her jaw, gathering her bravery. Youre mean when you drink, and I dont like it. Neither does Dad. I think you remind him of himself before he got sober.
James frowns almost comically and crosses his arms, a pantomime of a disappointed older brother. Hmm. You disappoint again, Lily. Goodbye, you small person. Im leaving in the morning. Dont bother calling or writing; I have better things to occupy my time with than some gormless little girl and her pretentious, doting father. He produces a small silver flask and takes a gulp before returning it to the folds of his clothing. He smirks and turns to walk away.
James had always had a keen sense of irony, and Lily had never particularly liked being on the receiving end of his pseudo-ironic jests. But she knew this was a defensive measure - a redirection - and she wasnt going to let him get away this time.
You arent alone. says Lily quickly.
What?
You arent alone. You dont have to do it on your own. But you do have to try to do some work to stop drinking. Its tearing the family apart and I cant go five seconds without getting wrapped up in some shitty drama with you or your friends. Mom and Dad and I dont exist to serve your ego. So you need to get with it if you want to be welcome here. says Lily. She squints. I know you well enough to know youre going through a phase. Dont alienate yourself over this.
James considers Lily and for an infinitesimal his smirk falters. He gives a crisp salute before striding away.
Someone once said that patience is also a form of action, sparrow. To choose to allow nature to take its course is all we can do. For you to deliberately allow your brothers insecurities and accompanying neuroticisms to take their course is equally necessary. You cant make people change.
And you would know?
I think you know that I would know. [/i]
The urn has been fired and is nearly finished now. Lily glazes it. It is large enough to hold a portion of her parents ashes. Now it just needs some final decorating.
What will it be, Commando? The likeness of a certain very handsome cat, perhaps?
[i]It is Lilys sixteenth birthday and she is with her mother and father at a cousin of Sharons art gallery. She is sitting on a rather uncomfortable wooden viewing bench, with the two of them standing in front of her, juxtaposed against a portrait of a young woman. The woman, squarely positioned between them, has brown hair and pale skin like Lily and her mother. She has a sort of beautiful authenticity reflected in her mossy green eyes. Lily is captivated by those mesmerizing portals and stares into them as if they hold some arcane secret. She hears her father comment over the hushed voices that the woman in the portrait has Sharon and Lilys intense, penetrating gaze.
See? Kind of like a Basilisk. Maybe now you know what I mean. he says and smiles mischievously. Its almost creepy how alike you three are, he says just a little too loudly.
You did not just compare me to a mythical lizard. retorts Sharon.
Lily rises and approaches the painting, enthralled. She looks at the label on the wall.
The portrait is simply titled Esmerelda.
As Lily gets closer she begins to hear a dull growling, like a distant engine, in her head. It gets louder and louder as she reaches out to touch the portrait, becoming deafening as her slender fingers nearly brush the canvas. Esmerelda. If only Lily could get close enough to feel it, to know
Is that what it was all for? [/i]
Lily wakes up with a throbbing headache. She rolls out of bed and feeds Commando before eating some cold pepperoni pizza from the night before. She feeds Commando a few sardines and sets herself to painting the urn.
She settles for tumbling orange, yellow and brown shapes reminiscent of dead, falling leaves. The trick is imparting the motion, the gravity - a difficult task with such little space and little in the way of reference. She daubs the paint on somewhat chaotically, decreasing in density from top to bottom, and refines the shapes with small brush strokes from a fine-tipped brush.
The end result is her greatest work - a song and a dance captured in a bottle, an arrow fired into the sun, the dew wicked off of a flower petal after a light rain. It is all of those things, and yet so much is still missing. The pieces are broken and putting them together again is an impossible task. But they can be reclaimed. She takes her fathers ashes to the cottage and spreads them among the rose bushes like she did with her mothers. She wishes her brother could have been there.
Maybe I can still help him. A second chance. For both of us.
When she finishes, she hears nothing and smiles. The animals are finally quiet.
A vessel into eternity
This throne
Built on our backs
Lowly, guttural, and mute;
The screaming of the animals
Entry #1
Agony is a friend. The pain that started since I began using the artifact has only gotten worse. Its like my mind is being flayed. It reminds me of her. Sharon really was one of a kind - even among shapers. She was real, like the pain. They say that we only had real shapers by the time people were born in the light of the Sphere. First gens like Sharon and I were always more cautious than the second or third gens, but we have always shared the same goal: shape the world into a utopia with the magic given to us by the Sphere. Or let it be consumed by the schizo-plague.
Entry #2
The council is in shambles and Sharons absence is felt sorely. My mind is expanding? I dont know how to explain it. When I look at someone I see more than I should - opportunities, contingencies, intentions. That last one is the scariest. And the schizo-plague is actually from radiation. Yeah. I would blow the whistle and tell everyone if it wouldnt get me silenced by whoever had the means to hide such a thing. To think that each of us is so close to being the next person to be put in a straitjacket and locked away.
Entry #3
Sharons memorial service was today. I spoke and so did some of the other council members. It was acceptable. Her schizophrenic nephew showed up, although he was of course inexpressive and wore a decidedly ill-fitting sweater. But I suspect there was more going on beneath that perpetual, slight upturning of the lips than meets the eye. They say that its the medications that do that - they lock your face into screwed up expressions. He shook my hand and told me that he had loved his aunt and was happy she wouldnt have to see the end of the world.
Entry #4
[i]Were at each other's throats - like a bunch of goddamn animals. Thats what we are. A bunch of animals screaming out for an end to the worry, the pain. To uncertainty in a world whose end is all too certain. Theyre screaming at me. The way Sharon did. I dont recognize any of them anymore.
[/i]
Entry #5
She came to me last night - shrouded in a darkness thick enough to consume my feverish apprehension. She laid next to me, her horribly twisted and charred body bare, and we talked through the night about how the animals would be set free, how the weight of worry would be lifted.
Entry #6
They took it. The artifact. They took it before I could use it, and now they will all pay the price for their arrogance. Who are we to presume ourselves innocent? They tell me Im a madman. Someone said that burning down the council building would be a bizarre crime the likes of which hasn't been seen in years, committed by a genuinely insane person. Its a fundamental misunderstanding. I would be acting for the good of humanity; madmen dont do that. And I know you read my journal entries, Dr. Smith, you fucking rat. Ill see this through no matter what. You couldnt stop the memorial service and you cant stop this. It will be a mercy.
Entry #25
I see you in my dreams, Esmerelda. You are alive again, alive and vibrant and beautiful. Im so sorry for what I did. Im weak. I have always been weak. Dr. Smith says you dont really exist - that you are a product of my guilt, my fucked up psychology. Of my inability to face my own mistakes. But he doesnt know you. Doesnt know what we were, how great life was. How in control I felt.
Entry #27
When I look in the mirror, I see my skin blistered and rotted. Yellow around the eyes. It itches horribly. I grab my face, tear at it with my fingernails, and the putrid flesh just falls off the bone. Like some sick joke it gets itchier and itchier the more I rip off. I hit bone and then it burns - God, does it burn. I scream out for whiskey, for morphine, for anything that could anesthetize. Christ, just put me out...
Entry #(unknown)
[i]Lily came to visit me today. My sweet Lily. She tells me she still loves me so much despite my mistakes. That we dont need to make things right with Sharons family. She wants to take me from this place to the cottage in Maine. But I need to be on my best behavior and take my medications. Otherwise, theyll be forced to keep me and continue the shock therapy - at least so long as the delusions persist. She says she doesnt want to lose her father too, that the car crash took enough from her. I could climb a mountain with her in the fall and paint the landscape like I used to, with all of the beautiful colors. We could escape.
I told her I would still hear the screaming.
I told her Dr. Smith tells me that Im stuck in a cycle, but that there is a way out if I would just agree to surgery. Lily listens and tells me I should do it, given the risk is minimal. She says it could make our family whole again, that if it goes right maybe Ill never feel the desire to pick up another drink. It could make the screaming end.
They have no idea how powerful I am. I could erase them from existence with my mind. Why would I let them poke around in my brain and extract that power? Do they think I am a fool?
No, I will not capitulate. Not even for my own daughter.
There is only one way this can end, and it is with the demise of her tormentor.
I love you and your brother more than anything, and thats why I need to join your mother - so the two of you can be free, my rambunctious little sparrow.
Goodbye, both of you. [/i]
Lily wipes tears from her eyes, a mixture of emotions swelling up inside of her.
You did it for us. Oh god, dad, you knew on some level, didnt you? That you would never have been the same. You chose to die rather than face it. Jesus. I wouldve helped you. The surgery could have helped you Lily takes her head in her hands and cries. Eventually Commando descends from his perch on the couch and licks her, brushes up against her leg. He eventually gets her attention, and Lily sniffles and rubs his back. He purrs and slinks away.
Shafts of golden sunlight filter in through the blinds, both accentuating and undermining the forms of the plethora of handmade vessels, vases, mugs, and bowls arranged on shelves and tables throughout the apartment. Many cast long shadows against the far wall. Lily places the bright red notebook back on the pile and stands, feeling an emptiness in her soul. She turns off the reading lamp and opens the blinds to let in the mid-morning sun.
She considers the conspicuously plain metal urn on her kitchen table.
This will be a masterpiece, she thinks. Then she gets to work.
She deftly wedges the clay and forms the body from flat, supple slabs; a unique symmetry is the goal.
Symmetry. She remembers working with her mother and father in the garden as a child. Lily asked her father why all of the lilies had three petals and all of the petunias had five and why they all looked the same when you looked down at them.
Nature has a way of repeating itself, of producing patterns that biologists call symmetry - such as that of a five-petaled flower. They call that pentamerism. Can you say that, sparrow? Pentamerism?
She couldnt. Well, she couldnt at the time.
Lily allows the clay to dry until it is ready to be fired. She sits cross-legged on the floor and sips tap water from a large canteen. The canteen is a beloved birthday gift from her brother, ideal for long hikes in the mountains.
[i]Lily stands in a patch of shade beneath the red oak in the grassy knoll behind the cottage. Her brother, James, a tall, broad-shouldered man in a heavy grey coat smokes a cigarette and stands in the sun a few feet away.
I could stop, he says.
You said that before last Thanksgiving. You really -
Lily, I thought we agreed we wouldnt talk about Thanksgiving, he says. He field-strips his cigarette and puts the butt in his pants pocket. His breath smells like alcohol.
Well, Im here. You said there was something you needed to tell me? He strokes his well-kept moustache.
Lily looks him in the eye and clenches her jaw, gathering her bravery. Youre mean when you drink, and I dont like it. Neither does Dad. I think you remind him of himself before he got sober.
James frowns almost comically and crosses his arms, a pantomime of a disappointed older brother. Hmm. You disappoint again, Lily. Goodbye, you small person. Im leaving in the morning. Dont bother calling or writing; I have better things to occupy my time with than some gormless little girl and her pretentious, doting father. He produces a small silver flask and takes a gulp before returning it to the folds of his clothing. He smirks and turns to walk away.
James had always had a keen sense of irony, and Lily had never particularly liked being on the receiving end of his pseudo-ironic jests. But she knew this was a defensive measure - a redirection - and she wasnt going to let him get away this time.
You arent alone. says Lily quickly.
What?
You arent alone. You dont have to do it on your own. But you do have to try to do some work to stop drinking. Its tearing the family apart and I cant go five seconds without getting wrapped up in some shitty drama with you or your friends. Mom and Dad and I dont exist to serve your ego. So you need to get with it if you want to be welcome here. says Lily. She squints. I know you well enough to know youre going through a phase. Dont alienate yourself over this.
James considers Lily and for an infinitesimal his smirk falters. He gives a crisp salute before striding away.
Someone once said that patience is also a form of action, sparrow. To choose to allow nature to take its course is all we can do. For you to deliberately allow your brothers insecurities and accompanying neuroticisms to take their course is equally necessary. You cant make people change.
And you would know?
I think you know that I would know. [/i]
The urn has been fired and is nearly finished now. Lily glazes it. It is large enough to hold a portion of her parents ashes. Now it just needs some final decorating.
What will it be, Commando? The likeness of a certain very handsome cat, perhaps?
[i]It is Lilys sixteenth birthday and she is with her mother and father at a cousin of Sharons art gallery. She is sitting on a rather uncomfortable wooden viewing bench, with the two of them standing in front of her, juxtaposed against a portrait of a young woman. The woman, squarely positioned between them, has brown hair and pale skin like Lily and her mother. She has a sort of beautiful authenticity reflected in her mossy green eyes. Lily is captivated by those mesmerizing portals and stares into them as if they hold some arcane secret. She hears her father comment over the hushed voices that the woman in the portrait has Sharon and Lilys intense, penetrating gaze.
See? Kind of like a Basilisk. Maybe now you know what I mean. he says and smiles mischievously. Its almost creepy how alike you three are, he says just a little too loudly.
You did not just compare me to a mythical lizard. retorts Sharon.
Lily rises and approaches the painting, enthralled. She looks at the label on the wall.
The portrait is simply titled Esmerelda.
As Lily gets closer she begins to hear a dull growling, like a distant engine, in her head. It gets louder and louder as she reaches out to touch the portrait, becoming deafening as her slender fingers nearly brush the canvas. Esmerelda. If only Lily could get close enough to feel it, to know
Is that what it was all for? [/i]
Lily wakes up with a throbbing headache. She rolls out of bed and feeds Commando before eating some cold pepperoni pizza from the night before. She feeds Commando a few sardines and sets herself to painting the urn.
She settles for tumbling orange, yellow and brown shapes reminiscent of dead, falling leaves. The trick is imparting the motion, the gravity - a difficult task with such little space and little in the way of reference. She daubs the paint on somewhat chaotically, decreasing in density from top to bottom, and refines the shapes with small brush strokes from a fine-tipped brush.
The end result is her greatest work - a song and a dance captured in a bottle, an arrow fired into the sun, the dew wicked off of a flower petal after a light rain. It is all of those things, and yet so much is still missing. The pieces are broken and putting them together again is an impossible task. But they can be reclaimed. She takes her fathers ashes to the cottage and spreads them among the rose bushes like she did with her mothers. She wishes her brother could have been there.
Maybe I can still help him. A second chance. For both of us.
When she finishes, she hears nothing and smiles. The animals are finally quiet.
Comments (21)
First, it is outstanding the originality of this author. Everything starts with entries ofwhat seemsa diary. I think this kind of formattingor writingis pretty good. The paragraphs flowed softly, and it was a pleasure to read.
On the other hand, Dad's psyche is also interesting. Honestly, it was a bit hard to understand at the beginning, but when you read it twice, you can get some hidden details and connect all the plot. I have never doubted his persona and what he wrote... But one could never really know.
Oh, Lily! What a beautiful character, and how she has evolved since the half of the story. The following moment was gorgeous and grasped my feelings:
And then, linking these two gives all the sense that I was looking for during the reading. It was a beautiful sonata in order to pay tribute to the family. A very great gesture:
Congratulations, dear author. I really enjoyed your story. :100:
I usually have some kind of constructive point to make on any flaws or parts that would need some polish, but at the moment I don't have any. It feels very polished and something expected to be found in any bookstore with works that has gone through lots of rewrites and polish.
So hat off to the author of this, very very good! :100:
What a sentence. I makes me wanna get frisky and name it first place winner in the haiku poetry contest.
Ditto, though Im satisfied with the impression of it, like a poem I guess.
It's one of those stories that seems to suggest a hidden meaning you can't quite grasp. As it stands its an odd juxtaposition, I'm not sure if it works.
Questions: Who is the woman, who painted the portrait, when and why?
The story starts with 6 short lines of poetry. Do they hold a clue?
Is she the deaf muse, a spark that ignites, a carrier to the paradise of an afterlife? A kingdom, earthly or beyond, built by burden-carrying humans. Inferior, growling, screaming, dumb beasts.
The start of a journal. A strange first sentence: Agony is a friend. Who would say that, and why?
What kind of pain? Mental, physical or both?
We read that the narrator feels like his mind is being 'flayed'. Is this due to the artifact, whatever that is?
Intro to Sharon. Is she the woman in the picture? She is a first generation shaper, sharing the same goal as the narrator:
Quoting Noble Dust
So, a magical, terrifying sci-fi piece.
Next entry describes a deteriorating council, Sharon no longer a part. The narrator tries to explain his scary mind. He looks at people and mind-merges into their inner space.
Quoting Noble Dust
He tells of a schizo-plague - is he a victim? - and believes he knows the cause: radiation. He stays silent, mute. Concerned that the powerful will silence him. But he is already affected.
Sharon has died and a memorial service is held. It was...acceptable. We get the impression that it wasn't as good as he would have wanted. Was it controlled, constrained...
The next entries describe the verbal attacks he experiences; the screaming of Sharon and ? the council members. Like animals, he no longer recognises.
Then, a female. A dream and nightmare apparition. Is she the woman in the picture, Sharon?
Quoting Noble Dust
The goal still in sight: to lift the weight of worry. To be free.
But then, the artifact was taken. The narrator is angry. Is he also a madman? He thinks not. The burning of the council building would be for the 'good of humanity'. Nevertheless, he is being treated as such:
Quoting Noble Dust
There is another woman, Esmerelda, dead but alive and beautiful. What did he do to her so that now he feels guilt and apologises? He reflects that back then, with her, life was great. He felt in control.
It has changed for the worse.
Later entries show him looking in the mirror. Is this horror reflection real? A portrait of intense suffering.
Or is it a nightmare? Either way, it is agony. Agony is no longer a friend:
Quoting Noble Dust
The final entry is a farewell to his adult children, Lily and her brother. Lily has visited in an attempt to persuade him to go with her to the cottage in Maine. He resists even though he imagines a wonderful future with her. He needs to be good, to stay and take his medication. There is an option of surgery.
This is so very sad. The emotional conflict shown very well by the author. Compelling:
Quoting Noble Dust
The narrator believes his mind is all powerful and could wipe out all his tormentors. He would not allow his brain to be opened, to give them access to his power.
This is a delusion of a paranoid schizophrenic, still with some insight.
He seeks to kill himself, to join their mother, to set them free. He ends with a term of endearment.
'my rambunctious little sparrow'. Heart-breaking.
***
Second part. From Lily's point of view, after reading the journal.
The author presents some outstanding flashbacks. Like:
Quoting Noble Dust
We get the impression that her brother is a soldier about to take on the enemy. He distances himself using irony. Lily sees through it but she has to let him go:
Quoting Noble Dust
Bravery and wisdom combined. The past narrator knew himself well.
Present day Lily is working on an urn. To beautify it, to hold some of her parents' ashes.
She dreams of a moment they shared in an art gallery. Looking at The Woman in the Portrait.
Esmerelda. (probably painted by her father). The 3 women in his life are almost identical in appearance.
Quoting Noble Dust
Is this where it all began? The vibrations of a ghost? A 'deaf muse'?
Lily works on the urn, 'the vessel into eternity'?
The story ends in pure beauty:
Quoting Noble Dust
There is peace. All anxiety is gone.
***
A magical masterpiece of poetry and prose. Evoking all senses, imagery and memory.
Intriguing and so very well done. Many Congrats to author! :sparkle: :flower:
Although I was unclear about certain aspects (which may be my weakness as I haven't been sleeping properly), the feel of being in a fog works as being rather surreal, which does give a mysterious quality of taking the reader into the possible confusion of psychosis.
Amity: Good to hear from you! If you have time or the inclination, I am sure your readers would be interested to hear a little more about this in your story discussion. Your story held a fascination... :sparkle:
***
What was your artistic vision? What were you trying to show? How near/close did any of us get to understanding your story? What did we get right/wrong? How much does understanding it matter?
A few appreciated this for the poetic imagery alone. 'Evocative and compelling' but didn't get it.
Love to hear your thoughts. :sparkle:
I'm happy to share about my story. Just give me a little bit of time to whip something up.
We have all the time in the world - as someone once sang. :cool:
Ill run through the main point of the story and allow anyone who has questions to ask those questions, as I could write entire pages about it. This is the main thrust:
Dad clearly blamed himself for the death of his wife, Sharon (and maybe he should; the plot point I tried to hint at is that he might have drunk and got in a car accident killing Sharon) and, while he definitely was at least partially responsible for Sharons accidental death, the exact circumstances around the death are intended to be open to interpretation. But I would expect a reader to guess that drinking had something to do with it.
Dad then, through some confrontations with Sharons family and being beaten down by his own guilt, had a mental breakdown and was admitted to a mental hospital and now exhibits symptoms associated with schizophrenia, although it might not actually be diagnosed as such by a psychiatrist. Like Jack pointed out, he doesnt have thought disorder, for instance. That might be considered a hint.
So, Dad is indeed delusional and the sci-fi portions in the beginning were intended to sound genuine to actually reflect just how disconnected from reality Dad had become, and the common thread through his experiences in the hospital is that he blames himself for what happened and in one way or another tries to deal with it to no avail. For instance, his idea to burn down the council building was directed at the people who tortured him (not literally) for getting Sharon killed: Sharons family. Sharons family are the council-members-turned animals he refers to as he relives over and over the experience of them basically beating him down for getting Sharon killed. When he refers to them screaming at him it is because they are (were) no longer attempting to communicate anything meaningful other than their derision for him and his drinking. It had essentially become hostile, meaningless noise coming from people he no longer recognized as possessing much humanity.
Dad eventually hallucinates and dreams of this idealized version of Sharon in the form of Esmerelda who is still alive (at least in his mind). It is this Esmerelda - the idea of Sharon - that causes Dads inward destruction. This is because Sharon cannot show him the compassion she might like to if she were still alive in order to help him cope because she is, of course, dead. That is the main point of the story: Sharon, who is beyond anyones reach, is the only one who could have saved Dad from himself in the absence of him having compassion towards himself. Esmerelda, this idealized version of Sharon, is essentially a proxy for Sharon whose existence both provides a small amount of comfort for Dad and simultaneously justifies his self-hatred.
Thus, Lily asks herself when pondering the painting of Esmerelda in a dream later in the story if Esmerelda was the reason for dad doing horrible things to himself.
The more philosophical point is this: dont let yourself be destroyed by your mistakes, even if they are beyond fixing. You might still have a Lily waiting to give your life some more meaning again if you just have some compassion for yourself despite the mistakes that led you to a serious low. It is uncertain if Dad could have actually done this due to his mental deterioration, but it is plausible to use his example to support this point, I think.
That is the main thrust of the story. There is a lot I could say about Lily, too, and I can answer any other questions anyone has.
Wow. That was a lot more than I expected. Thank you. I'll take time later to re-read and reflect. :sparkle:
I read your story again, keeping your explanation in mind. It makes more sense to me. But somehow, I think with a story like this...well, some things might best be left to the imagination. Simply to appreciate its poetic unfolding can be enough. It makes me wonder why I always try to understand...
However, I can't help but wonder about Lily's brother. The part he played in all of this. I enjoyed the fatherly advice, for Lily to let her brother be. Not to concern herself with changing him, or his nature:
Quoting Noble Dust
But still, at the end, she wishes she could help him. And provide a second chance for both of them. For what? To be a family, what's left of it? To forgive his father? To forgive himself? To let go of the past. The final sentence:
Quoting Noble Dust
The ashes are buried. There's nothing left but silence. Peace.
Nature is taking its course. Let it be.
Grateful for this:
Quoting ToothyMaw
Yes. I think if you wanted a happy ending for Dad, then you could have made it so. His depression related to guilt, could have been treated effectively.
Making him unfixable, perhaps his son too....well...
It's clear that you could say a lot more. About Lily. Well... please, continue. :cool:
Lily is the true protagonist of the story and very much represents the best humanity has to offer - she is skilled, kind, empathetic, loyal, and unerringly sincere. This last trait is what really makes Lily who she is as a character, and I attempted to juxtapose this sincerity against irony to further amplify an appreciation for this trait, shown in her interaction with her brother in the flashback and, more generally, in her creation of her masterpiece in response to Dad killing himself because of the irony I explained earlier.
Lilys linear experience of creating the urn interspersed with some other necessary scenes was intended to provide a foil for the chaos and potential inscrutability of the first half of the story. In fact, Lily might be viewed as the anchor that makes what I was trying to do with the first half of the story work.
Quoting Amity
James' predicament allows an opportunity for Lily to help one of the men in her family, and the final sentence is intended to reflect that Dad is at peace and that Lilys own doubts about whether or not she can change James have been assuaged since she understands now that she could provide the necessary compassion for James that Dad never had for himself. Hence, the animals are silent. So, James has a good chance of being able to change even if he is like Dad in some ways - that is, if Lily has any say in it.
You might think that this cuts against Dads advice about changing people. That might be the case. But compassion is never misplaced no matter who it is directed towards and can only help people change for the better. Lily probably comes to recognize that or some version of that. So, there is an important element of moral growth there, too.
Quoting Amity
Yeah, it is a little rough, I know. I could've written a happy ending for Dad, but there might not have been the payoff of seeing Lily grow as a character.
I can answer any more questions you or anyone else might have. I enjoy talking about my story, as you can probably tell.
So, the centrality of Esmerelda's mesmerising eyes, the portals, in 'The Woman in the Portrait'. Part of a flashback/dream; nested images of Lily:
Quoting Noble Dust
An interesting, almost 'creepy' conversation between her parents. The mother and daughter are similar in looks, but perhaps not in temperament? Or simply a different kind of relationship? Same eyes, soul, but a changing gaze?
Quoting Wiki - Basilisk
Lily is far from being a Basilisk. She has always been there for him with an unconditional love.
The father's perception, or love for his wife, transformed from being at one to a hateful separation. The heated arguments perhaps a cause of the fatal accident?
Quoting Noble Dust
However, in death, there is reconciliation and peace. The love continues.
Then, this wonderful depiction of the dream with its final, impactful question:
Quoting Noble Dust
Lily's empathic nature seems to make the creative leap, to hear as well as see. To get close.
The Woman in the Portrait, Esmerelda, is the 'idealised version of Sharon' - as you explained. Compared to the hostile, animal voices of Sharon and her family, council members. Her father is lost without the compassion Sharon might have shown.
***
Quoting ToothyMaw
OK. Perhaps, that is the case.Her doubts have been silenced. However, doubts can still remain, even if we think that:
Quoting ToothyMaw
The virtues of empathy are not always so clear cut.
Quoting BBC Future - The downsides of empathy
***
Quoting ToothyMaw
This story becomes even more fascinating and thought-provoking. I am pleased you are enjoying this discussion.
Must go now. Look forward to more... :flower:
Fair enough. I could've been more responsible and thoughtful in crafting that message. But it isn't necessary to the story that she believe exactly what I said. That was kind of just my own way of looking at Lily's attitude as I wrote her.
Oh, sorry, my intention is not to criticise you. You did very well in providing a responsible and thoughtful way of considering the difference between 'empathy' and 'compassion'. It was in relation to your suggestion that Lily has come to realise she can help, and so there is moral growth.
Not everyone agrees on the definitions of the concepts. It's not easy to distinguish between them:
Quoting Very Well Mind - Can you have too much empathy?
Quoting Very Well Mind - What is compassion? -
I am questioning the moral aspect. My thoughts are linked to your philosophical points:
Quoting ToothyMaw
Not everyone will have an empathic 'Lily' who, even with her compassion, could not 'save' her Dad.
'Showing compassion to yourself' is key.
You are right, we need to be good to ourselves, to understand ourselves and behaviour. This is difficult and if mental health issues are involved, even more so.
That is when others with a more objective and trained eye, with experience can help. With tailored interventions.
Quoting ToothyMaw
I agree. But not sure as to the type or extent of growth. I think that Lily could have been tested more. If she and Dad had her dreamed-of happy ending in the mountains, unexpected tensions could surface (as e.g. in 'too much empathy'). There had been painful marital problems but their relationship is different. It is in a way 'idealised'. It's easy to have a dream but the reality can be more painful. Was/ is she being naive?
Quoting Noble Dust
If this is the screaming related to the fatal car crash and his wife burning, this is PTSD. And it can be treated. If this is the screaming of the animals related to his guilt, that too can be treated. Depression linked to excessive guilt.
https://www.mayoclinic.org/diseases-conditions/post-traumatic-stress-disorder/symptoms-causes/syc-20355967
https://www.goodtherapy.org/learn-about-therapy/issues/guilt/overcome
https://mywellbeing.com/therapy-101/understanding-guilt-complex
Quoting ToothyMaw
And here, we get the sense that Lily is determined to be a force for good in changing her brother.
This is why I wanted to know more about James. His character is not inclined to listen to his little sister.
Quoting Noble Dust
He is a complex character, addicted to alcohol and smoking. There are personal and family issues, etc.
Given that Lily is part of that, it is unlikely that her attempts will be successful. She might dream of being a healing angel but she is human. I feel she is in over her head...if she thinks she can do it on her own. But, perhaps I don't give her, or her powers, enough credit.
Just my thoughts...
Edit to add: I should know when to stop talking. Apologies. Thanks again @ToothyMaw for a wonderful story. Best wishes. :pray: :flower: