[story] Bird of Summer (1700+)
Allegory60
workshop site. I wondered what Alaric, Westy and the gang would think of this
one.
---------------
Bird of Summer
On the first sunny spring day she watched a congregation of winter starlings
mechanically foraging on the lawn. She looked at her finished painting and
felt something bleak. Over the winter she had completed similar floral
paintings. She peered into her other canvasses and saw the same vague
dreariness. She looked around her studio, her house, crowded with drab walls
and lifeless furnishings. Opening her closet, she found her clothes dingy and
spiritless. It was as if her world had been rinsed a dull brown, the
brightness gone. Running to the mirror, she saw her pale worn face reflecting
irreconcilable sadness.
The woman sat staring at her painting until her husband came home. He walked
through the house in his gentle slow manner, leaning in the studio doorway, his
face the same solid, durable face she had known for twenty years. She had
relied on his steady strength and understanding. Now she saw an uncaring
aspect in his eyes that she hadn't noticed before.
"Finished with the chrysanthemums?" he asked.
"I don't like them. They're dull and changed. I don't know why. But it's
more than the paintings-it's the furniture, my clothes, this house . . .
everything."
She told him there was decay, how things really looked, but she didn't tell him
of the coldness in his eyes. He listened and said he understood. He'd always
been her best listener, tuning himself to her frequency. Now she wasn't sure
he was really there for her. She began to cry. He held her, explaining like a
weatherman that seasonal changes often cast a strange light on things, and that
when the children came home from their stay with their grandmother, then things
would come back to normal. He cooked dinner for her. For hours they sat and
talked, drinking some wine he'd picked out that she thought bland. She looked
at him, her once dependable gentle husband, smiling into his glass, his putty
face distended and losing its youth, the strength she had once been attracted
to draining away. She wondered if he felt the changes.
The next day she awoke and retraced all of her steps, reexamining everything in
the house and studio. The pall that hung damp over the contents of the house
was deeper, darker now-a mauve-colored mask of despondency. She felt
claustrophobic and small. Even in the gray shower the soap did not lather; the
stream of tepid water beat against her flaccid skin. She wanted to dress and
go out, put on something red, bright orange or yellow but only gray, brown or
black garments hung rumpled like pelts in her closet. She sat on the bed
realizing her feet were hideous misshapen clumps with splayed toes. Why had
her husband never told her that her feet were ugly?
That night her husband came home to find her bunched up, gripping his black
easy chair. The purple drapes were drawn. One dim light shone from behind her.
The floor was littered with shopping bags and opened packages of clothing, all
of it maroon, or dark gray, without style or definition. Her eyes were sunken,
framed with deep creases. There were tight wrinkles in the corners of her
mouth. She looked up at him and tried to sob but only a quiet screeching
escaped her. She could not talk. Her limbs hung useless. He led her to their
bedroom and helped her undress, tucking in her covers-covers she saw as a
straitjacket-and whispering that everything would be better once the children
came home.
For the next week she would awaken but stay in bed, void of ambition to go out
or to do anything. Her husband would stop on the way home and pick up dinner,
then bring it up to her on a tray. The food was lumpy, without flavor, and it
clung to the dishes. She would get up only to go the bathroom or to look
inside her closet, as if hoping her clothing had brightened, that she would see
just one red sweater or blue blouse, but all was dismal, drab and plain. She
never changed from her frayed beige robe, the one she used to clean house in.
One day she found her way again into the studio but could not bear to look at
her paintings. The petals of the flowers she'd last painted were tilted in
awkward angles in dirty umber clumps. The leaves were dried and shriveled. Her
palette looked to be the spread out innards of some reptile. Nauseous and
weak, she crawled back up the stairs and into bed.
She awoke one Saturday morning to whispering at the foot of her bed. A boy and
girl stood expressionless with her husband, looking at her.
"Mommy is sick," said the boy.
"We'll play nurse," said the girl.
She looked hard at the little faces, the sad pasty faces. These were not her
children. She motioned to her husband, who did not look at all well, to bend
to her whisper. She asked him to take them away and bring her real children
when they came home-that these waifs were not hers and she was not amused.
She asked him please to not bring them back. He hung his head and gently held
the children close, then turned away and quietly led them out of her room,
closing the door. She could hear muffled voices in the hallway before sleep
erased the shadows.
Every morning she heard footsteps clicking on the maple floors outside her
room. Her husband would bring in a breakfast of mush and soggy toast, and a
vase with a cream white daffodil, without any trace of yellow. She would eat
the mush and watch the flower droop over the vase and turn brown. She would
pull the toast into small pieces but not eat any of them.
One morning she heard a tapping at the window. There on the sill stood a
bright colored parrot, nearly a foot high. The intensity of the green and red
and yellow feathers gave her a start, and she thought they nearly blinded her.
Sunlight raced into the room on golden beams while the bird tapped at her
windows and strutted back and forth on the sill. She raised herself up on her
pillows and the bird bobbed its head as if to encourage her. She saw frothy
green trees undulating in the spring air. The sky was cerulean blue, the wind
hurling animal shaped clouds of brilliant white overhead. She felt her face
burn, and then-at first quite small-a point of heat touching her heart. The
point spread in her chest and pushed into her limbs, leaving an energy that
nearly lifted her from the bed. She walked to the window and stared at the
bird. She pressed her eye down next to the bird's eye, and felt a rush. The
parrot flew away. Turning she noticed an iridescent ruby robe hanging on her
bedpost. Her husband must have left it there. It must be new.
The shower was soft and warm and energizing, and she luxuriated in the rich
aromas of shampoo and conditioner. She leisurely applied makeup and perfume,
using unopened jars and lipsticks in the back of her shelf she'd never seen
before.
Experimenting with the cosmetics, she admired her appearance and her figure as
she slipped into bright red panties and brassiere, then a matching slip. These
had been in her bottom underwear drawer, hidden under a pile of socks. They
must have been hers, yet she did not remember them. Throwing aside the plain
dark dresses in her closet she found garments still encased in plastic bags
from the dry-cleaners. She put on a light flowing dress of sparkling stars on
bright ultramarine. The dress bore a wide border of bright yellow with a
pattern of red and orange flowers. She could not recall ever seeing or wearing
the dress, but it bore a dry cleaning tag with her name.
Twirling in front of the full-length mirror, she wanted to dance, to run
outside in the sunshine, to paint wondrous new pictures of joyous scenes. She
went down to her studio and opened all the window coverings, then swung out the
windows to let the fresh air flood in. She was aware of a rushing passage of
time, of her wasted self-induced stupor, that she began to paint even though
she was wearing a good dress. She wildly flung colors on a blank canvas and
raced her brushes over the surface in a stippled style, lending the picture a
shimmering appearance. Even the detail was hurriedly sketched, but with power
and certitude, as if she'd painted a thousand such masterpieces. She felt
giddy and delirious and strong from that hot flowing place in her chest. Even
the memory of her miasma fell away.
***
That evening when the husband brought the children home, they noticed all the
curtains were open and every light in the house was on. There was opera music
filling the lower floors, and the rooms were very clean. On the kitchen
sideboard were two freshly baked apple pies. Standing in the middle of the
studio was a huge canvas portraying a lifelike parrot overlooking a lush
tropical garden and waterfall. The colors were vivid. They had never seen
anything like it from her other paintings. Barely visible through the sheets of
falling water was the stunning face and naked figure of the mother as a young
woman, the silver water parted by her breasts.
Climbing the stairs the husband found the master bedroom door open. The room
was redolent with gardenias. Soft music played from the bedside radio. Lying
face down on the lilac comforter was his wife, wearing the ultramarine dress
with the floral border. The children ran into the room, then stopped as if
they'd entered a hushed cathedral.
"She must be asleep," said the girl.
"She's pretending," said the boy, "look, she's holding my stuffed parrot."
The children watched their father roll her over. Her eyes were open but they
did not see. She wore a strange knowing smile. He felt with his fingers at
the base of her neck, put his ear to her chest, then buried his face into her
flowing hair.
"Can we eat the pies for dinner?" the boy asked.
Brent P. Newhall
point of this one. The story certainly moves towards a climax, but I
feel like the story is climaxing for its own internal reasons, without
revealing any of those reasons to me. Was I supposed to feel angry at
the husband who didn't care for his wife properly? Was I supposed to
feel sad for the wife who suddenly abdicated all her responsibilities
in life?
OTOH, that's my only criticism. The rest of the story is very well
done. Congratulations.
--
Brent P. Newhall
http://www.other-space.com/brent/
Allegory60
it, but just had these images that I wanted to get down. Seems like it says
something different to each reader (or rather, about 3 or 4 distinct
reactions)--or, it just seems inscrutable.
Hank
Rick LeBlanc
Bird of Summer
Good to have you back, Hank.
This I guessed to be a disturbing peek into the world of a manic depression,
a life haunted by constant mood swings and sometimes driven to suicide.
Don't know of such a person so I may be labelling this erroneously.
One thing for sure, your writing is superb. A treat to read, Hank, as
always. Absolutely no nits.
Thanks for sharing this. Stay a while.
Rick
> On the first sunny spring day she watched a congregation of winter
starlings
> mechanically foraging on the lawn . . .
Data
threw me a little, that wasn't where I was expecting the story to go
(then again, it would be pretty boring if stories always went where
you expect them to). I didn't really understand the ending or the
symbolism in the ending although it looked like you had incorporated a
lot of symbolism in the last section -- I just didn't get it.
One small wording nit:
> She looked up at him and tried to sob but only a quiet screeching
> escaped her.
Quiet and screeching don't really fit together in my mind. I had
trouble picturing (or hearing as the case may be) what was happening
here. Was this a keening wail or quiet whimpers?
I stayed into the story up until the very last part where the father
and children find her and that's where you lost me. I was looking for
some pulling together of the symbols from when she sees the parrot
through the description of the painting but maybe I'm just missing
something.
Nice story, very insightful images of clinic depression.
Later, Data
"Just my opinion, I could be wrong." -- Dennis Miller
Alaric
Hi, Hank. Glad to see you back in the fold.
This is wonderful, but it takes a little getting into. I don't know whether
the brief recovery before (apparent) death is a recognised thing, and I'm
not entirely sure what point that makes if it is a recognised thing. So I
suppose I'd rather not look for morals or meanings, but simply see it as a
character study, a chronicle of depression, and as that it works very well.
> On the first sunny spring day she watched a congregation of winter
starlings mechanically foraging on the lawn. She looked at her finished
painting and felt something bleak.
You need a "literary" reader of course to avoid the "so what?" at the
beginning. But you'd be choosing your magazine carefully, and in that
magazine the hook would be less important. I like it as a start, even though
I'm not very literary.
> She looked around her studio, her house, crowded with drab walls and
lifeless furnishings.
Between drab walls with lifeless furnishings? I dunno. Seems like the walls
(outer) and the furnishings (within) are two different concepts.
> She told him there was decay, how things really looked, but she didn't
tell him of the coldness in his eyes.
And how things looked to her?
> He held her, explaining like a weatherman that seasonal changes often cast
a strange light on things, and that when the children came home from their
stay with their grandmother, then things would come back to normal.
Nice. I'd cut the "then."
> She wanted to dress and go out, put on something red, bright orange or
yellow but only gray, brown or black garments hung rumpled like pelts in her
closet.
Love rumpled like pelts.
> That night her husband came home to find her bunched up, gripping his
black easy chair. The purple drapes were drawn.
Blatant POV change here. Can't really decide whether it works or not. It
pulled me up, but it didn't make me cringe.
> She awoke one Saturday morning to whispering at the foot of her bed. A
boy and girl stood expressionless with her husband, looking at her.
This gave me a shiver. Not sure why.
> She would eat the mush and watch the flower droop over the vase and turn
brown. She would pull the toast into small pieces but not eat any of them.
Good description of depression.
> She felt her face burn, and then-at first quite small-a point of heat
touching her heart.
I'd cut at first quite small.
> She was aware of a rushing passage of time, of her wasted self-induced
stupor, that she began to paint even though she was wearing a good dress.
That seems wrong. And?
> That evening when the husband brought the children home, they noticed all
the curtains were open and every light in the house was on.
Another POV change. Same comment.
> "She's pretending," said the boy, "look, she's holding my stuffed parrot."
Cool. Not from Bolton? The parrot, I mean?
> The children watched their father roll her over. Her eyes were open but
they did not see. She wore a strange knowing smile. He felt with his
fingers at the base of her neck, put his ear to her chest, then buried his
face into her
flowing hair. "Can we eat the pies for dinner?" the boy asked.
Excellent close. Not clear, but emotional.
Sarah
Thought this was very sad and very good. A vivid portrayal of sinking
into depression and madness. I particularly liked the role the
children played: the mother telling her husband to take them away and
bring her real kids back. The boys innocent comment at the end. Very
good ending indeed.
>
Some comments:
mechanically foraging - really liked this
> felt something bleak.
She felt bleak or she felt something that was like bleakness? What did
she feel exactly?
her house, crowded with drab walls
can a house be crowded with walls?
It was as if her world had been rinsed a dull brown, the
> brightness gone.
I think you can leave this out, as your description is doing a great
job of letting us know this without hearing it explicitly.
I'm not sure I can reconcile the husband with his "gentle, slow
manner" and his spending hours talking to her with this uncaring
aspect she sees in his eyes. Maybe if you left out "gentle".
> claustrophobic and small. Even in the gray shower the soap did not lather; the
> stream of tepid water beat against her flaccid skin. She wanted to dress and
> go out, put on something red, bright orange or yellow but only gray, brown or
> black garments hung rumpled like pelts in her closet. She sat on the bed
> realizing her feet were hideous misshapen clumps with splayed toes. Why had
> her husband never told her that her feet were ugly?
Great description.
>
> That night her husband came home to find her bunched up, gripping his black
> easy chair.
How is she gripping it (my first thought was: from behind?) or is she
curled up in it and gripping to stop falling off??
dirty umber clumps
umber?
great read. Take care,
Sarah
Allegory60
few things. Thanks for catching those nasty POV switches Alaric. A few subtle
things got by me.
Although a few readers here and elsewhere "didn't get it" most seemed to derive
what I'd intended.
I will post another more traditional piece now, one I've been working on for a
month or more, and do a few reviews if I can step over all the spam and chapter
22's.
Thanks
Hank