Not sure where this came from.
On The Shelf
She surveyed her new surroundings for any evidence that she was alive, and found none. She felt cold, alone, pensive. Waiting for something, perhaps waiting for her life to begin.
As she stood there, idly holding roses between her hands, she wondered who had framed her, who had imprisoned her in this eternal cell. She looked life straight in the eye, taking it all in without blinking, staring into the future as if at a big screen. In technicolor too.
She found she was smiling, when inside she felt sad and confused, lost even. In some ways she felt stronger, taller, younger, yet more afraid. Her dress was old and too small for her by far, but strangely it seemed to fit her perfectly.
She could feel the presences all around, but never once looked about her, transfixed by the light, she stared dead ahead. This moment seemed to be lasting forever, the eerie silence thick with the settled dust of time.
Her heart stopped as the young woman entered the room. If she had any breath she surely would have lost it. Tears broke the silence as they cascaded down this beautiful woman’s young face. Every minute detail, every last feature of this woman was perfect. She fell in love with her immediately. She ached for her even though she knew her heart was broken.
She watched the woman in black approach, reached out to her, but in vain. Paralysed by the ever-living moment. The young woman loomed, a giant, lifting her with one trembling hand. The woman kissed her. A kiss that might have lasted forever, if not for the words the woman spoke.
“Oh God, oh God, I miss you so much mum, I wish you were here now”
Finally she understood. Everything was black and white, perhaps sepia. Released by the chains of mortality, she was set free by the love of the young woman who stood there clutching the photograph of her mother as a young girl.
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Written by Witzl (1585 comments posted) 9th January 2007 |
No wonder the ghosts of my mother and father never come to haunt me: their pictures are too well pawed-over and spoken to.
I liked this, but while I have kept the photos of my parents of all ages, the ones that I prize are their middle-aged shots: my mother with her bad haircut and awful glasses, grinning lop-sidedly; my father, his face tanned and deeply furrowed, wearing a pith helmet. Their youthful photos are sweet, but the people in them aren't quite my parents.
Still, yours is a novel take on the situation: a woman trapped into an image of herself as a young girl. All of us are really a composite of all the people we've been. Some Native American tribes believed that having your photograph taken meant that part of your soul was trapped in the picture -- I thought about that superstition as I read this. |
Written by Snodlander (501 comments posted) 9th January 2007 |
Doh! The clues were there, the title, who framed her, but up until the end I thought she was in a coffin. As Witzl said, a novel and surprising take.
Para 5 'Her heart stopped...' I had to read twice to make sense of it. It was confusing as to which woman was which. It is ambiguous, for example, as to who's heart was broken. I don't know if writing it in the first person might remove the confusion. |
Written by Phil (6645 comments posted) 13th January 2007 |
A good idea and I liked it. As has been said, a little ambiguous in places, but nothing that can't be fixed. Really liked the second paragraph.
Phil. |
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