DreamVision

By David Bates

A collection of short stories that will feed your imagination. These stories will introduce you to a world where things aren't quite as they seem. There is also a taste of poetry.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Bates
• Release date: Oct 14, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452315812

Book preview

Dream Vision

A collection of short stories by

David A. Bates

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2010 David A. Bates

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Eye of the Beholder

Look at this, Leonard Berton called from across the gallery.

His friend and next-door-neighbor Bob Walters strolled over to the portrait Leonard was indicating. Yeah, what about it?

The portrait was that of a young woman, dressed formally and smiling demurely.

I’ve seen this painting at least a dozen times in the past few months, but today it looks different.

Different, huh? How so?

I don’t know. It just looks different. The girl looks more, I don’t know, real than she used to.

You’ve been working too hard Len, Bob said. It’s just a painting. It hasn’t changed a bit in, let’s see… he read the plaque beneath the portrait. 1996 minus 1824. One hundred and seventy-two years. Is that right?

I don’t care what it says. It looks different to me. There’s more detail than there used to be. Leonard distinctly remembered seeing this portrait on earlier visits to the gallery, but hadn’t paid much attention to it until today. Who is she, I wonder?

Leonard had visited the gallery regularly for the past three years. He began coming here with Shirley when they lived together. She was an art teacher and Leonard found he enjoyed her impromptu lectures. He wasn’t an art lover in the classic sense of the word. Leonard didn’t look upon each piece with the eye of a scholar or a fellow artist. He often described himself tritely as not being an art expert, but knowing what I like.

When Shirley left him, he discovered that visiting the gallery was a habit he didn’t want to break. I just don’t like going to bars, he told Bob. The gallery is my relaxation, kind of like TV is for you.

Len enjoyed the serenity he found in the gallery’s quiet halls. It was for him a refuge from the everyday pressures in his life. Demanding bosses, fickle women, bills, all his problems, faded away when he came here. He would wander, often for hours, reveling in the oils and watercolors and sculptures by artists unknown to most people. Nevertheless, Leonard enjoyed them as much as he did the one masterpiece the gallery possessed, a lesser-known Matisse.

Len usually came to the gallery alone but today he had talked Bob into coming with him. It was a rainy Saturday. Bob told Leonard, I’m so bored that even a trip to an art gallery sounds better than staring at the television all afternoon.

While Leonard gazed transfixed, Bob squinted at the oil painting. He slipped into his worst pidgin French. ’Zee Arteest’s Wife’, 1824, by Jacque Branze. You have certainly found a strange phenomenon here, oui. A painteeng that changes.

Leonard rolled his eyes. I don’t know why I even bother trying to civilize you.

Bob continued to read the plaque beneath the portrait. The artist died shortly after completing the painting. Hmmm. This was his last known work. Bob rubbed his chin as he looked at the face. "No wonder he died, if this was his wife, she looks like she could kill any man. But what a way to go, eh?"

After a few more moments of looking at the widow Mrs. Branze as depicted in oil, Bob tugged on Len’s sleeve. Come on, pal, you wanted to show me the gallery. There must be more to see than one dead artist’s wife.

Leonard reluctantly turned away. Right. They have an excellent collection of western sculpture down this way. You’ll enjoy that. As they passed into the next wing, he cast the portrait a parting glance over his shoulder. He would be back, soon, and without anyone to distract him.

The following Monday, on his lunch hour, Leonard visited the library. He went to the reference section and began looking through the art books. There had to be something, somewhere written about Jacque Branze and his works. In the fifth book he opened, Leonard found a brief biographical notation:

Branze, Jacque, born 1752, died ca. 1824. One of a group of French painters noted for portraits and landscapes. Branze was most famous for his portrayal of prostitutes. He moved to Paris when he was in his 50’s. He had a succession of wives, all younger than he and each younger than her predecessor. Some of his wives may have been the same prostitutes whom he painted. Little is known of his later life. It is believed he was responsible for the murder of his last wife, Gabrielle, soon after completing a portrait of her. Branze vanished after her death and was never seen again. The actual date of his death is unknown.

Then Leonard glanced at the picture of Branze. He nearly stopped breathing. My God. He looks like me.

It was true. Except for the hairstyle and mustache, Jacque Branze was the spitting image of Leonard Berton.

Len rubbed his eyes and looked at the picture again. I’m not imagining it. He could be my twin.

Vanished. The word broke through Leonard’s thoughts. It seemed strange that Branze should disappear without a trace. There’s something mighty strange about all of this, Leonard said to himself as he closed the book.

That evening, after dinner, Leonard went next door to tell Bob about his research.

Are you still hung up on that crazy painting? Bob shook his head in exasperation.

I’m not ‘hung up’, just interested.

So he disappeared? So what? He probably decided to vanish into the sewers of Paris or something. He was an artist. Those guys were weird anyway. Maybe he died in an alley and they just never identified him, you know, buried him in an unmarked pauper’s grave. That happened a lot back in those days.

"You’re probably right. People