Chagall Fairy Tales

By LucySnowPublications

Marc Chagall's paintings were inspired by the radiance of Russian folklore. He expressed emotion from the world of the unseen and the irrational. This collection of short stories is based on five of Chagall's paintings. They follow a traditional fairy tale format with added sinister detail.

• Language: English
• Publisher: LucySnowPublications
• Release date: Jan 27, 2012
• ISBN: 9781465717474

Book preview

Chagall Fairy Tales

A. J. Cantley

A collection of short stories inspired by the paintings of Marc Chagall

Chagall Fairy Tales

A. J. Cantley

Copyright A. J. Cantley 2012

Published by Lucy Snow Publications at Smashwords

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Contents

The Fiddler

Bouquet with Flying Lovers

Midsummer Night’s Dream

Clowns At Night

The Poet, or Half-Past Three

The Fiddler

I lay in my narrow bed willing the noise to stop. Candlelight crept in under my door with stretching shadows moving about. I hugged the blankets closer to me in an effort to muffle my mother’s cries.

It had been a particularly hard winter that year. My new baby brother had been born too soon, rudely shaken out into the world with screwed up face and angry fists. I loved the wriggling pinkish bundle and helped mother as best I could by taking care of the mite. It had been a difficult birth and mother was exhausted yet still she scoured and cooked and kept warm out little house. Noiselessly, she moved about the wooden room, while Father peered watery-eyed into the fire. He only stirred to hurl abuse at her as he stumbled to the outhouse.

Father was sick and couldn’t work anymore. He had been a miner but the black dust lay thickly in his chest making him wheeze and splutter, unable to manage the heavy tasks. So he sat now by the fire and watched mother keep him by taking in other people’s laundry and rubbing her hands red raw.

The wind droned down the chimney. Suddenly, the door banged open and in lumbered mother with a heavy bundle of clothes.

Good God, woman! You’ve brought the north wind in with you, close that door! Father spat at her. She moved clumsily, too tired and freezing cold.

Can’t you help me, Ivan? she asked quietly. Their eyes locked in silent combat. I held the baby close and rocked him in an effort of reassurance. Slowly, Father got to his feet. He knocked his chair to the floor and trod heavily towards her. She was slumped against the wall with the door still wide open. Her cheeks were hot but her eyes burned even brighter telling the tale of many years of pain. She did not cower, nor flinch, nor shrink as his great, heavy hand came down across her face. She couldn’t cry for all her tears had long been spent. He kicked her as he’d sprur a dog then slammed the door behind him. I gathered the babe closer still, putting my head down to his tiny chest. With horror, I helplessly witnessed the tiny thumps of