Visions of Life 2

By Ivy Sundell

An anthology of short stories inspired by art. At the end of each short story is a brief conversation with the author about the inspiration for the story. Also, included in the back of the book is a list of the featured artists and their comments about the artwork. Additionally, there are discussion questions for each story for readers to ponder its implications.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Crow Woods Publishing
• Release date: Oct 6, 2020
• ISBN: 9780966587128

Book preview

Visions

of Life 2

Art-inspired Short Stories

Edited by

Ivy Sundell

Crow Woods Publishing

Visions of Life 2 Copyright © 2020 Ivy Sundell.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission from the publisher.

Published by:

Crow Woods Publishing

P.O. Box 7049, Evanston, IL 60204

www.crowwoodspublishing.com

ISBN 9780966587128 (eBook)

Cover illustration:

Flora of the Subway (Detail) Bruno Surdo

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Start

Editor's Note

Quiet Invasions by Elizabeth DeSchryver

My Turn by Linda S Buyer

Print Services by Ann Kammerer

The Age of Reason by Barbara Joyce

A Pact, So We Can Fly by Colby Vargas

Disappearing Act by Elizabeth DeSchryver

Elvis Has Left the Building by James Flanigan

Superman by Julie Justicz

The Predicted End of Will by Paco Aramburu

Soft Music by Marie Thourson

Artists

Discussion Questions

Links

Editor’s Note

I started the Visions of Life project to connect readers to artists. Writers were asked to choose an image from one of my art books as inspiration, conjuring up a story based on it.

In the first Visions of Life contest, all of the writers chose a figurative painting as the basis for their short story. This time around, I solicited writings in three different categories to expand the collection’s breadth: landscape and still life, figurative, and surrealism.

Three authors won prizes in the 2019 Visions of Life short story contest, juried by Vu Tran, an English professor at the University of Chicago. A number of the stories have been rewritten since the contest, each perfected so that their authors may well have won prizes if their revised pieces were judged.

To shed light on what inspired the authors, I asked each to respond to a brief interview, which accompanies the stories. Here, the writers share behind-the-scenes moments with the readers.

I find it equally interesting to consider how each artist’s vision compares to the writer’s work. At the back of the book, I have included the artists’ commentaries to complete the picture.

This book would not have been possible without the aid of the Off Campus Writers Workshop (OCWW), the Wilmette Writers Group, and the artists who supported this project. In addition, I would like to thank my husband, Tom, for introducing me to OCWW and for his advice and support, and Doug Macdonald for introducing me to the Wilmette Writers Group.

Ivy

QUIET INVASIONS

Elizabeth DeSchryver

inspired by

Throes of Progress: Quiet Invasions

Phototransfer and Oil

Jacqueline Moses

Quiet Invasions

Madeleine slipped into the empty room. A billiards room, obviously, from the table there, with two walls of dark bookcases and a large globe that she suspected was a discretely hidden liquor cabinet. She could be wrong, of course. But her grandson-in-law was such a fan of film noir that she was sure that everything in this room, down to the gently worn bindings of the books, was meant to evoke a mood from one of his favorite movies. She, on the other hand, felt like she had landed in a life-sized game of Clue.

She cradled her nearly empty glass against her chest as she drifted around the room. She couldn’t stay long—they’d be looking for her. But with nearly fifty people claustrophobically bumping shoulders in the main part of the house, she had to step away, if only for a few minutes.

This was her first time visiting her granddaughter’s new home. She scarcely knew the girl’s husband, but then, they did live a bit too far away for a casual visit. She wouldn’t be here now if her granddaughter hadn’t insisted on throwing her an 86th birthday party. Odd choice, that. She wondered if the husband—Daniel, she must remember that, no nickname, just Daniel—wanted to show off how well he’s done. No, unworthy thought. This party was the result of an exuberant grandchild who finally had the wherewithal to celebrate life the way she always wanted to.

And so she should, Madeleine said out loud. Amy, blessed girl, had always been a bit of a wild child, but in a happy way. When she was young, her father had threatened to hook her up to wires and power the whole city of Richmond. Who would have thought she’d have the patience to become a sculptor? In stone, no less. And such a wisp of a thing. Madeleine had already toured Amy’s studio out back, her shoes crunching stone chips that looked like tiny fishes. The chips had somehow escaped the shop vac, which was curled in the corner like an amputated octopus.

Of course, Amy didn’t make her living as a sculptor. Yet. She taught kindergarten. Madeleine smiled. She wondered which was harder to deal with, serpentine stone or a gaggle of five-year-olds. At least the stone would sit still.

The sunlight dimmed, bringing the room’s more subtle colors into higher relief, like a landscape at dusk. She noticed patches of white and gold between two windows. A painting. A cobblestone street, yellow ochre houses, stone walls, trees. Deep blue sky. It looked familiar, somehow. It could be any small village in Europe—well, northern Europe, or eastern, with those steep tile roofs.

She moved closer. The patches of white turned into clouds, not reflections, but ash and smoke from rust-colored flames writhing between the cobblestones. There were soldiers in the flames, barely visible. Barbed wire. A car. And was that a …

Madeleine stepped back, overwhelmed by a wave of sensations. Damp earth. The sickly-sweet smell of rotting flowers. A skeletal hand suddenly clamped over her mouth.

She turned and gripped the billiards table, fighting down nausea. She focused on the diamond inlay studding the edges, the rich green felt under her fingers. Clear, unemotional geometry. Angles of deflection. Transference of force. The sanity of mathematics. Deep breaths.

She downed the last of her drink in one swallow. Gradually, her heart slowed. But then, some reptilian part of her brain imagined the painting changing behind her back, tiny soldiers shifting in their rusty pools when she wasn’t looking, smoke belching upward … The nausea surged up again. She suddenly recalled an episode of Night Gallery that had haunted her for years. Oh, the things that stay with us. Random daggers of the mind.

It is an object. It cannot harm me. She was a scientist, damn it. A no-nonsense scientist, who had taken shelter years ago in the sterile confines of rules and laws and evidence. She forced herself to turn around.

Why did this painting take her back to that day? There were no gravestones in the picture, no men scrabbling in the dirt as she hid under the linden trees. But something had triggered it. That—that memory.

*

I had thought I’d be alone there, in the graveyard. It had rained that morning, and few people had ventured out. The trees dripped on my head as I slipped through the empty streets. So empty.

I wasn’t supposed to be there. At eight years old, I wasn’t supposed to go anywhere alone in this place. Lwow, it was called back then. And I was still Magdalena.

What had drawn me to the graveyard? The death of my mother, still a deep ache after six months? Mama wasn’t even buried here. She was back in Mainz. Papa had wanted to leave me behind when he got his orders, to send me away to an aunt I barely knew. But I clung to him. I couldn’t bear to lose both of them. So he had brought me with him, to this town so old and confusing and full of strange people who would not look at me. Frau Meyer next door was supposed to be looking after me. But Frau Meyer fell asleep in the afternoon, and her house smelled like burnt bacon fat and bleach. And she was not my mother.

I followed the path from the road and wove between the trees, approaching the rows of gray lumps with their dull green moss crawling all over them. Here and there, flowers were wilting on graves. But mostly it was wild, unmown grass, so different from the neat, orderly cemetery where my mother was buried.

One of the gray lumps moved. I gasped. A man, two men, behind one of the stones, moving up and down, up and down. What were they doing? Stealing? Maybe they were caretakers, clearing away the tangled clumps, now that it had finally rained. I shrank back. They hadn’t seen me yet. I could still slip away. Instead, I gripped the little cross I wore around my neck and waited, a stone statue under the trees.

One of the men lifted something. It looked like two rolling pins stuck together, but larger. They spread the two cylinders apart—Oh! They were scrolls. One of the men pulled out a knife.

A hand clamped around my mouth, smelling of damp earth and something worse. It jerked me backwards against a bony chest. Spying, little girl? We don’t like spies.

I struggled, but a stringy arm grabbed me around the waist, locking my arms to my sides. I felt my back press against his hips.

Don’t fight, little girl, no need to fight. I am a nice man, he hissed in my ear. The smell of decay from his mouth made me wretch.

I must have made some noise, because one of the other men looked up with the quick, furtive glance of a rabbit. Josef! What are you doing?

Catching a little fish for dinner. I reacted with a yelp, muffled by his hand.

Josef, Josef. The man approached slowly. You’re terrifying her.

Good.

He was taller than I first thought, so thin he reminded me of the funny suitcase man at the circus back in Mainz, who could fold himself up into tiny spaces. I became a little less frightened. Little girl, what are you doing here? he asked. He poked his chin at the man behind me, who loosened his hand from my mouth.

My mama died, I said.

And she is buried here? I heard disbelief in his voice. I nodded.

She’s lying.

She could just be lost.

She can’t be that lost. Did you follow us, little girl?

Vos iz aoyf! The other man—the one with the knife—had walked up while we were talking.

Speak German, fool.

She’s one of them. What do we do with her?

We can’t do anything, the tall man said. Do you know what would happen if she were found here? Harmed in any way?

So we take her to Piaski. Would you like that, little girl? my captor asked, his fingers stroking my cheek. You could meet my friends there. They have little girls too.

Josef! Enough! Have you forgotten why we are here?

My captor’s grip had loosened as they argued. Could I outrun them? They looked weak, but they had desperate eyes.

The tall man squatted in front of me, his eyes level with mine. "What is your name, child?

M-magdalena.

He waited.

Hofmann. I was too frightened to think up a good lie.

Does your father work at the factory? The one on Janowska Street?

I nodded. The thought of my papa made me feel braver. He is important, I blurted out. He is in charge of making sure everything is right.

The man nodded. I know him, he said, as if to himself. Does anyone know you are here?

My brain was beginning to work again. Yes, I lied. Frau Meyer. She looks after me when Papa is at work.

The tall man looked at me, then shook his head. No, little girl, you are lying. She would never give you permission to come here.

Liars should be punished, my captor said.

I began to struggle. He gripped me more tightly. I want to visit my mama! I choked out. I sounded childish even to my own ears. The hand clamped more firmly over my mouth. Finally, I went limp, my tears dripping down his fingers.

Silence. A wind brushed through the linden trees, sprinkling rain on us like an Easter baptism.

Magdalena, the tall man said gently. Look at me. He waited until I raised my head. If you tell anyone about us, you will have to admit you were at the cemetery. And that would get you in trouble, wouldn’t it?

I hadn’t thought of that. Cautiously, I nodded.

"I