| Supernatural Fiction posted June 18, 2022 |
  |
The terminally ill inspire scenic art.
The Gallery
by RodG
Helena Nowak had enjoyed her first day of work at Alicia Fields Home, but she was tired after cleaning almost the entire first floor by herself. She had one more room to do--the Gallery.
She shuffled in, her tray of cleaning tools in one hand, a vacuum cleaner in the other.
She gaped at the beautiful unframed paintings on each wall. They were a mixture of landscapes and seascapes, as realistic as photographs.
For several minutes she admired them, forgetting her purpose for being there.
"You seem to like them," said a voice behind her.
She turned, embarrassed, and saw a dark-haired bearded man from India or Pakistan she presumed. He wasn't young, but his mien was noble.
"Y-yes," she stammered. "Who painted them? There is no name on any."
"I did," the man replied, nodding modestly, "with much help and inspiration from the residents."
"This is a studio, too?" Helen asked.
"No. I bring my paint and brushes to their rooms. Most work with me from their beds."
Helena smiled sheepishly, having forgotten this "home" was entirely inhabited by the terminally ill.
"I should introduce myself. I'm Dr. Nadari Guglean."
Helena gasped. "You're a doctor, too?"
"And spiritual counselor, companion, confidant. Sad, but for most, I am now their best friend.
"I am also a curious man. Who are you? I'd like to hear your story."
Several minutes later, Helena flushed. "I--I should be cleaning, not talking so much about me and all my troubles."
"Thank you for sharing, Helena. I shall leave you to your work."
"W-wait," Helena stammered. "Can you tell me why you--they--paint only scenes, not people?"
He gave her a faint knowing smile.
"Because I always ask where they'd like to spend the Hereafter.
Then I ask, 'Can you describe this place?' After they do, we paint it."
He glanced around his gallery before saying, "If he's lucky, my helpmate can enjoy the painting awhile in his room. But ultimately . . . it winds up here."
#
After Guglean left, Helena began cleaning. She saved caressing the paintings with her feather duster till last. Since natural light from the windows was fading, she flipped on the fluorescents overhead.
She took her time dusting and admiring the art. A card underneath each gave the date it was hung. A meadow scene flush with multi-colored flowers had been hung earlier that day.
As she touched its surface with feathers, she noticed something dark in the midst of the flowers.
A shadow?
No, a figure . . . small but definitely a person.
A hand moving . . . waving . . . at her.
She blinked. Looked again.
Yes! It did wave.
Helena's heart pounded. She forced herself to gaze elsewhere. At other paintings.
She gasped. All had figures WHO WAVED . . . AT HER.
"No! Can't be," she moaned.
She flipped off the lights. The room was dim, but not dark. She peered closely at the meadow scene. Now . . . Vast beams of light shone on the fields—and the figure—from breaks in the clouds above.
Helena gasped as a great warmth from the painting flooded through her. All the sadness she’d told Guglean about and the fatigue she’d felt vanished. She clutched the small silver crucifix touching her throat and closed her eyes in prayer.
Oh, thank you, Lord. I’m reborn.
She opened her eyes and stared at the figure in the fields bathed in golden light. It waved at her. When Helena waved back, a beam sprang from the painting and haloed her face.
Both figures smiled at each other in that glorious light.
Supernatural Flash Fiction writing prompt entry
Helena Nowak had enjoyed her first day of work at Alicia Fields Home, but she was tired after cleaning almost the entire first floor by herself. She had one more room to do--the Gallery.
She shuffled in, her tray of cleaning tools in one hand, a vacuum cleaner in the other.
She gaped at the beautiful unframed paintings on each wall. They were a mixture of landscapes and seascapes, as realistic as photographs.
For several minutes she admired them, forgetting her purpose for being there.
"You seem to like them," said a voice behind her.
She turned, embarrassed, and saw a dark-haired bearded man from India or Pakistan she presumed. He wasn't young, but his mien was noble.
"Y-yes," she stammered. "Who painted them? There is no name on any."
"I did," the man replied, nodding modestly, "with much help and inspiration from the residents."
"This is a studio, too?" Helen asked.
"No. I bring my paint and brushes to their rooms. Most work with me from their beds."
Helena smiled sheepishly, having forgotten this "home" was entirely inhabited by the terminally ill.
"I should introduce myself. I'm Dr. Nadari Guglean."
Helena gasped. "You're a doctor, too?"
"And spiritual counselor, companion, confidant. Sad, but for most, I am now their best friend.
"I am also a curious man. Who are you? I'd like to hear your story."
Several minutes later, Helena flushed. "I--I should be cleaning, not talking so much about me and all my troubles."
"Thank you for sharing, Helena. I shall leave you to your work."
"W-wait," Helena stammered. "Can you tell me why you--they--paint only scenes, not people?"
He gave her a faint knowing smile.
"Because I always ask where they'd like to spend the Hereafter.
Then I ask, 'Can you describe this place?' After they do, we paint it."
He glanced around his gallery before saying, "If he's lucky, my helpmate can enjoy the painting awhile in his room. But ultimately . . . it winds up here."
#
After Guglean left, Helena began cleaning. She saved caressing the paintings with her feather duster till last. Since natural light from the windows was fading, she flipped on the fluorescents overhead.
She took her time dusting and admiring the art. A card underneath each gave the date it was hung. A meadow scene flush with multi-colored flowers had been hung earlier that day.
As she touched its surface with feathers, she noticed something dark in the midst of the flowers.
A shadow?
No, a figure . . . small but definitely a person.
A hand moving . . . waving . . . at her.
She blinked. Looked again.
Yes! It did wave.
Helena's heart pounded. She forced herself to gaze elsewhere. At other paintings.
She gasped. All had figures WHO WAVED . . . AT HER.
"No! Can't be," she moaned.
She shuffled in, her tray of cleaning tools in one hand, a vacuum cleaner in the other.
She gaped at the beautiful unframed paintings on each wall. They were a mixture of landscapes and seascapes, as realistic as photographs.
For several minutes she admired them, forgetting her purpose for being there.
"You seem to like them," said a voice behind her.
She turned, embarrassed, and saw a dark-haired bearded man from India or Pakistan she presumed. He wasn't young, but his mien was noble.
"Y-yes," she stammered. "Who painted them? There is no name on any."
"I did," the man replied, nodding modestly, "with much help and inspiration from the residents."
"This is a studio, too?" Helen asked.
"No. I bring my paint and brushes to their rooms. Most work with me from their beds."
Helena smiled sheepishly, having forgotten this "home" was entirely inhabited by the terminally ill.
"I should introduce myself. I'm Dr. Nadari Guglean."
Helena gasped. "You're a doctor, too?"
"And spiritual counselor, companion, confidant. Sad, but for most, I am now their best friend.
"I am also a curious man. Who are you? I'd like to hear your story."
Several minutes later, Helena flushed. "I--I should be cleaning, not talking so much about me and all my troubles."
"Thank you for sharing, Helena. I shall leave you to your work."
"W-wait," Helena stammered. "Can you tell me why you--they--paint only scenes, not people?"
He gave her a faint knowing smile.
"Because I always ask where they'd like to spend the Hereafter.
Then I ask, 'Can you describe this place?' After they do, we paint it."
He glanced around his gallery before saying, "If he's lucky, my helpmate can enjoy the painting awhile in his room. But ultimately . . . it winds up here."
#
After Guglean left, Helena began cleaning. She saved caressing the paintings with her feather duster till last. Since natural light from the windows was fading, she flipped on the fluorescents overhead.
She took her time dusting and admiring the art. A card underneath each gave the date it was hung. A meadow scene flush with multi-colored flowers had been hung earlier that day.
As she touched its surface with feathers, she noticed something dark in the midst of the flowers.
A shadow?
No, a figure . . . small but definitely a person.
A hand moving . . . waving . . . at her.
She blinked. Looked again.
Yes! It did wave.
Helena's heart pounded. She forced herself to gaze elsewhere. At other paintings.
She gasped. All had figures WHO WAVED . . . AT HER.
"No! Can't be," she moaned.
She flipped off the lights. The room was dim, but not dark. She peered closely at the meadow scene. Now . . . Vast beams of light shone on the fields—and the figure—from breaks in the clouds above.
Helena gasped as a great warmth from the painting flooded through her. All the sadness she’d told Guglean about and the fatigue she’d felt vanished. She clutched the small silver crucifix touching her throat and closed her eyes in prayer.
Oh, thank you, Lord. I’m reborn.
She opened her eyes and stared at the figure in the fields bathed in golden light. It waved at her. When Helena waved back, a beam sprang from the painting and haloed her face.
Both figures smiled at each other in that glorious light.
|
Writing Prompt The character in your story is involved in some way with the supernatural. |
Artwork courtesy of Google images.
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