A Random Challenge

[Jayaprakash Satyamurthy]

Go on then, write a quick story based on this painitng by Vermeer:

Just a quick 15-minute story, not more than 500 words. For no real reason than to have a thread showing off the diversity of our vision!

 

[polymorphikos]

"I can see them."

"Are they very far?"

'No more than a mile.'

'Why didn't you warn me?'

'The ridge. It blocked them from view.'

'Damn it.'

The man rose and felt his way to the far side of the room, fumbled for a handle and groped through the cupboard for his musket.

'You don't seriously expect to use that, do you?'

'Why not. No, don't answer.'

'Damn you, Alejandro.'

'Damn me indeed. And what of your part in things?'

'Perhaps I had a hand in it. Nonetheless.'

'True.'

The woman reached amidst the folds of her dress. She withdrew a broach that had been pinned to her bindings. She placed the broach upon the table and regarded it.

'Where are they now?'

'They've just crossed the bridge.'

'I can't hear anything.'

'They are moving very quietly. Perhaps they think us still asleep.'

'I'm sorry.'

'Don't be.'

'I don't know how to redeem myself.'

'The Lord will tend to that.'

'Grim. But deserved. I wish I believed. It might give me something to hope for.'

'Oh, he is there. Waiting for us. When they have murdered us, we will have a better life.'

'Are you certain that they are coming?'

'They are in the garden.'

'I am frightened.'

'There is no shame in it.'

'I wish you would forgive me.'

'Alejandro...'

'Say it.'

'I will not be forced.'

'Damn you, woman.' Weeping. 'I just. I never. Who was to know that this would come of it. It seemed so simple. Are there many?'

'Six.'

'Would that I were not blind.'

'I don't regret it, Alejandro.'

'They will rape you...'

'They will torture you.'

'Would you like me to...'

'I have a knife.'

'I cannot let you.'

'I will not let you. If we are condemned, let it be for our own sins.'

The man felt the rifle in his grasp.

'I am so very sorry,' he said.

Hours later, when the women mopped the blood away and regarded the broach upon the table, she was smiling.



And there you have it. Good idea. I trust you'll oblige in like kind.

 

[Jayaprakash Satyamurthy]

Nice one! I'm not overly thrilled with mine, except that I avoided some rather egregious wordplay I'd originally planned. But that won't matter to anyone but me will it.

(Note: This story isn't really set in our world. I wasn't up to the research required for a real historical piece)

The lady or the map?

It was a time of discovery, when boundless avarice spurred a thousand bold voyages into the unknown.

A time when maps were more valuable than gold, when a daring captain with a hardy crew could hope to chart out new courses to lands of spice and silk and put together a nice little trade monopoly.

A time when enterprising, unscrupulous young hopefuls ranskacked monasteries and libraries in foreign lands to bring back new maps of new territories.

A time when a young man of dubious origins decided to stake all his worldly posessions in a scheme that would, if succesful, make him the owner of The Map. The one that charted the fabled North-West Passage.

A faked family tree, a forged coat of arms, a wardrobe of expensive clothes and letters of introduction (forged, again) to the prominent merchants and scholars of the Sunken City; these were his preparations.

The Map belonged to a wealthy trader with an unmarried daughter. In his newly acquired finery, and on the strength of his illusory pedigree and deceptive charm, the young man managed to secure an interview with the young lady, one of those genteel, discretely-chaperoned marital overtures.

There he was at last, The Map within his grasp with only one obstacle in his path (the chaperone, an aging spinster aunt, was already lost in a deep slumber - the young man had seen to that by spiking her cup of wine with a sleeping filtre).

But, damnit, he was having having too much fun. The lady was a pale, slim thing, little more than a girl. She'd seen little of the world in her short time in it, but, as the product of a civilized education system, she'd read about most of it. Her blend of bookish knowingness and genuine naivety was enthralling to the young man. A far cry from the drabs and trollops of his past acquaintance.

But he knew she was a mere chimera, effectively as unreachable as the patagons and sirens who populated the more obscure sections of The Map. There was no way his cover would withstand a prolonged courtship, no possible way that this child of privilege and comfort would consent to elope to points unknown with a starveling orphan from that most uncharted of strange worlds,the slums of her own town.

And there, in the form of The Map, was a real future, a future he could grasp and hold. It would be a minute's work for an experienced pilferer and fugitive - a quick dash to the wall, sieze the precious chart, jump out the window, over the wall and into the streets. The labyrinth of the Sunken City, his home ground.

So many ways in which he could map his future. But which one was The Map of his life?

Just a few minutes more, that's all.

 

[Space Monkey]

“Wow, you look cool! Where did you get that outfit?”

Courtney looked out of the window at the Vauxhall Nova in the driveway, and smiled. “I nicked it from the theatre; what about you?”

Clemence held up his fingers, dotted with little puncture marks. “Bought the materials on Donny market and sewed it myself. Took me ages, but I wanted to show you how much I love you. Anyway, what’s the plan again?”

Courtney took off her digital watch and slipped it into her pocket, not wanting to ruin the effect of her dastardly disguise.

“Frank gets in about half past five, expecting his chips and egg to be waiting on the table. But instead, I’ve made a hogs head and filled his sandwiches with LSD, so he should be all disoriented by then. When he comes in, I start the baroque favourites CD and wave ribbons and dance round him, messing with his head. You come out and challenge him to a duel, and I club him when he’s not looking. When he wakes up in Donny Royal Infirmary and tells this story, they’ll lock him up.”

Clemence looked nervous. “I dunno, Court. Don’t you think it’s a bit far fetched? Not to mention cruel, trying to convince him he’s lost it, what, with his mam and dad both being tapped too?”

Courtney scratched her face and frowned. “Nah, I read about this in a book; some poet geezer and these shape shifters, they tried to do it to him and it nearly worked. Exact same circumstances almost; its failsafe.”


Frank’s rusty Metro pulled in at exactly half past five and parked behind the Nova. He walked down the drive, looking slightly confused and spaced out, and Courtney started the music then closed the doors on the stereo cabinet.

He walked through the door and was just about to bellow ‘I’m home’, when Courtney came skipping towards him with a handful of coloured ribbons and a giant decorative fan.

“What the bloody ‘ell…” he began, but was cut off when she grabbed his face and licked him. Before he could recover, she climbed on the table and gyrated her bum in the soup, which was now sufficiently cooled. Frank squinted and rubbed his forehead, wanting to speak but unable to because of the volume of the hideous music.

Suddenly, Clemence burst out of the closet, and pranced boldly up to Frank, slapping his face.

“Francis!” he declared. “I am making off with thy wife, and challenge thee to a duel. Choose thy weapon.”

He grabbed a plate from the table displaying two cucumbers carved into tiny pistols, and Frank rubbed his head again. He was just about to respond when the Hog’s head descended, knocking him into oblivion.


Courtney turned the stereo off and winked at Clem, slipping out of the dress and back into her purple shellsuit and flip flops.

She grabbed his earlobe and pulled him close, then nibbled on his chin and whispered, “Told you so, Tiger.”

 

[jenna]

ROFLMAO, that was hilarious, Space Monkey!

 

[Circus Cranium]

Hysterical.

(“Nah, I read about this in a book; some poet geezer and these shape shifters, they tried to do it to him and it nearly worked)

Boy, that sounds familiar....

 

[aurelio]

I gave it a stab:

Jon threw on his hat and coat. He paced to the sideboard and opened and closed several drawers. He slumped in the chair across from Catharina with an exasperated sigh.

"I can’t find it anywhere! Dammit! We were all looking at it here in the parlor only last night! Everyone is in the square waiting for me. I need that map!"

Catharina looked across the table at her husband. "Where did you have it last?" she asked sweetly, with only a hint of a smile.

"Right here in the parlor! Honestly, Catharina, pay attention!"

"Let’s think then," she replied, rising from her chair. "You were here in the parlor with your men, drinking, eating…"

"I had it right here on the table! No, wait. I moved it out of the way when you brought the ale. Did you put it somewhere?"

"I didn’t touch it, dear," she replied, stretching her arms up in a yawn and waving them around in front of the map.

Jon stood and buttoned his coat. "Well, I’ll just have to tell them I’ve lost it. The bookkeeper may have an older one that will suffice. Damn!"

Catharina leaned up against the wall and ran her hand across the bottom edge of the map gingerly, toying. "Sometimes the thing we want most is right in front of us."

Jon saw the map, there upon the wall, right were he had pinned it. He removed his hat and slapped himself hard on the forehead. Catharina laughed. He crossed to her and took her in his arms.

"You have married the court jester," Jon said softly.

"Oh, Jon," she replied hugging him, "I’ve known that for simply years." She unpinned the map and carefully rolled it for him. She took a lace handkerchief from her pocket and tied it carefully around the map in a bow. “So you’ll think of me."

"I'll think of nothing else. I wish you could come. I won’t be long. Six months at the outside."

He kissed her hard on the mouth and then dashed out the door. She watched from the window as Jon galloped off down the street toward the square and wondered if she would ever see her husband again.

 

[Space Monkey]

Sweet!
I always had trouble with stories so short, but they can be scenes about anything, and human dilemmas are the best. Things like this, the map instance, we associate with easily.

 

[Silk]

This is what I came up with on Thursday when I was in a lecture. Its the first thing I've written in years so I hope its not to rustly.

“Tell me again” said the man impatiently
“But I’ve already told you” the woman replied calmly

Her calmness irritated the man. He was used to people being afraid of him. But this woman wasn’t afraid, this woman was different and that unsettled him.

“I want you to tell me again” was his reply

The woman gave a small smile and began her story again. He didn’t need to listen to the word he’d heard them before; they’d been at this for hours. This time he was watching. Watching her as she spoke, looking for a weakness, looking for the lie he knew was there. But there was nothing, the woman just told her story the same as she had all morning.

They had arrived at the cottage when it was still night and waited. They waited for a sign, movement anything that would reveal what they were looking for and condemn the occupants of the cottage. When dawn broke they moved forward to the door of the cottage and broke it down.

They searched the house on looking for trapdoors, priest holes, it the chimney stack. But there was nothing, no places to hide. But they knew what they were looking for was here; if only they could break the woman.

They’d even brought The Tickler. The reputation of The Tickler was so legendary that even the strongest of men had been known to break down just at the mention of the name.

But not this woman. She had looked on The Tickler and just given that small smile of hers; that secretive knowing smile that was driving him to distraction. He wished he could slap it from her face; but he daren’t show such a weakness to this woman or she would never reveal her secret.

He knew that this time he must admit defeat, but he would not give up. He knew the object of his search was here somehow in this house and that this woman was the key to finding it. He pressed on regardless, with his questions and his threats with this woman he knew would give him nothing.

* * *​

It was after dark when the man left taking his entourage with him. The woman waited silently and without moving until she was sure she was gone. When enough time had passed that they should be well on the highway she jumped up on to her chair and struggled to pull the large canvas from the wall. Behind the canvas was a small alcove dug out of the wall. From inside this alcove a small face peered out.

“I’m hungry” said the boy “are they gone?”

The woman pulled the young boy from the alcove and cradled him in her arms weeping.

Unnoticed, out in the yard a shadow detached its self from the darkness and hurried towards the road.

 

[Circus Cranium]

If that's the first thing you've written in years, than I suggest your write more, because it's damn good.

 

[Silk]

thanks

 

[Jayaprakash Satyamurthy]

Thanks for taking the time, everyone. This has been most varied and rewarding.

 

[Isolde]

"So do you think we're real or a forgery?" he asked.

"It's hard to say. Hans van Meegeren was a master forger of Vermeer paintings," she replied.

"Oh? Do tell."

"Well, van Meegeren did not copy existing Vermeers, but copied his style and sold them as new discoveries. He forged six in all. The pigments he chose matched what was available in the 17th century. The canvases all came from the 17th century. The aging process he created was almost impossible to detect.

In fact, he once traded one of his Vermeers to Field Marsh Goering for 200 Dutch paintings that Goering had looted in the war. This wasn't discovered until years later, and he was put on trial for collaborating with the Nazis. Then he finally admitted that he painted the Vermeer himself and sold it to Goering. But then he was convicted of art forgery."

"How did he manage all that?" he asked.

"Well, van Meegeren used to buy, then clean, 17th century works of art with pumice and water, being careful to leave the network of cracks in the bottom white layer of paint. That helped validate the aging process he used.

An X-ray of one painting revealed a face on the under painting left in the canvas that van Meegeren was unable to remove. In his Vermeer’s version of “The Last Supper,” van Meegeren got lazy, careless, or overconfident. Radiographs revealed a hunting scene as the under painting. Paintings were typically done with three layers: the ground, the paint, and the varnish. It was discovered that, by use of X-rays, that the Meegeren’s had five underpaintings. van Meegeren was implicated and a 2-year investigation, led by Dr. P. B. Coremans, head of Central Laboratories of the Belgium Museum, turned up the evidence above. van Meegeren was sentenced to one year in jail, but died before he went to prison."

"How sad," he said. "I wonder if any artists have faked their own death to increase the value of their paintings?"

"Time will tell." She winked at him. "C'mon. I'm tired of sitting around. Let's go to the faire."

"Wait! What about that map behind you? Do you think that's a forgery, like the Vinland map?"

She sighed. "That's a story for another time. Now c'mon. A whalebone popped out my corset and it's digging in my skin. I gotta stand up."

 

[Jayaprakash Satyamurthy]

Ohh, I liked that! Ingenious and informative. Reminded me a bit of Joseph Heller's Picture This, which is mainly about Rembrandt when he was painting 'Aristotle contemplating a bust of Homer' and includes various soliloquies by Aristotle in the process of being painted.

 

[Isolde]

^Thanks! I'll have to look up that story.

 

[Alia]

I'm kinda new here but I thought, if you didn't mind, giving this a stab.
But before I do I have to say two things: Writing only 500 words is extremely impossible!!! I was able to get down to 525 words leaving out a lot - sorry for the length! The other thing is, I'm not a writer so I'm sorry for the lack of imagination and errors!

Here are my thoughts:

Gifts





“Well…” He said rubbing his chin. “I think…”
“That’s dangerous.” She interrupted, stifling a laugh.

A smile grew on his handsome Spanish face as his dark eyes lit with a spark she was all too familiar with.

“Yes, danger.” He agreed with her. “There is always danger.”

“Is a sword fight dangerous?” She asked, immediately regretting the words, yet she couldn’t help encouraging him.

“Dangerous enough.” He agreed. “A skilled swordsmen is always needed to protect a beautiful damsel, such as you.” He gave her a quick wink.

She felt herself blushing and lowered her eyes from his warm gaze. She was not a young girl anymore, but a married woman, so why did he still affect her the way he did? Anger crossed her face at the thought of her childish behavior.

“What’s wrong?” He asked sensing a shift in her mood.

“I…I…” She stumbled. She took a deep breath to gain control continuing carefully, “I have a gift for you.”

“A gift?” He asked.

She stretched her closed fist out toward him. Giving her a curious look, he placed his hand below hers. She opened her fist and the gift fell into his palm.

With a cock of his brow he questioned her, “A rock?”

“Yes.” She reassured him. “Now place it in your boot.”

“What?” He asked surprise at the demand.

“Place it in your boot and then I’ll tell you of your real gift.”

“It’s probably a boulder.” He groaned as he unlaced his boot. Once he was done, he looked to her, “I hope you’ll permit me to take it out before we leave this table?”

“Oh no.” She said in all seriousness, “On the contrary, I want you to keep that stone in your boot, always reminding you to keep your feet on the ground and your head out of the clouds.”

“But…”

“I’m not done.” She said smoothly, bringing his protest to a stop. “There is no money in story telling, despite your reassurance. Dreams are important but you need to be realistic.” She looked out the window letting the full strength of the sun’s rays warm her face as she gathered the courage to continue, “A real job is what is needed to maintain a child.”

His face came alive, “A child?” He questioned her over and over. She gave him a quick nod. “I’m going to be a father? This is truly the grandest gift I could ever receive.” Jumping to his feet in excitement, he winced and chose to sit back down.

“I have a gift for you.” He said quickly retrieving the stone from his boot placing it on the table. “I won’t need this, for I have no intentions of keeping my head out of the clouds.” He explained to her. Within a second he produced two gold coins placing them beside the stone.

“Where did you get this?” She inquired.

“From a man who has employed me to write my dreams. I am to be paid a gold coin for each story I have written so far and for each in the future.”

“Does this man have a name?”

“William Shakespeare.”



By the way, space monkey, your story was too funny! I loved it!
Alia

 

[Jayaprakash Satyamurthy]

Neat! The 500 word thing is not cast in stone, don't worry, and no need to apologise for joining in our little story games! I look forward to perhaps seeing more in future.

 

[Space Monkey]

Thanks Alia, I really liked this story, especially the ending.
Wish somebody would pay me a gold coin for every story I write
I like these writers challenges; they're fun, and short enough not to be too much hassle.

 

[Quokka]

“How long must this continue!”

The woman chose not to respond, her husband’s complaint was not a question.

“I am a man of much patience but for ten days now we have come here, to sit and stare at each other in this Evening Light.”

She could not help but hear the scorn with which the merchant spoke the painting’s intended title.

Looking out the window, Filippa tried to respond without giving voice to the hurt that spending such time together inspired in her husband.

“Last season you spent several weeks away from your business without complaint.” She had long since learnt not to refer to what was once the family trade as ours, not with her father three years buried come winter.

“Last season he painted for commission. Today he paints for but one reason…” Standing the merchant turned to face the room’s third occupant before continuing “A fact that I hear, does little to please her father.”

“You speak of my brother’s feelings as you would a disease.” Filippa muttered to her husband’s back.

“I speak of feelings that your brother should be master of, not allow free rein like some unlettered child.” Again the scorn, her brother, not his, not of his line, not of his worth.

“Sit down husband, or shall Johannes need find a new vendor for his canvases as well as subject?” She was tired of her husbands rages, yet unwilling to let her brother witness another argument between them.

The man threw his hat to the ground, removing the collar’s ruff as he moved to the window. Both brother and sister remained silent, now was not the time to challenge the merchant. Instead Filippa rose, crossing to where her brother sat. Quietly observing the unfinished painting, she hoped that by giving her husband time to compose himself, they could avoid a repeat of previous quarrels.

Later, once both had returned to the table, she reached across, placing her hand on his “Today, allow Johannes today to work, then you may go back to your business. I shall return on my own tomorrow and if needed Johannes can call for you another day.”

The merchant did not raise his eyes from the table but Filippa knew he would remain till dark, after that… well, maybe it was better that her husband not return for awhile. Besides, she wished to spend some time alone with Johannes and hear about this lady who had so distracted her brother.

Lowering his eyes from the scene before him to the far happier couple sitting on the canvas, Johannes Vermeer put aside thoughts of unsightly moles and bulbous noses for those of a dark haired girl … and continued to paint.

 

[Alia]

Great job Quokka! I like it! It's amazing how different all of our views are on this one picture.
I think I might try Random Challenge #2 now.
Alia