Category Archives: 19th-century painting

19th century painting- Grace Muset

Posted on by
Reply

Garden at Sainte-Adresse  – Claude Monet (1867)

      I had never been one to court women. I was your typical bachelor, simply living out my youth up and down the banks of the Seine- testing the fancies of women and shouting at beggars and drunks. There was no stopping me, I was immune to the law and immune to the chains of fidelity spun by females. Of course, I had some extended runs with a few women, but those usually ended as quick as I wooed them into their undergarments. I can say I was happy dilly dallying through the streets of Paris being a carefree soul. Despite this, at 26 years old I knew nothing of maturity or love. When I met Ana I entered a new age in my life. Ana made me see the light at the end of a tunnel clouded by silly pastimes and a reluctance to be a real man.

I had decided I needed a break from the ruckus of Paris. One Thursday evening I packed my bags and set sail Friday morning to Honfleur- a quaint little city in northern France. I was feeling quite miserable due to an excess of alcohol the evening prior and the rocking of the boat was of no comfort either. As I leaned over the rail to relieve the gargling contents of my stomach, I felt a delicate hand run across my forehead. Almost instantly I felt a flow of relief overcome my body. I straightened myself, wiped my mouth and hesitantly greeted the nymph before me.

“Good evening madam, I’d like to thank you for your kindness,” I said as I extended my hand to her. I felt the urge to apologize for my behavior as the circumstance was not an accurate representation of who I was- maybe it was better she didn’t know.

“Oh, it was no problem. I’ve grown accustomed to these displays.” she replied as she looked at me from under the brim of her boater hat and revealed a soft smile.
Her features struck me as no other woman’s ever had. My palms were sweaty and I almost choked up before I found it in myself to reply to her. For the first time in my life I had felt nervous in the presence of a woman.

“May I have the pleasure of knowing your name?” I inquired with a slight bow.

“I’m Ana.” She smiled and walked away.

Ana occupied my mind heavily until the next time we met. I can say it was a situation of circumstance that made me fall in love with her that day. A storm passed over the weekend. A short vacation spent indoors changed directions on a Monday morning when I coincidentally bumped into Ana in a garden at the river bank.

It was a beautiful day, not a cloud above or a speck of humidity in the air. The calm that arrived after the storm coincided so well with the recent happenings of my life. The peacefulness of Honfleur compared to the calamity of Paris exerted a feeling of calm and bliss into my universe. This feeling combined with Ana’s appearance into my life after days of rain made me feel almost in ecstasy. It was a subtle feeling of lightness on my feet, weight off my shoulders, a frenzy in my heart, and a desire to spread my love.

I walked up to Ana from behind, she turned around half stunned and half delighted. As she turned, her hair bounced to fall in front of her gracious features. A whip of her head to the right revealed her eyes to me once more.

“May I?” I asked as I extended my arm to her. Ana linked her left arm through my right and we walked over to the water.

Ana told me about her life, how she grew up without a mother and only a nanny. She was a nurse in a little town outside Versailles and lived a modest life. We sat and conversed back and forth with ease, for hours on end. For the first time, I had viewed a woman as more than an object of my desire. I did not wish for one night- I wished for a weekend in the mountains with her, I wished for hours of sunbathing with her, I wished to bring her breakfast in bed, I wished to raise a child with her. Ana spun the shadows of my mind into vortices of love. I fell down Ana’s precipice of love on that fortuitous Monday morning by the river bank, and never climbed back up.

Lauren Vicente, MoMA Paintings

Posted on by
Reply

Tom Wesselmann’s Great American Nude 2 (1961)

Roy Lichtenstein’s Girl With Ball (1961)

During the early 1960s, the pop art movement had started taking shape. Artists Tom Wesselmann and Roy Lichtenstein explored the human form and way of life through their works. The pop art movement originated in England during the early 1950s and emerged in America towards the late 1950s. The popular culture displayed within pop art is cartoonish and produced many well-known artists such as Andy Warhol and Peter Phillips. The era was tinged with funky artwork and playful pieces. Tom Wesselmann’s Great American Nude Number 2 and Roy Lichtenstein’s Girl With Ball, both created in 1961, explore women’s figures and sexuality.

Tom Wesselmann’s Great American Nude Number 2 is a work with harsh colors, hyper realistic patterns, and minimalistic features that makes a statement about women in general. The woman lying on the bed lacks facial features and any definition besides the features that indicate that she is a woman. The lack of depth paralleled by the hyper-realistic view outside the window implies that the woman is two dimensional and useless beyond her femininity. The room is filled with primary colors, from the blue bed, the red sheets and walls, to the shocking yellow hair of the woman. The bold colors contrast the muted pink of the woman, also a representative of her womanhood. The lack of light induced shadow creates an illusion of a two-dimensional world inside the bedroom, which can be contrasted to the world outside the window. The painting seems to imply that women should not be viewed as the center of anyone’s world since there is an adventure waiting just outside their window.

Roy Lichtenstein’s Girl With Ball, like Wesselmann’s work, seems to be very cartoonish. Unlike the previous work, the woman has a defined face and figure. She is clothed, but she seems to be on the beach. The intense, vibrant colors, consisting again of primary colors, aren’t shaded or shadowed which gives the painting the cartoon-like feeling. The woman is catching a ball, but she is in such an unnatural position that she looks just as plastic as the beach ball she is playing with. The unnatural position she’s in paired with the odd expression she holds resembles that of a doll. The message is similar in this painting: women have become so sexualized that they are no longer anything greater than their womanhood and femininity.

Both paintings explore the depth of the female form and sexuality through the use of brash colors and physical features, or lack thereof. The lack of shadow creates a cartoonish vibe, reminiscent of the pop age of which the paintings were created. They use facelessness and plasticity to represent the way in which women have become overly sexualized. The depth of the paintings, despite initially seeming extremely shallow, extends far beyond simple lines and primary colors. 

Stephen Walsh – 19th Century Painting Short Story

Posted on by
Reply

As I enter the hall of 19th-century paintings inside the Met, I have one goal, one task to complete: let an Impressionist painting lull me into a trance. I run around frantically, my head whipping back and forth, looking for a work of art that will validate my life, when finally, I see it. “Manet!” I scream, as I run towards the painting of my favorite artist, a work titled, “The Monet Family in their Garden at Argenteuil.” I approach it rapidly, eyes closed, arms wide open. I’m ready to embrace the masterpiece. But before I can,  something strange happens: instead of my face slamming up blindly against the hard canvas, I find myself falling for a few seconds, eyes still closed, until my descent is stopped by a faceplant into the ground. I place my hands onto the soft earth, push myself off the ground, and begin to remove the soil from my eyes and nose, waiting for my classmates’ laughter, bracing myself for the inevitable chants of “loser” to erupt at any moment. “Wait a second,” I say to myself. “Soft earth? Dirt on my face? What the hell?” And when I finally open my eyes, I realize, I’m not in the Met anymore.  Rather, I’m in a verdant garden, standing in front of a bewildered family.

“Mommy,” a little, frightened child implores, “who is that strange, ugly man with the weird clothes?” “Don’t worry, Claude,” the woman replies, “I think he’s just a dirty American.”

She then turns to me and demands my name, age, and other basic information, but when she asks why or how I got to the private garden, I have no adequate words. “I was just … in the museum and I…I started running to a painting and then BOOM and now here I am.” She scowls at me. “Jean, “ she signals to her husband, “would you please escort this drug addict away from my family?” “No!” I scream. “Don’t! I’m not on drugs, I’m just Steve. Here, let me prove it to you.”

I make my way over to the little boy, whose frantic eyes and trembling face tell me he’s afraid I might eat him. “Hey there little bro, what’s your name?” He hesitates. “C-C-Claude.”

“What a pretty name. And your last?” He hides his face behind his hands for a few seconds, but after some coaxing by his mother, he tells me, “Monet.”

“CLAUDE MONET?!” I scream incredulously. “The renowned Impressionist painter?! The most influential artist of the 19th century?! That Claude Monet?!” The child explodes into tears, wailing at the top of his lungs for his parents to do something about the bearded monster before him. Luckily, his father runs over, settles him down, and leads me over to a cherry tree, where he tells me to sit and relax and eat cherries while everyone calms down.

After a few minutes and a bajillion cherries, Claude’s mother turns to me and asks, “Did you say something about my son being a ‘renowned painter’?” For the next hour, I tell them all about my world – I tell them all about the future. I let them know about little Claude’s eventual paintings and fame. I educate them on the internet and tell them all about the proliferation of rap music. At one point they ask if I’m Jesus, to which I respond, “Basically.”

Eventually they go back inside their house and invite me to stay the night, but I opt to remain outside. The weather is perfect, and I just want to soak in this ideal world and eat all the cherries. And legend has it, if you visit this exact spot today, I’m still there. The end.

Kristy Timms – A Sunday on La Grande Jatte – 1884, Georges Seurat

Posted on by
1

It’s as if the world stops on a Sunday. For just a few hours everyone takes a break. Long lasting memories are formed from the moments when one rests and lingers for a second longer. A weekly summer excursion to La Grande Jatte makes time stop and people breathe lighter.

The weather is perfect. The light breeze brushes along the water’s surface, filling the air with freshness. The calm river is home to little boats and avid rowers. Little boys push their paper yachts along its surface while their mothers keep watch from a distance, holding on to their childlike delight. Little girls chase butterflies, their giggles singing through the air like a lullaby. Open umbrellas protect fair-skinned ladies from the sun’s ever so harsh rays.

Little boys play tag as mothers catch up on weekly chatter. Younger girls look up to the older woman in admiration, straightening their postures subconsciously. Reaching out to feel their lavish materials, and dreaming of the days when they will adorn the same luxuries. In all their grace and glamor, ladies appear to float along the grass. Their corsets display their slim figures while their bonnets mysteriously hide the secrets in their eyes.

The sweet smell of flowers drifts along the breeze as bird wings flutter overhead. Some remember loved ones lost as they hold on to memories never forgotten. Young girls nearby talk of their dreams of the future and of the boys along the river edge as their knitting needles click to and fro. The sun in the sky looks down on the Sunday afternoon with pleasure. The ribbons and bows on the dresses on little girls bounce, moving to the joyous rhythm of the day, chasing the glorious sunlight. Couples walk hand in hand, breathing deeply the perfection of the moment.

Older men relaxingly enjoy a cigar, their walking sticks tucked safely under their arm. Staring out to the river they think back on days passed. Picnic baskets lay open, uncovering sweet lemonade and snacks. Animals happily join in on the action. Digging their noses into the green grass, sniffing for food and searching for a mate. The rustling of the trees sing a harmonious melody, slowly moving the day along. The shade they provide invites those looking for a rest from the sunshine. A young couple in love lean in close and whisper sweet nothings, enjoying the blossoming of something so pure and beautiful. Men put away business deals for a few hours as they peacefully stand along the river with their fishing rods prepared for possibility. An older lady hums a tune to herself in content, walking past the younger generation, excited for the future and possibility glistening in their eyes.

There is a certain serenity in the air. Everything moves slowly, latching onto the smooth beat of the day. The elderly hold on to the day with more fervor, while young children play as though it will never end.  It is along the riverside that everyone comes together. Together as one, they take a deep breath. Holding on to memories past. Expectant for days to come. More days such as this when the weather is perfect, the breeze just right and the hum amongst friends lingers. More days such as this where peace floods the air and memories play out slower. More days such as this when everything seems right with the world.

Deanna Maravel- 19th Century Painting

Posted on by
Reply

Regatta at Sainte-Adresse by Claude Monet (1867)

As I stood in front of the steps, I looked helplessly at the map. I couldn’t remember which direction was 3rd Ave and which was Park Av when getting out of the train station near the dorm, and people expected me to find an entire wing of paintings in this place? Finally reaching the right area, I wandered aimlessly from room to room of the MET, fiddling with my camera as I waited for some painting to stop me in my tracks. Professor Graff is lucky I could even find my way here, I thought to myself, remembering the five minutes I spent trying to find my place on the museum map a bit earlier. I stopped for a moment, when an older couple arguing in rapid French moved, and a splash of blue caught my eye. This painting of the shoreline was so simple, yet it took my breath away. I knew this would be the one. Raising my camera, I took the picture; the satisfying click of the shutter went off.

All of a sudden, I heard the gentle crashing of the waves against the shore. Taking a step back, I felt myself lose balance as my camera slipped from my hands. I dove to the ground, grabbing it before it could hit the sand. Except it wasn’t sand, but pebbles and rocks, worn smooth by the ocean. The heat of the sun was beating down on top of me as I looked around.

There were a handful of couples on the beach, some strolling arm in arm, others placed on top of blankets watching the waves come rolling in. Faint whispers of conversations in French drifted as these well-dressed beachgoers passed me by, not even acknowledging my existence. I could almost taste the salt in the wind as I turned my head to see a whispering couple pointing in my direction. While watching a small seagull hop around a few feet from me, the full realization of what had happened suddenly hit me.

“Oh my god,” I mumbled under my breath. “My mom is going to kill me.”

I slumped down onto the ground with my head in my hands. After taking a deep breath, or two, or possibly ten, I looked up to see that the couple had made their way over to my spot where I sat huddled on the rocks. Clad in a cream colored silk dress complete with a white lace parasol, it was obvious this woman and her spouse were well off. They appeared to be admiring the view of the sea, but their stolen glances in my direction gave away their curiosity. I stood up as the woman neared me. Opening a hand fan, she began fanning herself as she turned to me.

“Stop slouching, darling. You’ll never find yourself a husband with that posture,” she quipped over the tip of her fan.

“Dear, look at her. She has that same lost look as the rest,” her husband drawled, stepping beside her. “Are you also one of those New Yorkers?” he questioned.

“How do you know that?” I cried out. “Wait, do you know what-“

With a flick of his hand, he cut me off. “We get a few like you every week. Come on, Edna, we can’t be late for tea at your mother’s.”

And just as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, the couple linked arms and continued past me. Now more confused than ever, I knew there was something familiar about the brilliant blue sky flecked with clouds and the ships that scraped the surface of the blue-green ocean. Throwing my hands over my eyes, I racked my thoughts, trying to remember why this moment seemed so familiar until-the painting.

“No. This is not happening.” I reached down and grabbed my camera, scrolling through the photos until I reached the one of the painting. Looking back up, I saw that my view was the same as that of the painting. Deciding to take a real life picture of the fantastic view, I stepped back a bit and snapped a photo. Looking back up, I found myself face to face with the painting again. I spun around, making sure I was back in the museum. Ignoring the questioning looks of the other visitors, I looked through my photos to see if that had actually happened. Just as I thought, the last photo taken was that of the painting. But it had all seemed so real? Noticing my frown, an elderly woman next to me spoke up.

“Honey, is everything all right?”

“I think so,” I started after a few seconds, “although I think it’s time to lay off the coffee.”

“Too much caffeine can do crazy things to your mind, “ she chuckled as she walked away, leaving me with nothing but my dizzying thoughts and a knowing smile.

 

Roseann Weick – Romantic Short Story

Posted on by
Reply

Springtime (1873) by Pierre-Auguste Cot, French

In the most abundant and green of gardens, on the tallest of trees, hangs a swing. On this particular spring day in the woods, I see a young couple enjoying a carefree day atop the swing. The moment is made clear and brought to life by the glowing morning light focusing on the pair. I wait in the shadow of the tree so as to not disturb their outing. Surrounding the couple is the flourishing foliage awakening to the warmth of springtime. Small remnants of flowers begin to bloom at the lovers’ feet. Butterflies stir and flutter their wings in the springtime radiance. After a long winter, the nature around begins to rouse from its frozen slumber and excitingly wakes to experience the new ventures springtime brings. The swing seat hangs suspended by two ropes, which I cannot even see for they are harnessed to concealed branches in the profuse woodland. As the young boy holds tightly to the swing ropes, I notice the young maiden clinging to her lover’s neck – completely entranced by his company. Just as the flora, the young couple awaits for the joys spring brings for them. They seem completely unaware of my presence, or of anything else in the woodlands for that matter.

The innocent couple stares longingly into one another’s eyes. With the regrowth of spring also comes the rekindling of first love. I overhear their recounting of this morning’s adventure when this playful duo fled to the forest together to enjoy a lighthearted day. They dropped all other responsibilities to spend the entire spring day with one another and away from the rest of the world. They have no other care then to be together in peace. The young girl exclaims her happiness to have found this swing comfortable for two, which she describes as such an idealistic, romantic spot to rest. In their moments of silence, I observe the maiden gaping devotedly into her lover’s eyes and smiling kindly to meet the boy’s protective gaze. I detect in the maid almost a cunning eagerness as she gawks at the lad. Such a longing must only signify the young girl’s desires to be with the boy forever and relish in her love for him. The two lovers, although not of age, are passionate and faithful in their relationship. I hear them delight in flirtatious banter, professing their love for one another and taking any opportunity to look into one another’s eyes. They talk of a full life together, their everlasting love, and their happiness to have each other in their lives. They cherish one another’s company. I listen as they confess their gratitude in having found such an idyllic, all-encompassing love. They laugh amongst themselves in the shelter of their love.

Utterly smitten, the pair relish in what fate holds for their pure adoration. The light strikes the scenery and enlightens the possible future for this couple. Springtime brings renewal and a chance of new beginnings. The infatuated children see happy promises for their romance. As do the blossoms of spring regrow each year, so does love. As the couple begins to stir from their peaceful spring day seat to return home, I know they will savor this afternoon, which fortified their eternal love. Despite the length of time sitting in this one spot, I note how they are still lost in each other’s gaze. In this springtime moment, only they matter. The warmth and serenity of this spring day strengthen their love. Such a day as this is sure to never be forgotten by the couple or myself. Love takes you by surprise and takes full control, leaving one unable to live without it. The young couple is sure their love will never die.

 

Ashley Haynes: Romantic Short Story

Posted on by
Reply

A City on a Rock

Style of Goya (Spanish, 19th century)

Standing as still as calm waters! Apprehensive, very much so! After having trekked countless miles through barren, deserted grounds, I finally arrived upon a new civilized land. Glaring forward, I looked upon a city that seemed to be heavily populated. The outskirts overflowing with individuals like me, approaching this city miles atop a rock.  However, unsure on how to proceed, I simply took a moment to myself and reflected for what I had assumed was the antithesis of the present.

Taking it all in, I wondered, could this truly be the place that I traveled so far to be. Yes it was as described, the only city miles atop a rock in the lands, but what about everything else it was described to be like.  For a city notorious for its hospitality towards tourists, why are so many people simply standing around, outside the city lines? Where are the city’s lands that were supposedly so rich in vegetation?

All I see are gloomy skies, over casted in the mid day light. Disgruntled, tired people bunch together simply wondering as I, why is such so? The air heavily coated with a thick smog, as countless fires burn at the base of the city rock.

Yet, curious to find out the nature of things, I proceeded towards the heart of the crowd. Before I could get far, someone from behind tapped me on my shoulder.

“Ms., do you know if we will be given shelter, once inside the city? Do you know if we will ever be allowed in before the storm is set to arrive”? , The young man asked. However, unsure as to what was happening in general, I quite simply said, “no, I have no idea, I’m sorry sir”, and continued to surge forward.

As I navigated through the crowd, there was a cacophony of noises. Mothers were crying out in agony, as they were unable to quench their young children’s thirst for food and water. “Why do our children have to suffer, they are but innocent young souls”, a mother exclaimed.

The men engaged in heated arguments as to how they should go about infiltrating the city, to forcibly bring about some action.  “I say we get a log and light it in one of these flames circumventing around the city and burn down the gate”, a young stoic man proclaimed.

The elderly hunched over and seated, clearly overwhelmed by the heat and exhausted.

So, unsure on who to approach as everyone seem too distraught over their current plight, I resolved to simply cease in my quest to find out why nothing was like how it was supposed to be. Fortunately, when all hope in finding out the truth of the matter seemed lost, a former native to the city explained everything.

Come to find out, the city atop a rock called Nom wasn’t always so isolated and cruel to tourist and those simply passing by. The native explained,” One year ago, being the hospitable City of Nom, as it was known as, with an open gate on each side of the rock to freely let people pass on by and through, a group of individuals from the north took advantage of such kindness. They came into the city and stole all of the food, gold and destroyed many infrastructures in sight. They ignored the people in the city cries out for mercy. It is now the reason why the city gates are closed and those who left the city and pass by are unable to go back in. The fires circumventing the base of the city rock is specifically designed to scare people off and away.”

Just like when you and I are hurt by someone, something or a group of people, and isolate ourselves because we feel as though we reduce the possibility for further pain, I now understood why the city is no longer accommodating to the general population. However, although I came to understand why the city’s circumstances were so. I also realized that as humans we all behave differently, so we cannot base our actions on the generalization that if one speck of the majority did something the rest will.

 

Lucy Snyder: 19th Century Painting Story

Posted on by
Reply

Island of the Dead 1880 – Arnold Böcklin (Swiss)

He died four hours ago in bed at home. I don’t know how such little time has passed because enough thoughts have passed through my head to last me days of contemplation and analyzation. This happens while the moments replay in my head. Nothing really happened, but each moment I thought of was like a repeated still life picture.

In the morning, my husband woke up feeling warmer than usual for a September morning. He expressed this to me over tea and breakfast and I asked him how he slept. He said not very well. I told him to get more rest and he was reluctant to take my advice, doing that thing where he wants to be dominant and always right and a manly man, but he gave in after I promised I could do the Sunday’s work for him to help him out.

I went in and checked on him an hour or so later and he was sound asleep. So at rest that he was absolutely still aside from his rising and falling stomach with deep inhales and exhales. Another hour later, beads of sweat had formed scattered on his forehead and upper lip. I went in with a damp cloth and laid it over his eyes. Yet another hour past and the pillow had been dampened and his hair was clinging to his face, yet his breathing remained constant. I went along doing the housework but I was bothered and so I rang the doctor.

He arrived in forty minutes and went in the bedroom to see my husband. He took his temperature and conducted some other tests. (I am not familiar with doctors and checkups and patients. I usually rely on home remedies or time to heal but today I had a strange feeling of extreme nervousness and anxiety.) He exited the room about twenty minutes later and escorted me out as I was standing in the threshold looking in, my heart beating. The doctor told me nothing was wrong, he was probably just overworked and I could not argue because he worked hard to sustain our family lifestyle and I did not always supervise the amount of energy he exerted. The doctor left with his medical kit and I sat down at the kitchen table with my head in my hands.

I awoke some time later to a faint grunting sound with rustling noises and I remembered my husband. I walked briskly into the bedroom and saw him moving around in the bedsheets, still sleeping, yet with an uncomfortable expression. A moment later he stopped, but he was not calm as he was before. It was dark outside and I felt so peculiar as to believe that the darkness had come in through the window and seeped into my husband there in his bed. Then I realized he was completely still and had stopped breathing. I went into a state of shock because I didn’t know what was real or true but I knew that it had happened and I had to move quickly.

I quickly wrapped him in the white sheet he was laying on and lugged him out into the canoe in our backyard through the back door, that we kept there when any of our family member’s time had come. The transport to the lake was a blur but I made it in a cold sweat and with mindless muscle strain. I never thought it would be me doing the burial at this historical and generational plot, in fact, I never thought about who it would be at all, I never thought about death and dying. I rowed the boat as the orange mountainous island gradually grew from a hill into a massive mound. I don’t know why but all the nervousness had faded from me. I knew exactly where to go, what to do, and how to conduct the burial and mourning ceremony. When it was all done, I sat in the boat ashore with my feet in the shallow water thinking about how one day, more likely soon, I would be lying next to my husband on the Island of the Dead.

Anissa Daimally: Romantic Short Story

Posted on by
Reply

Shipwreck off Nantucket by William Bradford

Shipwreck off Nantucket by William Bradford

I awoke to the splash of water on my face. The smell of salt and fish clouded the air. Startled, I arose to my feet. Looking around, I saw nothing but the ocean. A frightening realization occurred in me, this isn’t the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The last thing I remembered was that I was standing in front of the painting  Shipwreck off Nantucket by William Bradford.

As I pondered where I was and how did I get there, my thoughts were interrupted by the clamorous voices of men.

“I need to mop the stern,” said one man.

“Scrub the whole deck,” said another.

Stern? Deck? Finally taking in my surroundings and closely looking at the area around me, my heart froze. I was aboard a ship!

“You over there, take hold of the line and hoist the sail!” yelled the captain from the bridge.

“Me?” I questioned.

“No you landlubber, I was talking to that man over there,” replied the captain sarcastically.

Aware that there was no one remotely near me, and considering the fact that I didn’t want him to figure out that I didn’t belong on the ship, I obeyed his orders. As I looked above me, I noticed that the color of the sky began to change. No longer was it clear blue; it was full of ominous, dark clouds. The troubled look on the captain’s face told it all…a storm was brewing and there was no way out.

The wind howled like a beast crying out in pain. Within minutes, we were caught in the middle of the storm. The rain fell down hard, obscuring our vision. Were we going to make it?

The helmsman fought the wheel as the force of the gale tried to rip it off his hands.

“Sir, the wind is too strong!” cried the helmsman

“Keep fighting men! We can do it!” exclaimed the captain.

It was the classic battle: man against nature. Sadly, nature triumphed in the fight. The heavy surf battered the ship, ripping apart the once sturdy timbers that held the ship together. Frigid seawater rushed into the hold, filling up the ship. The ship had begun to tip over, causing a frenzy.

“Abandon ship!”

The crew rushed to lower down the safety boats. The ocean had engulfed the boat. The waves had repeatedly hit me, forcing me under the water. I felt myself being pulled down further and further into the darkness. Gasping for air, I realized this was the end. As my lungs collapsed, I fell into an unconscious state. The next thing I knew, I awoke in front of the painting.

The Same Dining Room

Posted on by
Reply

The Contest for the Bouquet: The Family of Robert Gordon in Their New York Dining-Room
by Seymour Joseph Guy

I remember as if it were yesterday, that large filled dining room my family and I would gather around for supper every evening. As dislocated and separated as our family was, supper was a must attend event that even papa was present for whenever he was back in town. I remember everything about this room; after all it is where my most precious childhood moments lie. The room was so elegant in its presence. It was even mama’s favorite room of the house. She would usher our guests straight into the dining room rather than to the living room to impress our guests with her ever-going extensive collection of British-imported paintings. It was the centerfold of our family-relationship, until that one day that changed everything.

It was a cold November evening when Robbie returned from his military academy in Northern Pennsylvania. Just a few short days before Thanksgiving, mama had already unfolded and unwrapped all of her finest decoratives in the dining room for when the guests arrived for the celebration. We were all very excited to see my older brother, who at just 11 years of age was on his way to becoming a future high-ranking general. I too would join the military academy when I turned 10 years of age, but at the moment I still had two more years to go. My brother was my idol and my inspiration. Living in a New York townhouse with two sisters and a mother was never any fun for me. The only manly quality time I spent with anyone was with my older brother; papa was always away on business trips.

Robbie returned with great stories of the brotherhood he had found at the academy. He talked about dignity and a patriotism never seen before. There was this story of the armless sergeant who came off really scary and almost monster-like, but Robbie had grown on him and the sergeant had taken a liking to Robbie as well. I then remarked how I too couldn’t wait to join the military academy. He then gave me this golden pendant the sergeant had given him. He told me it was a token of fearlessness, and til this day I still carry that token.

Mama was never one to interject into my or Robbie’s dreams, but she did worry that she would lose her sons if another war arose. She was giving Robbie and I a talk about what it meant to be a man of honor when the doorbell rang that afternoon. I remember like yesterday, Clara and I were passing around the pot of tea as Robbie paid more attention to mama than I did. Mama was carrying Tessa, who was only four years of age at that time. The room was rather dark as the sun began to set but there was still some light coming in from the numerous windows. Mama put down Tessa and went to answer the door. Two police guards were at the door and asked my mother if they could come in.

We had no idea what news they could be bringing, except for Robbie. Before they announced what they had to say, Robbie remarked, “Is it about my father?” Mama was astonished and said to Robbie, “Oh don’t be silly my boy, why would you say such a thing?”

However, Robbie was not wrong. The policemen said that my father had had an accident on his way home from the state of Delaware. His carriage had spun out a wheel, causing the carriage to collapse. Mama could not believe it, but my father was dead. My siblings and I were less hesitant in accepting the reality. We loved our father, but the truth of the matter was that he was never really there.

The aftermath of my father’s death resulted in mama having to sell the townhouse and having to take on a job as a seamstress. She was able to send me to the military academy as she had continue to do so for Robbie, but nothing was the same ever again. She went on to mourn for the rest of her life, and my sisters would go on to care for her. The same dining-room with which we held so many memories of joy was the same dining-room where we received the news that impacted the rest of our lives forever.

– Joaquin Palma 10/23/12

Lauren Vicente, Romantic Short Story

Posted on by
Reply

Inspiration: The Abduction of Rebecca by Eugène Delacroix

The first thing I heard was the screech of a horse. No – that was a chorus of screeches, followed by the bellowing orders of a man. No, men, many men! The smell of burning hickory and ash interrupted my thought. What was I doing here? What was this?

I turned and faced the barren city, or at least what was left of it. The cacophonous roars of battle cries and ear piercing screams drowned out any sort of happiness that evaded the area.

“We’ve got her!” The cheers were coming closer. I slipped behind a small thicket, peering out cautiously. A large, black horse holding up two men and a woman let out a slight whinny. There was a shift of the horse’s legs as one of the soldiers slipped off. “Come on, men!” He called down the hill. The other man held up the incapacitated woman. Were they her savior? Or were they the enemy?

“We need to leave…now!” The soldier in red could barely make out his words; whether it was from nerves or fatigue I would never know.

The sullen look on her face looked to artificial to be from any natural means, and the success plastered upon the green-shirted soldier’s face seemed too maniacal. It finally occurred to me that this…this heist, this burning – this was their plan all along!

Horses started pulling up to the area now, carrying soldiers from the burning city. I peered out from the bushes and realized this army extended down the hill and extended back to the city. I was afraid to let out even the slightest noise – I didn’t plan to become part of the action!

“General, where to?” Another voice came from the next horsed solider upon the hill.

“Until the troops are here and accounted for, we will remain.”

“Will Rebecca wake up?”

“Who knows, Bois-Guilbert wants her, so he’ll get her… in whatever state!” A hearty laugh sprung up between the men. It sickened me. Rebecca wasn’t property, but it was obvious that her value as a person was meaningless.

The cacophony had died down at this point. The city looked even more lifeless than before, if possible. It was as if the remainder of the army was the only life that was left, and now that they had left, it was over. Rebecca had been retrieved by any and all means.

“They’re all out, General!”

“On to Bois-Guilbert!” The second laugh replaced the noise of the fallen city and slowly faded into the clack-clack of horseshoes.