This is the very first "Very Short Fiction" I ever wrote. It came from a writing exercise in a book on writing, the challenge being to come up with your characters and your conflict, and then tell your story in 500 words or less. "Pretty easy" I thought, until I sat down to write it. In the end, I found I loved the challenge it presented, and when I started writing a bit more seriously a couple of years later, I used that challenge as the model for the VSFs.

Looking back over this, it's horribly overwritten in a lot of spots, and there are a couple of lines that I cringe to read. I'm also a bit self-conscious to admit that I have no idea what perspective it's written in (thus proving just how bad I am with grammar). It seems to me to be a combination of First Person and Second Person, but if it's either one, that's just a guess. I'm sure Frank can help me out.

Anyway, here it is, warts and all.

Portrait of the Artist

You stand in the doorway of the kitchen, eyes full of accusation, betrayal, and disappointment, your beautiful, soulful eyes. I’m caught, dead to rights, with your portfolio hanging like deadweight from my right arm.

“What are you doing with that?” Your voice the dreaded monotone I’ve heard you use on others who have roused your impossible anger. I’m caught, no answer ready, this reaction on the surface unexpected, but my own little voice in the back of my head saying, told you so.

“Cass, honey, I can explain, “ I say, mind racing in anticipation of your reactions, though I realize I’ve never seen you as truly angry as you are right now. “The Galleria, downtown, they’re doing an exhibit of local artists, and I knew you’d never work up the nerve,” that was the wrong thing to say, I think too late, “to approach them yourself, so I thought I’d take a few of your pieces to show them, to show them how talented you are.” You close your eyes, taking a breath before speaking.

You can’t let it go, can you, Violet? I mean, we’ve talked about this again and again and…” You walk over to the small wooden breakfast table we’d bought when we moved in together, just three months ago. Are you sure it’s big enough? C’mon Vi, there’s room for you and me. How big does it need to be? Nero trots over and plops down at your feet, lending you moral support. “Those are my paintings, Vi. Mine. You write for everyone, to change minds, to expose people to new experiences. I paint for myself.”

“But is that enough? I write, and sure, people get to live vicariously through me, through us. They get to see parts of the city they might never see otherwise, but your paintings, they show people things they could never imagine. They’re…art.” I walk over to you, sitting across the table. “Don’t get me wrong, I love what I do, and I’m proud of it. I just think you should be proud of your paintings. Not just tuck them away in a closet and go off to work shelving books for the rest of your life.” I take your hands in mine, clinging to them desperately, even as I feel you pulling away. “I just want you to be happy.”

You don’t speak for several minutes, and I sit there, clinging to you, unaware that I’m trying to memorize you, to remember the exact shade of auburn, like the last glow of sunset, of your hair. The biting scent of paint and turpentine and whatever shampoo you happened to pick up at the store blending together into the smell of you. The warming touch of your skin on mine as we drift off into sleep together, and the soft, husky voice breaking as you say, “I was happy,” before you leave, not physically, yet, but in every way that matters.