"Optimism is the hope of fools!" Miller Ryan would proclaim every time some nabob would get excited by a slight wave of good news.
"Wishin' and hopin' don't fill the pantry" he'd say in one of his positively pessimistic proverbs.
Miller was the kind of guy that needed to be shown every step of the way. He certainly wasn't from Missouri, but his show me attitude made many opportunities fall to the wayside. A little blind faith would have taken him a long way.
"Looks like the rain will let up soon" his friend once observed, causing Ryan to spout his jaded point of view.
"Sure, well I won't hold my breath, at least not until the water's chest high!"
It seems Miller Ryan came by his pessimism honestly. Mrs. Ryan had a difficult pregnancy with their first child. The medical men (Miller refered to them as "Witch Doctors") were concerned with her condition and recommended she be hospitalized. But, Ryan had no worry or time for such foolishness.
"She'll be fine." he reasoned. "I've got a good feeling about this."
His chastisement's were more for his foolery than anyone else's.
"Optimism is the hope of fools" he repeats each day that passes without his Ginny and the former future Miller Ryan Jr.
“What do you call this one?” asked George. He was staring at an odd black and white portrait of what he imagined was a beautiful woman whose face appeared to be displaced by some water in a crystal vase.
“I call it Miranda,” replied Elliot.
“Ah. Picasso inspired?”
“Miranda inspired.”
George scratched his chin for a moment. Then the proverbial light bulb went on in his head. “Oh, I see what you mean. It’s all about the duality of nature, right? That peculiar dichotomy of the innocent side versus the darker side of each individual persona. How light sheds, well, light on the two halves of – ”
“Not exactly,” said Elliot, turning from George in order to look at something, or someone, in the distance.
Across the gallery, George followed Elliot’s gaze. Elliot’s eyes seemed to be focused on a tall, stunning brunette whom they could only see in partial profile, as she was standing in the midst of what looked like a deep conversation with three other people. However, it was a bit difficult to tell as the gallery was quite crowded with the champagne-sipping critics and photography aficionados who all showed up for Elliot Trent’s newest exhibition.
“Miranda?”
“Yes. Miranda. My muse.”
George looked surprised. “I didn’t realize you had a muse. You’ve photographed so many beauties in your time – and I should know, since I’m such an avid collector of your work. I must have at least two dozen of your black and white portraits. All different women, all extraordinary. Your work, as I’ve often said, is genius – how you get so much out of your models...well, you know. But in point of fact, I don’t know where you find them. The women, I mean.
“But nevertheless, I think this must be a breakthrough for you. Of sorts. Who would have thought – Elliot Trent has a muse. Well, well.”
“It’s not what you think, George,” said Elliot, “But as to the others, I found them through agencies, like usual. Not Miranda, however. Finding her was, well, it was under totally different circumstances, and yet...” Elliot glanced at George and then turned his attention back to Miranda.
George’s curiosity was piqued. He wanted to find out how the exquisite Miranda was different from all the other beautiful women who posed in front of Elliot’s camera. “Would you introduce me to this muse of yours? I must know.”
Elliot shrugged. “I suppose so. You won’t let it rest otherwise, will you?”
George nodded eagerly.
“Then come with me.”
Elliot and George crossed the room and came upon Miranda and her small entourage.
“Darling,” said Elliot, “George, one of my serious collectors, would like to meet you.”
"Of course," said Miranda, as she turned away from the three other people - and with the one good side of her face, smiled an enchanting smile.
RJ, this is wonderful. The story has so much to say about each of the characters. You've definitely captured something long-lasting here. Thank you for sharing it with us.
Opening his eyes, Allen had difficulty focusing at first, the oddly shaped glass directly in front of him splitting and distorting the face of the young lady. "She's pretty," he thought. "Looks like one of those highfalutin models from the bar...but this isn't the bar I was at last night."
Trying to speak, he asked the lady "Who are you and where am I?"
"I'm sorry, Allen. What are you trying to ask me? You're still speaking gibberish."
Allen wiggled his tongue around in his mouth trying to work up some moisture, licked his lips a couple of times, then repeated his questions.
"My name's, uh, Madison, and I'd have thought you'd recognize your own coffee table."
Pushing himself up to a sitting position on the couch, Allen looked around, saw his shirt and pants and shoes strewn around the floor, then realized he only had on his boxers and one sock. And his head hurt. Badly. He rubbed where it hurt and cringed at the sharp pain. Looking at his fingers, he saw bits of crusty, dried blood. Fortunately, the pain helped to focus his mind.
Madison was still looking at him from across the coffee table where she'd been sitting on the floor.
"Why are you here, Madison?" he asked.
"Because you paid me to be, Allen. Well, actually, you haven't yet paid me for my time here, which is much more than my usual amount of time. Hours more."
"So what kept you then?"
"Like I said, you haven't paid me yet. You passed out. I found a glass in your kitchen and poured you some water."
"I can't believe this," Allen mumbled. "Did we do anything?"
"We were going to, but you'd had quite a few drinks. When we got back here, you started doing your own strip show before you lost your balance, cracked your head on the coffee table, and passed out."
"So you stayed all night to get paid?"
"While my job isn't technically legal, Allen, I'm not a criminal...and I certainly wasn't going to run out of here, have you die, and end up in jail for murder. I watch TV. It happens. But, yes, I'd like my money so I can go now."
"What do I owe you?"
"Two grand."
"Two grand?"
"I've been here over five hours. That's actually a discount because I didn't have to do anything."
"Well, if I'm going to pay for it, I might as well get my monies worth, pretty lady. Come on over here and let's finish what we started," Allen said, pulling off his remaining sock.
Madison rose and stalked around the coffee table, knelt down in front of Allen, facing away, and asked for help with her zipper. As he slowly unzipped the back of her dress, he nuzzled her neck, and whispered in her ear "I love you, baby. You play such a good call girl."
This is my first little Flashy here on site. I've discovered this great little venue for fun and poignant work and I'll keep coming back for more.
Understanding Image The lotus bowl reflected her image and clouded her vision. The woman pictured there had abducted, possessed the girl with dreams that used to claim the bowl. Only fractured images, scattered beneath the water’s surface, looked out at the world now.
All gone, erasing the past with her old image. A half-empty glass of milk flashed its ad from the back of a magazine she’d dropped on the table. Half of the milk, nourishing the drinker, was gone; half remained. Suddenly she smiled.
One half, her past, was gone. Half remained to nourish her. That was life.
She is looking through that crystal vase, glaring at the reflection on the marble counter again. Michele will always see her life as half empty. This is the only way to continue on within in her mind. Seeing her life as almost emptied causes her to have rushed reaction towards others. With doing this she usually pulls some silly responses that are only causing bad consequences. Like her first marriage with Peter, she found herself pregnant after being together over two years. Knowing in her heart that is was a womanizer, and a cheat, that could only make decisions under pressure. Yet it took Peter several weeks to ask Michele to marry. Then like a flip of a switch, he was a totally different person to Michele. By taking so long to decide to marry Michele, fractured his personality. Michele should have listened to all the bells and whistles sounding off in her mind as a sign that she should have the child alone. But she didn’t.
ReplyDeleteAfter the birth of her son Patrick, Peter and Michele fell into the new parent routine, the wow and amazement of this tiny little person to take care of, but as fast as this started it ended. Patrick was a child of vengeance. He would scream for hours on end. Even the neighbors in the apartment building made suggestions on how to stop that kid from screaming, but to no avail Patrick screamed for five months straight. Michele was now sleep deprived, and Peter just left the house. Michele found a spot on the kitchen floor that squeaked when she rocked Patrick and hummed to him “Amazing Grace”. She tried to show Peter, but he did not have that mommy bop to his rock.
As the key to Patrick’s screaming was unlocked with feeding him early than the Doctor advised, which finally give Michele reprieve. There were groups of hours that she was able to sleep. Michele went for her nine month check up. The Doctor took a long time examining her and then said “Well Mrs. you are pregnant.” Then informed her she was four months and three weeks pregnant shocking her completely. She had had trouble with her thyroid, effecting her monthly cycle, so she did not know that she was pregnant. She stood there rocking her nine month old Patrick, as her mouth dropped to the floor. What will she say to Peter? Michele place Patrick in the stroller, and slowly walk home. In the window of a local shop, Michele saw a beautiful vase, she needed to brighten up her day, so she bought it. Arriving home, she carefully unwrapped the crystal vase and placed it on the cold marble counter. “Now to my phone call” she said aloud to herself heavily sighing.
The phone call to Peter at work took especially long to connect in Michele’ mind, when Peter answered he snapped “What is it now?” Michele blurted out “I’m pregnant”. Peter replied, “I’ll call you back” then hung up. Michele flew into a tear full rage, crying herself to sleep.
Michele’s mind fractured that moment, things with Peter will never be the same, forever making this happy go lucky woman to think that “My glass is half empty”. When in fact it was half full, never allowing her to enjoy her children.
Michele left Peter shortly after the birth of her second son, Marty. Marty was the happiest child anyone could have asked for, even sleeping through the night on the first day he was born. Peter missed out.
©Ellenelizabeth Cernek-Kashk
This is an interesting story with so much potential. I can understand the character and sympathize, even though I've never had a child.
DeleteDOWN THE WELL OF OPTIMISM
ReplyDelete"Optimism is the hope of fools!" Miller Ryan would proclaim every time some nabob would get excited by a slight wave of good news.
"Wishin' and hopin' don't fill the pantry" he'd say in one of his positively pessimistic proverbs.
Miller was the kind of guy that needed to be shown every step of the way. He certainly wasn't from Missouri, but his show me attitude made many opportunities fall to the wayside. A little blind faith would have taken him a long way.
"Looks like the rain will let up soon" his friend once observed, causing Ryan to spout his jaded point of view.
"Sure, well I won't hold my breath, at least not until the water's chest high!"
It seems Miller Ryan came by his pessimism honestly. Mrs. Ryan had a difficult pregnancy with their first child. The medical men (Miller refered to them as "Witch Doctors") were concerned with her condition and recommended she be hospitalized. But, Ryan had no worry or time for such foolishness.
"She'll be fine." he reasoned. "I've got a good feeling about this."
His chastisement's were more for his foolery than anyone else's.
"Optimism is the hope of fools" he repeats each day that passes without his Ginny and the former future Miller Ryan Jr.
Poignant and telling, Walt. Good one that's as true to how life works sometimes as any of your poetry. Thoroughly enjoyed it.
DeleteMuse
ReplyDelete“What do you call this one?” asked George. He was staring at an odd black and white portrait of what he imagined was a beautiful woman whose face appeared to be displaced by some water in a crystal vase.
“I call it Miranda,” replied Elliot.
“Ah. Picasso inspired?”
“Miranda inspired.”
George scratched his chin for a moment. Then the proverbial light bulb went on in his head. “Oh, I see what you mean. It’s all about the duality of nature, right? That peculiar dichotomy of the innocent side versus the darker side of each individual persona. How light sheds, well, light on the two halves of – ”
“Not exactly,” said Elliot, turning from George in order to look at something, or someone, in the distance.
Across the gallery, George followed Elliot’s gaze. Elliot’s eyes seemed to be focused on a tall, stunning brunette whom they could only see in partial profile, as she was standing in the midst of what looked like a deep conversation with three other people. However, it was a bit difficult to tell as the gallery was quite crowded with the champagne-sipping critics and photography aficionados who all showed up for Elliot Trent’s newest exhibition.
“Miranda?”
“Yes. Miranda. My muse.”
George looked surprised. “I didn’t realize you had a muse. You’ve photographed so many beauties in your time – and I should know, since I’m such an avid collector of your work. I must have at least two dozen of your black and white portraits. All different women, all extraordinary. Your work, as I’ve often said, is genius – how you get so much out of your models...well, you know. But in point of fact, I don’t know where you find them. The women, I mean.
“But nevertheless, I think this must be a breakthrough for you. Of sorts. Who would have thought – Elliot Trent has a muse. Well, well.”
“It’s not what you think, George,” said Elliot, “But as to the others, I found them through agencies, like usual. Not Miranda, however. Finding her was, well, it was under totally different circumstances, and yet...” Elliot glanced at George and then turned his attention back to Miranda.
George’s curiosity was piqued. He wanted to find out how the exquisite Miranda was different from all the other beautiful women who posed in front of Elliot’s camera. “Would you introduce me to this muse of yours? I must know.”
Elliot shrugged. “I suppose so. You won’t let it rest otherwise, will you?”
George nodded eagerly.
“Then come with me.”
Elliot and George crossed the room and came upon Miranda and her small entourage.
“Darling,” said Elliot, “George, one of my serious collectors, would like to meet you.”
"Of course," said Miranda, as she turned away from the three other people - and with the one good side of her face, smiled an enchanting smile.
RJ, this is wonderful. The story has so much to say about each of the characters. You've definitely captured something long-lasting here. Thank you for sharing it with us.
DeletePAYING FOR IT
ReplyDeleteOpening his eyes, Allen had difficulty focusing at first, the oddly shaped glass directly in front of him splitting and distorting the face of the young lady. "She's pretty," he thought. "Looks like one of those highfalutin models from the bar...but this isn't the bar I was at last night."
Trying to speak, he asked the lady "Who are you and where am I?"
"I'm sorry, Allen. What are you trying to ask me? You're still speaking gibberish."
Allen wiggled his tongue around in his mouth trying to work up some moisture, licked his lips a couple of times, then repeated his questions.
"My name's, uh, Madison, and I'd have thought you'd recognize your own coffee table."
Pushing himself up to a sitting position on the couch, Allen looked around, saw his shirt and pants and shoes strewn around the floor, then realized he only had on his boxers and one sock. And his head hurt. Badly. He rubbed where it hurt and cringed at the sharp pain. Looking at his fingers, he saw bits of crusty, dried blood. Fortunately, the pain helped to focus his mind.
Madison was still looking at him from across the coffee table where she'd been sitting on the floor.
"Why are you here, Madison?" he asked.
"Because you paid me to be, Allen. Well, actually, you haven't yet paid me for my time here, which is much more than my usual amount of time. Hours more."
"So what kept you then?"
"Like I said, you haven't paid me yet. You passed out. I found a glass in your kitchen and poured you some water."
"I can't believe this," Allen mumbled. "Did we do anything?"
"We were going to, but you'd had quite a few drinks. When we got back here, you started doing your own strip show before you lost your balance, cracked your head on the coffee table, and passed out."
"So you stayed all night to get paid?"
"While my job isn't technically legal, Allen, I'm not a criminal...and I certainly wasn't going to run out of here, have you die, and end up in jail for murder. I watch TV. It happens. But, yes, I'd like my money so I can go now."
"What do I owe you?"
"Two grand."
"Two grand?"
"I've been here over five hours. That's actually a discount because I didn't have to do anything."
"Well, if I'm going to pay for it, I might as well get my monies worth, pretty lady. Come on over here and let's finish what we started," Allen said, pulling off his remaining sock.
Madison rose and stalked around the coffee table, knelt down in front of Allen, facing away, and asked for help with her zipper. As he slowly unzipped the back of her dress, he nuzzled her neck, and whispered in her ear "I love you, baby. You play such a good call girl."
Now that was unexpected! What a finish. Good work and good story, Rob. Loved it.
DeleteThis is my first little Flashy here on site. I've discovered this great little venue for fun and poignant work and I'll keep coming back for more.
ReplyDeleteUnderstanding Image
The lotus bowl reflected her image and clouded her vision. The woman pictured there had abducted, possessed the girl with dreams that used to claim the bowl. Only fractured images, scattered beneath the water’s surface, looked out at the world now.
All gone, erasing the past with her old image.
A half-empty glass of milk flashed its ad from the back of a magazine she’d dropped on the table. Half of the milk, nourishing the drinker, was gone; half remained. Suddenly she smiled.
One half, her past, was gone. Half remained to nourish her. That was life.
Wow! This one gave me the chills. In a good way.
Delete