A bedtime story.
Title: The Portrait
Fandom: None
Rating: G
Summary: Possibly the happiest thing I've ever written; meant to be something of a children's story.
---
Once upon a time, there was a stick figure named Fred. He had been drawn last year by the House’s little boy and was taped up on the wall, by the coffee table.
Fred wasn’t a particularly attractive stick figure-he was the product of a kindergartener, after all. His eyes were a pair of uneven black dots, set in a face shaped a bit like a watermelon, and there was a third dot that could have been a nose or a mouth. Beyond that, he had all the typical stick figure features: four shortish lines for arms and legs, and one longish line for a torso.
In spite of his appearance, Fred was a good-natured drawing, and proud of his place on the wall.
He had every reason to be proud, since the House belonged to a family of art collectors.
Paintings came and went, sometimes so quickly that they never made it onto the wall, staying hidden in their brown paper wrapping.
Only Fred, with his crayon lines and grayish recycled paper, remained on the wall by the coffee table.
Except one day, there was a new painting.
Fred woke from his midmorning nap to find her being hung on the other wall. The Man of the House was getting down from the stepstool and admiring his handiwork, though Fred couldn’t hear what he said. He was too busy staring into the new painting’s frame, and his little stick figure heart began to flutter and bounce for the first time.
She was beautiful.
It was as if she hadn’t been painted at all, and instead the artist had dreamed her into the frame. Her hair was a cloud of yellow, strung with flowers so light and delicate that it was a wonder they didn’t lift her off the canvas. Every stroke was perfect and endless, and yet her face seemed undefined. Fred could make out the faint shading that suggested a nose and a mouth, and the thin lash-lines of her closed eyes.
But the shape of her hand on her shoulder was almost lonely. Fred wondered if she was happy in the haze of her hair and flowers and sea-blue shadows.
He wondered if that almost-lonely hand searched for another’s.
The Man of the House dusted off his own hands and went into the kitchen. Fred kept staring.
“Don’t bother,” said the jade elephant on the coffee table.
“What?” asked Fred.
“I said, don’t bother,” repeated the elephant. “She’s out of your league.
“Oh,” said Fred.
“Besides, look at her. She’ll be gone soon,” the elephant continued. He had been in the House since the Boy was born, and considered it his job to know everything.
Fred didn’t challenge this. He was only a stick figure, after all.
Weeks passed, and the painting on the other wall stayed. The Man of the House came home later and later. The Woman of the House spent hours on the phone, muttering about “the recession,” and “No Mom, Jeffy doesn’t need a new Xbox.” The corners of Fred’s paper were starting to turn brown, and he tried not to notice.
“Any day now,” said the jade elephant on the coffee table.
Two more weeks passed.
One day, the Boy was playing in the living room. He wanted to be an artist, so he was practicing on a roll of packing paper from the Man. As he always did when he saw the Boy drawing, Fred hoped that he would create another stick figure, someone to be taped up on the wall next to him. But so far, the Boy was only scrawling careful stars, the marker clutched tight in his fist.
Suddenly, the Boy was angry. He had wanted to cut out a star to show to the Woman, but he wasn’t used to the big, sharp adult scissors. The star was cut in half. Growling in frustration, the Boy flung the scissors over his shoulder.
They crashed into the watercolor. Bits of glass fell to the floor, catching the light as they went, like tiny prisms. The Boy was so surprised that he forgot to cry.
The Woman of the House came running into the living room. Fred couldn’t quite understand what she said, but it made the Boy’s face turn red and wet. The louder her voice grew, the redder and sadder became the Boy.
Eventually, the Woman stopped yelling. The Boy was sent to his room, leaving her to clean up the mess and Fred to watch with his uneven eyes. He hoped that the painting was alright.
When the living room was empty again, Fred looked down at the jade elephant, who hadn’t said anything for days. Then he looked back at the watercolor, whose lines seemed softer without the glass in front of them.
She was still beautiful. He was still a stick figure.
Fred gathered his courage. “Hello?”
The portrait’s voice was faint, unused to speech. “Who’s there?” she murmured.
“I am,” said Fred.
“But who are you?” asked the watercolor.
“I’m Fred,” said Fred.
“Fred?”
“I’m the stick figure on the other wall.”
“Oh. I’m Delia.”
Delia. The fluttering and bouncing was back. “I thought we’d never be able to talk,” Fred said. “What with you being behind glass and all.”
She laughed. The laughter wasn’t like small bells, the way Fred had imagined it would be. It was more like a dry brush on canvas. “Well, we’re talking now, aren’t we?”
“We are,” Fred agreed. He wanted to make her laugh again, but couldn’t think of anything funny to say. “How… How long were you in the frame?”
“I don’t know. It doesn’t matter,” she sighed. “I want to know about you, Fred. You sound like a very nice picture.”
Fred thought about what the jade elephant had said. “Oh, I don’t know about that.”
“No, I mean it,” said Delia. “Day after day I’ve hung here, unable to hear a thing, wondering if there was anyone around me. I’ve been so lonely that I thought I would forget how to speak at all. And here you are, talking to me. Thank you.” Her voice grew even quieter. “Thank you so much.”
Fred didn’t know what else to say, except the truth.
“Delia, I love you. I don’t care if the broken glass upset the Woman and the Boy. I’m just happy-”
Then he stopped.
“But I’m only a stick figure,” he said gloomily. “I’m not worth lots of money, the way you are. My eyes don’t match, and my arms are too short, and… And I’m in crayon, for Pete’s sake.”
Delia didn’t say anything for a while. Fred began to wish that he’d been swept up with the broken glass and thrown out.
Then she started to laugh. She laughed, and laughed, and laughed, until it became little hiccups and wheezes when she ran out of breath.
Fred was confused. He hadn’t said anything funny.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“You’re silly,” she said, hiccupping again.
“Why?”
“Because,” Delia said, “He never painted me eyes.”
Fandom: None
Rating: G
Summary: Possibly the happiest thing I've ever written; meant to be something of a children's story.
---
Once upon a time, there was a stick figure named Fred. He had been drawn last year by the House’s little boy and was taped up on the wall, by the coffee table.
Fred wasn’t a particularly attractive stick figure-he was the product of a kindergartener, after all. His eyes were a pair of uneven black dots, set in a face shaped a bit like a watermelon, and there was a third dot that could have been a nose or a mouth. Beyond that, he had all the typical stick figure features: four shortish lines for arms and legs, and one longish line for a torso.
In spite of his appearance, Fred was a good-natured drawing, and proud of his place on the wall.
He had every reason to be proud, since the House belonged to a family of art collectors.
Paintings came and went, sometimes so quickly that they never made it onto the wall, staying hidden in their brown paper wrapping.
Only Fred, with his crayon lines and grayish recycled paper, remained on the wall by the coffee table.
Except one day, there was a new painting.
Fred woke from his midmorning nap to find her being hung on the other wall. The Man of the House was getting down from the stepstool and admiring his handiwork, though Fred couldn’t hear what he said. He was too busy staring into the new painting’s frame, and his little stick figure heart began to flutter and bounce for the first time.
She was beautiful.
It was as if she hadn’t been painted at all, and instead the artist had dreamed her into the frame. Her hair was a cloud of yellow, strung with flowers so light and delicate that it was a wonder they didn’t lift her off the canvas. Every stroke was perfect and endless, and yet her face seemed undefined. Fred could make out the faint shading that suggested a nose and a mouth, and the thin lash-lines of her closed eyes.
But the shape of her hand on her shoulder was almost lonely. Fred wondered if she was happy in the haze of her hair and flowers and sea-blue shadows.
He wondered if that almost-lonely hand searched for another’s.
The Man of the House dusted off his own hands and went into the kitchen. Fred kept staring.
“Don’t bother,” said the jade elephant on the coffee table.
“What?” asked Fred.
“I said, don’t bother,” repeated the elephant. “She’s out of your league.
“Oh,” said Fred.
“Besides, look at her. She’ll be gone soon,” the elephant continued. He had been in the House since the Boy was born, and considered it his job to know everything.
Fred didn’t challenge this. He was only a stick figure, after all.
Weeks passed, and the painting on the other wall stayed. The Man of the House came home later and later. The Woman of the House spent hours on the phone, muttering about “the recession,” and “No Mom, Jeffy doesn’t need a new Xbox.” The corners of Fred’s paper were starting to turn brown, and he tried not to notice.
“Any day now,” said the jade elephant on the coffee table.
Two more weeks passed.
One day, the Boy was playing in the living room. He wanted to be an artist, so he was practicing on a roll of packing paper from the Man. As he always did when he saw the Boy drawing, Fred hoped that he would create another stick figure, someone to be taped up on the wall next to him. But so far, the Boy was only scrawling careful stars, the marker clutched tight in his fist.
Suddenly, the Boy was angry. He had wanted to cut out a star to show to the Woman, but he wasn’t used to the big, sharp adult scissors. The star was cut in half. Growling in frustration, the Boy flung the scissors over his shoulder.
They crashed into the watercolor. Bits of glass fell to the floor, catching the light as they went, like tiny prisms. The Boy was so surprised that he forgot to cry.
The Woman of the House came running into the living room. Fred couldn’t quite understand what she said, but it made the Boy’s face turn red and wet. The louder her voice grew, the redder and sadder became the Boy.
Eventually, the Woman stopped yelling. The Boy was sent to his room, leaving her to clean up the mess and Fred to watch with his uneven eyes. He hoped that the painting was alright.
When the living room was empty again, Fred looked down at the jade elephant, who hadn’t said anything for days. Then he looked back at the watercolor, whose lines seemed softer without the glass in front of them.
She was still beautiful. He was still a stick figure.
Fred gathered his courage. “Hello?”
The portrait’s voice was faint, unused to speech. “Who’s there?” she murmured.
“I am,” said Fred.
“But who are you?” asked the watercolor.
“I’m Fred,” said Fred.
“Fred?”
“I’m the stick figure on the other wall.”
“Oh. I’m Delia.”
Delia. The fluttering and bouncing was back. “I thought we’d never be able to talk,” Fred said. “What with you being behind glass and all.”
She laughed. The laughter wasn’t like small bells, the way Fred had imagined it would be. It was more like a dry brush on canvas. “Well, we’re talking now, aren’t we?”
“We are,” Fred agreed. He wanted to make her laugh again, but couldn’t think of anything funny to say. “How… How long were you in the frame?”
“I don’t know. It doesn’t matter,” she sighed. “I want to know about you, Fred. You sound like a very nice picture.”
Fred thought about what the jade elephant had said. “Oh, I don’t know about that.”
“No, I mean it,” said Delia. “Day after day I’ve hung here, unable to hear a thing, wondering if there was anyone around me. I’ve been so lonely that I thought I would forget how to speak at all. And here you are, talking to me. Thank you.” Her voice grew even quieter. “Thank you so much.”
Fred didn’t know what else to say, except the truth.
“Delia, I love you. I don’t care if the broken glass upset the Woman and the Boy. I’m just happy-”
Then he stopped.
“But I’m only a stick figure,” he said gloomily. “I’m not worth lots of money, the way you are. My eyes don’t match, and my arms are too short, and… And I’m in crayon, for Pete’s sake.”
Delia didn’t say anything for a while. Fred began to wish that he’d been swept up with the broken glass and thrown out.
Then she started to laugh. She laughed, and laughed, and laughed, until it became little hiccups and wheezes when she ran out of breath.
Fred was confused. He hadn’t said anything funny.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“You’re silly,” she said, hiccupping again.
“Why?”
“Because,” Delia said, “He never painted me eyes.”