Still Life

Note: This story was an entry for the TLC - Try Your Luck Contest. To view the contest rules, click on Contest Rules:

RULES
Contest runs every month from the 5th to the 28th!
All entries must be 18+ below.
Only one entry per contestant.
NEW and UNawarded items only, please!
Add a Word/Line Count at the bottom of your piece!
See WORD/LINE LIMIT below-- at the PROMPTS section!

HOW IT WORKS
Choose among the three colored hearts below and post your choice in the forum. (I chose violet)
Each color has a hidden/surprise prompt inside.
Prompts will be e-mailed to contestants to keep them secret!

Violet
WORD PROMPTS:
The following words must be in your piece.
Put them in bold, underline, or a different color for emphasis!
Bomb  Jellyfish  Sculpture  Magenta  Artist

PROMPTS
ROUND 16 -- from here on, anything goes!!
...for Flash Fiction: 300 to 1,000 Words!
...for Poetry: 40 Lines!
...for Short Story: 1,000 to 3,000 Words!
...for Lyrics: 40 Lines (repeat Chorus/Refrain not counted)!
...for Essay: 500 to 1,500 Words!


Please submit all ENTRIES to ME through E-MAIL.
Use BITEM LINK please! Thank you very much!

"TLC -- Try your Luck Contest!!" 

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Still Life

By Indelibleink

"I'm telling you, Allison, she's got to go. She spends half her time working on her own projects and not addressing the concerns of her students. Every semester, she always has to be reminded to submit her grades, she's late for the very classes she teaches, it's...it's...ridiculous. She's become an embarrassment to the school, and that's not only a bad reflection on me, but on you and the rest of the Board of Trustees as well. Good Lord, the woman still thinks Niles is alive and well - and I wish he was - he was an excellent artist in oils on canvas - and an even better instructor - but I'm telling you..."

Dr. Philip Pennington, Dean of Fine and Performing Arts at Ketterling University, brought his fist down as if to pound the desk at which Allison Worthington sat, but apparently thought the better of it at the last second and stopped mid-air. In his early fifties, and known as a "stickler" who always went by the book, he was also a rather frail five-foot nine bow-tied individual who always seemed to avoid any real confrontation whenever possible.

Mrs. Worthington, a long-time benefactor at Ketterling as well as Chairperson of the Board of Trustees, noted the Doctor's near-miss. "Careful, Philip. Wouldn't want to pull any fibers in that tweed suit of yours, would you? My dear, we are all very aware of your concerns regarding Mrs. Barthalmes. And frankly, we don't see where Lydia and some of her antics are doing the school much good. There is little doubt that her eccentricities might have caused some parents to shy away from enrolling their children in some of our Sculpture classes. But the fact remains that the students love her; it is indisputable that she is an excellent teacher, and it would be a public relations nightmare to replace her at present." Allison loved to call the dean by his first name, as he was one of those people who insisted he be addressed as 'Doctor' by everyone, and she knew he absolutely hated to be addressed as anything else.

"Seriously, Allison, sometimes I think the old bird is flying south, if you know what I mean. One of her students told me she's been carrying on with a younger man who hangs out around the studio after hours. Yesterday, I stopped in to remind her - again - that mid-term progress reports were due three days ago, and damn near swallowed my tongue when I saw how she had dyed her hair. I mean, I know how 'artsy' the folks from this department can be, but honestly, now. Our resident crack-pot artist had her hair streaked with some hellacious combination of red and blue - more of a magenta if you will - and it was nothing shy of ghastly, Allison. It looks like she accidentally stumbled upon a new application for Mr. Clean, because her new 'do' is making the Bride of Frankenstein look like the 'girl next door'. She's got to go!"

Allison sprang up from her chair with the velocity of one who had been trapped for some time in a jack-in-the-box. "Alright, Dr. Pennington! As Chairwoman of the Board of trustees at Ketterling University, I, Allison Worthington, declare that you are hereby authorized to relieve Mrs. Lydia of her responsibilities as Sculpture Instructor at this school, effective immediately!"

This was clearly a surprise to Dr. Pennington, and probably not quite what he had in mind, as he he already begun a hasty retreat when Allison had launched herself out of her chair. "We...well...Allison, isn't there someone within the University whose job it is do that sort of thing? I mean...What if the old lady refuses? She has a rather nasty side...I've seen it! She's vicious, that one..."

Allison would hear none of it, and wagged her finger in front of Dr. Pennington's nose.  "Ah-ah-ah! Don't start that now, Philip. You wanted Lydia out, and I have authorized you, Sir, to go ahead and drop the bomb. Now, be off with you, before I change my mind! And please, close the door behind you."

As the door slowly closed, Allison envisioned the Cowardly Lion in the Wizard of Oz, and murmured, "Courage, Philip, courage..."

Moments later, when she was certain the dubious dean was out of earshot, she broke into a hysterical laugh. "Philip...Fire Lydia? Not in a million years...The man has the spine of a jellyfish..."

*      *      *      *      *      *      *

"Yoo-hoo! Anybody home?"  Fawn knew, of course, from the one-person conversation she'd heard while approaching the open door to the studio, someone was indeed home, and the 'someone' in question was her instructor and mentor, Lydia Barthalmes. Fawn, at age nineteen, was also rather 'artsy' in her own right: She seldom wore anything other than surgical scrubs - she claimed to find the simplicity 'liberating' - and was known around campus as a 'Lydia disciple'.

"Is that my favorite Studio Art 101 student?" Lydia didn't take her eyes off the sculpture she was working on as she spoke, in fact her critics claimed that sometimes she would lecture an entire class session sometimes without ever taking her eyes off of her work. Of course, what the critics would fail to mention was that every detail of Lydia's lecture would be one-hundred percent accurate, and the students unanimously loved her method of 'presentation'.

Fawn gasped at the sight of what her mentor was working on. "My God, it's - she's - beautiful, Lydia." Fawn knew full well Professor Barthalmes insisted her students address her only by her first name; students were threatened with disciplinary action if anyone dared call her 'Professor' or even 'Mrs.' Barthalmes.

"Thank you my dear. Niles approves of her, so that's a start." Niles was Lydia's husband - presumed deceased after having been diagnosed with terminal brain cancer five or six years earlier and then mysteriously disappearing - but you would never know it to hear Lydia talk. Lydia claimed to have conversations with Niles several times a day, and had been known to reprimand a student or two who apparently had the audacity to interrupt one of her conversations with Niles. The students viewed it as 'quirky', Philip Pennington viewed it as incompetency.

Fawn did a slow three-sixty around the life-size female nude, shaking her head in amazement at the skill-set Lydia had been holding back all this time. Fawn had also learned long ago it was much better to play along with the Niles thing than to argue the point. "I'm happy to hear Niles approves. This piece is absolutely stunning. I didn't know you sculpted nudes, Lydia."

"My word, Dear. I don't suppose I ever have done one before. I guess at age seventy-four it was becoming 'do-or-die' time for me." Lydia's favorite catch-phrase was 'my word'; she was known to let it fly two or three times in one sentence when she was on a roll.

"The detail is absolutely stunning, Lydia. May I ask who modeled it for you?" Fawn was certain she'd seen the face before, but she just wasn't able to put a name with the figure.

"Oh my, Fawn, I'm not sure the model wants me to disclose that information yet." Lydia stopped her work on the creation of clay and threw a canvas over her masterpiece. "I'll tell you when the time is right...I promise."

The years since the disappearance of her husband hadn't been particularly kind to Lydia. Along with the long talks to Niles, and at times, herself, the petite Studio Art instructor rarely combed her hair, mostly wore clothes the local Goodwill store wouldn't even consider offering for resale, and typically wore her slippers to the studio every day. The kinds of things the students found humorous, and Philip Pennington found deplorable.

Fawn took a folder from her book bag and produced a neatly assembled collection of paper. "Here's that 'shapes' report I promised to get to you by today, Lydia. I'll set it on your desk in your office, okay?"

"My word, Dear, I forgot I even assigned that silly thing. Yes, please put it on my desk, please." Lydia opened her grade book and placed a check under the 'reports' column next to Fawn's name, then became distracted by the sound of an emergency siren outside.

Fawn entered the old woman's office, and looked for a clear space to set her report down. She walked behind the desk to push a bunch of stuff to one side to make some space, but was astounded by what she saw. An entire stack of messages - in the form of reminders Lydia had written to herself - saying things such as 'Call Niles', 'Niles - dinner 6 PM', 'Meet Niles at such and such', etc., were strewn all over the desk. She noted a painting of a happy, youthful woman standing outside of the Ketterling Library, and it suddenly dawned upon her that this was the woman depicted in Lydia's sculpture! At the same time, Lydia poked her head around the office door.

"Fawn, may I speak to you for a moment?"

"Sure, Lydia, but can you tell me who this woman is in this painting?"

Lydia's stare was now distant, as if she were preoccupied with other thoughts. "Of course, Dear, that's me many years ago. Niles painted it before he became ill."

"So, then, that's you as a young woman in the sculpture you're working on?"

Lydia was completely oblivious to Fawn's question, as she had one of her own to ask. "Fawn, what is this?" Lydia, still standing at the door of her office, was shaking a sheet of paper. "This memo has a bunch of medical response information for students in my classes who may at some point require special care. My word, Dear, you never told me about any medical issues..."

Fawn's head drooped toward the floor. "Well, Lydia, it's been in remission for some time now, and..."

"My word, Dear, what in heaven's name is wrong?"

Fawn looked up, her eyes now filled with tears. "I have acute lymphocytic leukemia, and it's out of control now. The doctors tell me it's better if I drop out of school immediately..."

Lydia rushed to the distraught woman and held her close. "I'm so sorry, my dear, is this a hereditary thing, or..."

"If it is hereditary, I wouldn't know. I was abandoned as an infant and brought up in the Hillsdale Orphanage. Not a clue as to my real parents..."

Lydia felt herself beginning to lose the battle against the tears, but then brightened up considerably. "Fawn, my dear, I believe I may be of some help to you. I can't go into detail right now, but why don't you meet me here tomorrow night about 6:30 P.M., okay?"

Fawn was now crying harder; the dam could only hold so long before bursting. "Oh Lydia, I'm so scared. I had so many plans in my life - so many goals - so many dreams - and now..."

Lydia pressed an index finger to her favorite student's lips. "I promise I can help you get better. My word, Fawn, just be here at 6:30 tomorrow night for sure, okay?"

Fawn attempted to collect herself and nodded her affirmation to Lydia. She turned to leave, but ended up doing a three-sixty and once again was facing her mentor. "Lydia, you said Niles painted that beautiful portrait of you many years ago, right?"

"That's correct, dear."

"It's in front of the library - with the new facade - which was constructed just three years ago...."

"Just never you mind about that. You just be here at 6:30 tomorrow."

*      *      *      *      *      *      *

Fawn checked the hall clock outside of the Art studio, took a deep breath, and, perhaps five minutes early, entered the studio. Not exactly sure what to expect, she noticed a light coming from beneath the door of Lydia's office, and heard muffled whispers coming from behind that door. She was just dying to get a peak at the latest rendition of Lydia's sculpture, which was completely hidden beneath a large tarp. She began struggling with the bungee cord which secured the tarp around the sculpture. Her concentration was broken by the sound of someone kicking open the studio door - largely unnecessary since it was half-open in the first place - followed by the silhouette of a bow-tied skinny man who apparently fashioned himself as the resident S.W.A.T. expert, jumping from the doorway to the center of the studio. Yes, it was Dr. Pennington, who had initiated his own surveillance scheme in order to catch Mrs. Barthalmes red-handed.

"Ah-ha! Caught in the act, Lydia Barthalmes! You and whoever that man is in there with you - I was hiding in a maintenance closet and watched him enter your studio - both of you come out now, immediately!" He then turned to the still-startled Fawn. "I don't know what your role in this was, Miss Livingstone, but you will be held accountable for whatever you've contributed to this mess, as well."

The sound of the lock to the office door latch being released resulted in dead silence inside the studio. The door was opened, but the office light was turned off at the same time, leaving the only light in the studio coming from a low-wattage emergency light on the wall. Dr. Pennington hit a wall switch which bathed the entire room and its occupants with plenty of light.

It was hard to tell from whom the largest gasp came from - Fawn or Dr. Pennington. Out of the office walked what once had been the sculpted image produced by Lydia, only now as an actual living, human person, along with the young handsome male who Pennington had suspected was having an affair with Lydia. An astounded Dr. Pennington walked up to the pair.

"Who are you people? Where is Lydia? What are you people doing in here?"

The young woman giggled and hugged her gentleman companion. "We're looking for Lydia ourselves. We think she might have gone out the window in her office."

As Dr. Pennington raced into the office, the young beauty walked over to Fawn and handed her several sheets of folded-up paper, and whispered, "These are your instructions, Fawn. Long story short: When Niles was diagnosed with his cancer years ago, he tried many so-called cures, finally giving an old man who claimed to be a 'wizard' a chance. And guess what? Not only did Niles save his life, he regenerated into the image he had portrayed of himself in his paintings. Just like I portrayed myself in my sculpture, since my heart was on the way out. The only caveat is that for the spell to work, you must go back in age at least fifteen years. And you must create the image you wish to regenerate into. So you can come back from as late as a four year-old all the way back to newborn if you wish." Lydia grabbed Fawn's hand. "The key is that you will be healthy - no leukemia to worry about. And Niles here has confided to me - since we never had children the first time around - that he'd love to be a father this time. We'll be in contact with you over the coming months about the details - you just start working on the sculpture of that new-born baby you want to be!"

Dr. Pennington raced back into the studio. "I think I saw the old bat walking over by the cafeteria. I'm not going to let her get away this time." He again took off like a Labrador Retriever who had just spotted his prey.

As Lydia and Fawn embraced for another - but certainly not final - time, new Lydia shouted, "My word, Philip, indeed - you go get that 'old bat', and be sure to tell Allison all about it."

Dr. Pennington continued on for several more yards before the woman's choice of words fully registered, then he froze in his tracks.

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Words: 2690

Note: The violet prompt I chose dictated the use of the following words in the story: Bomb  Jellyfish  Sculpture  Magenta  Artist