- The Writers Voice -

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Hi all,
Sorry it's taken me so long to get another image up, but I hope you like it and that it sparks a story for you. I got the image from a friend's facebook posting and don't know who to credit, though I will gladly do so, if the person comes forward. God bless and have fun with this.

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Be patient with me. Like any good story, I'm a work in progress.

[Harry]

The Whistler

Harry Buschman


I have a few questions to ask Mr. Livingston ... five, as a matter of fact. Each one, separate and distinct from the rest. He can answer them one at a time, or all together ... doesn't matter to me how he might want to answer them. But he better answer them - otherwise he'll find himself doing time!

I had a dingy old painting hanging on my living room wall. It wasn't much to look at. It was in a dark corner. Nobody ever asked me why it was hanging there, or who painted it ... it was a family thing, handed down. Nobody ever really wanted it. My grandfather painted it the summer he worked in Marseilles, a rather dark scene of sailors walking the quay, old sailing ships tied up to the dock, seedy taverns, a woman in the shadows standing in a doorway. Dark blues and browns and a dull gray sky.

Mr. Livingston was over one evening and asked me if I'd like him to sell it for me in his Village gallery. He's supposed to be an authority on things like that. He said the technique reminded him of an early Whistler. He knew it wasn't a real Whistler and he said he'd never stoop so low that he'd sell it as a Whistler, but sometimes people can talk themselves into something -- with no help from anybody else. He said it wouldn't surprise him if he was offered a hundred bucks for it. Sixty for me forty for him. About a week later he mailed me a check for sixty dolars.

I pocketed the money. About a year later I went to a Whistler exhibition uptown at the Frick Gallery on Fifth Avenue and there was Grandpa's picture on the wall. A card under it said it was "graciously" loaned by someone named Mark Berlin, the owner.

Well, a hundred bucks is pretty damn cheap for a Whistler, but it's just about right for Grandpa's old painting ... and that set me to thinking. Mr. Berlin and I have a few questions to ask Mr. Livingston.
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We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master.
Ernest Hemingway

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Ok, this is rough, but at least it's new. Thanks for taking a look.

God bless,
Marlicia
with God all things are possible



The Protector
© Marlicia Fernandez 1-28-12 (WC 500)


Three sharp knocks, followed by an odd scraping sound against the door jamb announced a visitor. Delvroe gestured toward the entry and the door swung open. “Come in.”

“Don’t you want the password?”

Delvroe rolled his eyes. No matter how often he and Esoréd worked together, he always asked the same questions.”

“You youth is showing in your forgetfulness. If you weren’t meant to be here, you would not be in front of me now. You know this. Now come in. Or do you intend to waste time gaping on the threshold?”

Anger and indignation flashed across Esoréd’s face. “That’s not what I was taught at… That’s not how it’s done.”

“You’re not at your precious academy now, and haven’t been for some time.” Delvroe pulled a pipe from his pocket and a pinch of smoking weed from the pouch around his neck. He packed the pipe, lit it and put the stem into his mouth. Smoke rings encircled his head. “How many years have you been my apprentice?”

Esoréd strode across the room, the door swinging shut behind him of its own accord. “Four years…almost long enough to be promoted to assistant.”

“More than long enough. You are the best adept I’ve ever had, even without magic. You have brains. So why can you not remember a simple little fact? Once I hear the code you insist upon, once I am aware of your presence, I need no other means to determine who you are or your intentions.” Delvroe tapped his head and his heart. “It’s all up here and in here. My gifts serve me well.”

Esoréd grinned sheepishly. “I guess I’m just not comfortable with magic, even yet.”

“Hrrmph. I don’t know why. It’s not like it’s new to you.” Delvroe blew a smoke ring. “But Ordinaries have an uncanny ability to disbelieve what they see and hear… You must work through that defect if you want to succeed.”

“I’ll work on it. But sometimes sight out sound can be deceptive. You of all people should know that. You’re the one who taught me.” Esoréd studied the smoky surroundings and the parchment littered table at which his mentor sat. “So, what is it this time, Delvroe?”

Delvroe gestured to a covered, tightly woven wicker basket, a little larger than a breadbox. Esoréd pulled the covering from it and looked inside. “Is this what all the fuss is about? It doesn’t look like much.”

“Maybe not, but it’s more precious, more important, than anyone can imagine. The Jakali will do anything to steal it—to control and subvert it. You must see that it gets to its destination unharmed.”

“But if it’s that important, couldn’t it be dangerous also? If the Jakali want it, would it not be better to destroy it?”

“Yes, there is power to destroy here, or save, but it is not for us to say who lives or dies, only to see that they are given the chance to fulfill the potential within them.”

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Be patient with me. Like any good story, I'm a work in progress.

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What a fun read, Harry. The original owner of grandfather's picture might have gotten a fair price, but the new owner didn't. And where does the con man get off passing the painting off as a whistler and probably making a good deal of money off of it? I hope they catch him and throw the book at him. Or does the grandson want a piece of the action for himself and the new owner? Hmmm...

Nice job with this, Harry. I truly enjoyed it.

God bless...
Marlicia
with God all things are possible
_________________
Be patient with me. Like any good story, I'm a work in progress.

[Harry]

The grandson can go either way, can't he. It's one of the questions.
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We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master.
Ernest Hemingway

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He certainly can, Harry. That's one of the things I love about this little snippet. It leaves me wanting to know more...

God bless,
Marlicia
with God all things are possible
_________________
Be patient with me. Like any good story, I'm a work in progress.

[Harry]

"Delvroe, listen to me. If this thing is that important I think you've given it to the wrong man." Nice little scene, Marlicia. You've managed to convey the plot in one conversational dialogue and succeeded in creating two distinctly different characters.
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We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master.
Ernest Hemingway

[Heidi]

I liked both of your stories. I agree with Harry about your story Marlicia you gave us a great little story. I felt as if I was glimpsing into another world, just for a moment. Both your story and Harry's left me wanting just a bit more.
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It isn't the fame itself that makes you famous but what you do with that fame that does.

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