This is the short story I wrote for the first round in the NYC Midnight Movie Making Madness Short Story Challenge. We got divided into groups, were given a genre and subject (in this case, Drama and ‘a going out of business sale’), and had a week to write a story fitting those constraints. Oh, and couldn’t go over 2500 words.
Here’s my effort:
Perspective
I still don’t know how to explain that day properly. I left New York that morning as a top reporter on the politics beat, sent on a crap assignment I thought was completely wrong for me. An art sale, of all things. Who on earth cares about an art sale, anyway?
My editor tried to spin it like a normal gig. “What do you mean it’s not your area? It’s a sale: economics. That’s politics. And that’s your area.” The truth was this artist had requested me. Turns out she was famous in the art world and never gave interviews (except now, apparently), making this story irresistible to my editor.
So off I went, out along I-80 towards some old farmhouse in Pennsylvania. If she was such a big shot, why no studio in New York? I’d be lying, though, if I said I wasn’t flattered that she’d requested me of all reporters. Then again, I had tickets to a Mets game that I wasn’t sure I’d make now, so I wasn’t overly thrilled at the honor on the drive out.
The drive back was very different.
Have you ever seen something or met someone so unusual, so compelling that everything after that encounter seems altered? It’s like the world shifted just a bit while you were caught up in this new thing, and afterwards nothing is quite the same. It does a serious number on the mind. And you never see it coming. I certainly didn’t.
My irritation dwindled as I drove. It was a mild day and the scenery wasn’t half bad. Driving has always been a tonic for me anyway. I reached Red Rock and managed to find her obscure back road without too much trouble. As the dirt track curled between the hills, I tried to plan how to approach this interview.
I’d Google’d her the night before: Enid Mae Terran. The results were mostly professional stuff – awards she’d won, galleries her work had been in, etc. There were pictures of her work, too, vivid plants and animals and an occasional portrait. I supposed she was good, though I wasn’t really a qualified judge. She was a naturalist and a nature artist both, and I didn’t have a clear idea why those meant different things. The only personal information available was that she’d never married or had children.
That was all I knew about her. I knew even less about art. I pulled up in front of the rambling farmhouse and sighed. This was going to be a challenge.
I got out and looked around. The farmhouse was on a small hill; it was a pretty, wooded area and there wasn’t another house in sight. Not surprising, as Ms. Terran seemed to like her privacy. Her house was a quaint two-story, complete with wraparound porch. It was in good shape, as was the barn behind it. There was a banner over the barn doors proclaiming ‘Enid’s Art Sale’ – hand-painted. I guess that was to be expected, too, considering.
There was only one other car, parked close to the house. Hers, I assumed. I frowned. Wasn’t this supposed to be a sale? Where were the pocketbooks? Crap. Someone better show up. I had planned on getting quotes about her art from some buyers, since I didn’t know anything about it myself.
Taking a deep breath, I rang the doorbell and waited. No answer. I peeked in a window, but couldn’t see beyond the lace curtains. I gave up and decided to try the barn. The big doors were ajar, so I pushed my way inside.
Not a barn; a studio. This open space was her workroom, and her gallery. And it was alive. She had arranged her work, flora and fauna interspersed, into one giant landscape. The jungle (where I stood) blended seamlessly into a scene of a redwood forest, into mountains, into plains, arctic, desert – even one corner that looked like deep ocean. It felt like I’d walked into a god’s kaleidoscope. I was at once above it and part of it, looking on all of creation in its riot of form and color. I’m sure my jaw dropped. ‘Astonishing’ doesn’t even begin to cover it.
“You must be that reporter.”
I was already too stunned to jump, but I managed to close my gaping mouth and turn towards the voice. Whatever I had expected, this woman was not it. Short and robust without being fat, she was dressed simply in jeans and a t-shirt, which should’ve been out of place in this fantastic setting but wasn’t. Her hair was grey, and her eyes surrounded by fine laugh lines. Her age was hard to place, though I knew from Google she was about fifty. Then I met her eyes, and for a dizzy instant thought that fifty was a gross underestimate; this woman was ancient beyond imagining. I blinked and it faded. Recollecting myself, I stepped forward to offer my hand.
“Yes, ma’am. Reid Leverett, from New York.”
She shook my hand with an amused smile. “Yes, I know who you are, Mr. Leverett. And please, none of this ‘ma’am’ business. Call me Enid. May I call you Reid?”
“Uh, sure.” I was distracted by the display around us. “This is… quite amazing.”
Laughter bubbled in her reply. “Oh, come, Reid, I expected a bit more eloquence from a writer. You’ll have to work on that for the article.” I grinned my agreement. She motioned me towards a small office I hadn’t noticed before. “Come sit and have some tea. I’m sure you have questions.”
That was certainly true, though my brain felt too shell-shocked to hope for coherence. I looked around again as she led me through. It was so lifelike. It would’ve been eerie if it hadn’t been so beautiful. At the door, my eye was caught by a red-furred rabbit. She had captured it just at the moment its head would’ve lifted at catching a strange scent. It was staring directly at me, eyes oddly intelligent.
“You like him?” She was watching me.
“Yes. I mean, I’ve never cared much for rabbits before, except as stew, but this piece is compelling. He’s looking at me.” I studied the rabbit again.
“He probably thinks your hair looks like a carrot patch. Now come, sit. You can wander amongst my children later.”
I sat as she poured tea. “Your children?”
“Yes, my children.” She fixed her keen eyes on me. “Would you deny that the things in the other room are acts of creation, or that I have labored to bring them into being and give them life?”
Well, put like that… “No, I can’t deny that,” I answered. “And I see why your nickname is Mother Nature.”
She smiled and handed me a teacup. “Yes, I’ve been called that before.”
Silence reigned for a few minutes while we drank. I tried to think where to start, and remembered my confusion when I first arrived.
“Enid, I don’t mean to be rude, but if this is an art sale, you’re short one very important thing – buyers. Unless you intend me to buy the lot, in which case I’m afraid you’ve vastly overestimated my income.”
Her eyes twinkled. “No, I don’t intend you to buy the lot, though if you see anything particular you like feel free to bid on it. The sale doesn’t officially start for another hour. I gave your editor the wrong time so you’d show up early. I wanted to be able to talk to you without distractions.”
My eyebrows climbed. “You could’ve just said that when you requested me.”
“Ah, but would you have come early, then? The acclaimed political writer taking time out of his busy schedule to chat with an old woman he doesn’t know about a topic that couldn’t interest him less for an assignment he no doubt didn’t want?”
I reddened a little at this all too accurate statement and tried to cover it. “I’ve been wondering about that. Why did you request me for this interview? There are dozens of reporters that regularly cover this sort of thing and would’ve jumped at the chance. They’d actually know something about art, too.”
“Anyone in the art world would know who I am and already have a bias about my work. That’s not bragging; it’s just the truth. I wanted someone fresh and impartial. And I’ve read your work; it’s very engaging. You bring things to life with your words like I do with my art. I enjoy the symmetry in that.” She sipped her tea, then looked at me again. “It doesn’t hurt that your forte is politics, either.”
I frowned in confusion. I didn’t think art had much to do with politics, so I asked.
She considered for awhile, eyes far away. “Art and politics are more alike that you think. They are both means of changing the world; they just differ in their methods.”
“Is that what you’re trying to do, change the world?”
She turned a very serious look on me. “No, I’m trying to save it.”
A dozen different responses came to mind, foremost among them something like How is a likeness of a rabbit, no matter how beautifully crafted, going to change the world? But I didn’t want to offend her, so I turned the conversation to safer ground.
“Tell me about your work. When did you first start creating pieces like the work out there? What draws you to portraying the natural world?”
She gave a half-smile, as if she knew I was being tactful. “I’ve been at it so long, I don’t really remember. The urge to create is a calling I’ve felt all my life. And what better subject could I have than Nature? It’s endlessly fascinating and beautiful, never boring.” She paused. “As for my style, I’m a naturalist simply because I feel there’s no point in trying to improve what Nature’s already perfected.” She gestured out through the door. “These are just poor copies. The real works of art are out there.” I followed her look out the window.
“I take it you’re an environmentalist.”
She snorted. “Ha. Yes, I suppose I am. I think I was fated to it, in some ways. My name, Terran, means ‘of the earth,’ you know. I hate that term, though – environmentalist. Too scientific, too distant. It implies being surrounded by something rather than being a part of it. And being a part of it, of Nature, is the whole point.”
I digested this awhile, taking in the vibrant woman before me, my gaze eventually drifting back out the door. She was very much a part of her work. And suddenly it clicked. That was the point of the whole thing, the elaborate setup in the barn: to make viewers stand right in the middle of it, be a part of it, rather than just observing from a distance. It couldn’t help but awake a feeling of connection, to see the whole web of life spread out in all its glory like that. I had certainly felt it.
“If you want to make people feel like a part of Nature, why haven’t you done a gallery like this before? It’s very effective.”
“Well, I try to make each piece individually capable of that, of awakening the viewer’s awareness of it all. To make the person, later, actually look at a real sparrow or flower or coyote, and see the beauty there, too. To make them care that such a thing still exists. I’ve done setups like this before, on a much smaller scale. But as I won’t be working anymore, I decided to go out with a bang. I have to empty the studio anyway, since I’m selling the place.”
I floundered for a moment. Was she serious? “Not work anymore? But why? Are you burnt out, or moving on to some other project?”
Her reply was very matter-of-fact. “No, actually, I’m dying.”
I stared at her, disbelieving. It couldn’t be true. That this woman, this force of creation so full of life and color, was dying seemed an abomination, a mistake.
She regarded me calmly. “I have cancer. Stage 4. I don’t have much longer to live, and what I do have will likely be spent in a hospital bed. You could look at this as my farewell party – my ‘going out of business’ sale, so to speak.” She smiled, but there was little humor in it.
I cleared my throat, unsure of what to say. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’m not looking for pity; there’s nothing more natural than for something living to die.” A flash of teeth. “I’d like a favor, though.”
“Anything I can do.”
She leaned forward intently. “If I, or my work, have affected you at all, if you find yourself more open in any way to this larger world we’re a part of, write about it. And not just in the piece about me. People who read about politics are generally the ones who care about politics and the ones who can change them. Do what you can to reach them. Am I an environmentalist? Absolutely. I very much want to save what’s left of Nature’s creation. I’ve tried to further that aim with my work. I won’t be able to continue that any longer. I’m hoping you might want to help carry on that work after I’m gone.”
I’d never particularly identified as an environmentalist before. But I’d also never encountered anything like her or that incredible microcosm of life before. “I’ll try.”
She put her hand over mine. “Thank you.”
Just then came the sound of cars pulling up outside. She grinned. “Looks like my party is starting. Stick around awhile?”
I nodded, and she went to greet her guests.
It was a huge success, of course. The place quickly became crowded and most (if not all) of her work would be sold that day. That much of her legacy would be saved, at least. I observed, snapped a few pictures, but my mind was in turmoil the whole time.
The drive back was very different. I had been affected by her, even in so short a time. I wanted to help her; for her sake, and for the beautiful things in our world that she had depicted.
I wrote the feature about her, as faithfully as I could. And I started to cover more environmental issues in my politalk column. If my editor noticed a new bias there, he never mentioned it.
I heard about her death two months later. She had disappeared from her hospital bed, and they found her outside lying under a tree, barefoot and at peace. I smiled at the thought.
Two weeks later a package arrived. The note from her executor simply said “She left this for you.” It was the red-haired rabbit. A scrawled message was attached: Reid: I think you’re meant to have him. Take care of my children. ~ Enid.