SL Cantor / Short Stories
FoundÂ
A sculptor finds inspiration for her final work from an unusual source.
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" The mist comes in off the sea in the evening but her skin already glistens. In the fading light she surveys me, drinking from her glass of water. Sometimes she pours the water over the pulses at her wrists and presses them to her face. Then she works on. It is black at the window before she stops. I wait while she sleeps. She lies quietly for an hour, then she begins to cry. She sits up to reach for her pills and the water. She looks at me as she swallows them. I want to speak to her. To tell her there is time..."
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The Way Out is Through The DoorÂ
- Why is it that no-one will use that method? - Confucius
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" It is dark in here. Of course, that is nothing to remark on. It has been dark for as long as I can remember. The dark is uncommunicative, unfortunately. It conveys little meaning and none of any richness. It is not, say, the velvety black of witching midnights; nor is it the iridescent black of the murderous oil spill. This dark is more of an absence. To be precise it is an absence of colour. This absence no longer evokes anything of any interest to me. It merely summons, as usual, the familiar background emotions of dread and horror which have become my constant companions."
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The CedarÂ
A young boy finds strength to cope with a difficult situation through his relationship with a tree.
"It’s a Cedar of Lebanon. The tallest tree in our garden by far. In our road by far. Sixty foot at least. People are often surprised to see it there. Apparently, you usually only get them in big parks or the grounds of manor houses. They’re too big for normal gardens but I’ve never known any different so it looks right at home to me. The old man who had our house before us told Dad that it came from Chelmsworth Estate. It’s true they’ve got them there. I’ve seen them over the wall on the bus to school. Five of them, just like our one, marking out the sky in steps..."
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The Painting
 " I bought the painting from a small gallery off Brunswick Lane in West London. The gallery was recommended to me by a friend for its eclectic collection of artworks. There’ll be something you like there, she’d said. And she had been correct. The little seascape drew my eye at once. It was a painting of the coastline of the Isle of Harris which is a rather desolate rainy island off the west coast of Scotland. But there was no desolation in the painting. The colours were quite remarkable; lilac, ochre, and in places streaks of vermillion which should have looked wildly out of place but did not. I was pleased with my choice; it having been an instinctive one, from the gut, and I looked forward to being congratulated on my taste by the proprietor, as is usually the case. However, he said nothing, but lifted the painting off the wall with a barely concealed sneer on his hook-nosed face..."
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