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Tweak says, "I am the walrus!"

Thomas/Fitcher (edgeoftheworld) wrote in light_of_may,
@ 2010-09-12 00:00:00

Entry tags:

2009-07-26

Hello Again, Friend of a Friend...
Who: Thomas and Gretel
What: A surprising trip down memory lane
When: Late afternoon
Where: The Ann Arbor Art Center in central Scarlet Oaks

The passage of time was something Thomas no longer really noticed. Every day was another in a long chain of days that stretched into weeks, months, years, decades. Thomas had been a ghost for over half a century at this point, he had nothing but time. At least the Art Center was a more pleasant environment than his last location. Hanging around the old man's house had been one of the most boring experiences of his entire un-life. Thom wasn't sure if he believed in hell, but watching someone microwave TV dinners and scratch themselves for over 30 years was pretty close to his idea of it.

Thom enjoyed watching the classes held at the Art Center, however, and it was nice to wander the gallery when it was closed. He could study all the paintings in quiet and reflect upon each work. Still, it bothered him—being somewhat tethered to his painting—particularly because the work inspired such dark memories.

“Miri's Walk.” That's what he'd entitled it, before packing it off to his sister to keep. Really, could he have chosen a more morbid name for what turned out to be his last work? It was no wonder the painting was haunted, even if he, himself, was the one who did the haunting.

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tenth_life
2010-09-24 06:28 pm UTC (link)

Gretel didn't "get" art.

Oh, she could admire a gilded curve or precise brush stroke, the shine of a sculpture or the rise of a steeple, the delicate lusciousness of fine ivory. But to her these things were matters of taste, not passion. What she found beautiful was seldom impractical or artificial. And art, in Gretel's opinion, was too often too blatantly both.

Her husband disagreed. Marlow's interest in art--be it paint or marble--had always been effusive. He'd run half around the world for a chance to hold something he deemed worthy--and often did. Gretel had endured many miles indulging her husband's obsession. Paintings especially were a favored weakness.

It was funny, Gretel thought, walking into the empty gallery, how things worked out.

The gallery had been a mild inspiration. A whim, really. Gretel had only meant to peruse its catalog for an idea of the local art scene. Supernatural means would be a poor choice for tracking down Marlow. Aside from her significant lack of power, there was also the heavy risk of tripping an alarm or attracting unwanted attention. Art seemed the safest bet, if not the most expedient; Marlow would never forgo his prime obsession.

Like he did his wife? Gretel's mind provided spitefully. She kicked the thought away and checked her watch. Another two hours before the gallery reopened for its afternoon shift and it'd take half that time for the security guard to surface from enchantment.

Amazing how well a bit of pudding could muddy a man's mind...provided it was made by the right hand.

Humming under her breath*, Gretel walked towards her target.

"Goodnight, sweetheart, till we meet tomorrow..."

The gallery was a whim, yes, but what she found in its catalogs was nothing short of a miracle. She'd gaped and then outright laughed--laughed till she was blue and breathless and helpless with the sheer, wicked irony of it.

"Goodnight, sweetheart, sleep will banish sorrow..."

The painting wasn't particularly grand, but then grand had never been his style. He hadn't been very fond of human subjects either, she remembered. Landscapes and homey views, rocks and waves, that had been his meat of choice. Marlow adored them. What was he'd said about the man once--ah, yes.

"He paints as if possessed by truth," Gretel quoted softly. She smiled. "Thomas. Poor, poor Tom. A little too honest with your emotions in the end, no?"

Arms crossed, Gretel considered the canvas before her. Too sad, she decided. Grief soaked the painting like rum a cake. Her eyes softened slightly at rereading the work's title.

"My dear, little maeuschen**," Gretel sighed, more tired than sad. "How many did your fall break..."

(OOC: *Goodnight, Sweeatheart, 1931
**maeuschen: German, "mouse". Gretel's nickname for Miri.

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