Fatal Portrait

self portrait as voyeur . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 108

BEELB

A POEM BY DR. RIEUX (Or Dr. Seuss Meets the Apocalypse) . . . . . . 109

MichaelSalcman, Innisfree PoetryJournal: Number 34, 2022

Woods and Back . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 110

KiahBecker

Rocky Mountain National Park . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 111

KiahBecker

Tent Rocks . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 112

KiahBecker

Contributors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 113

JeffAmato

Elizabeth finds herself shrouded in darkness. The last thing she remembers is lying on her bed at Shady Pines, waiting to die. She spent her days lying in bed. Like a dying red rose, her body withered away and became decrepit. The Lord may have taken much, but her hearing was sharp, becoming more astute when her other senses left. She would lie and listen to the sounds of the decaying house around her. The creaking of floorboards ready to snap under the weight of the robust attendant; rattling of rusted sewage pipes; humming of static as electricity radiated from the silent television screen; clicking of rodent feet smacking and scratching, squeaking and sliding on metal, wood, drywall, and cement. She would lie there and listen to the silent whispers emanating beyond the paper-thin floral-printed walls. “Room 121, the widow Mrs. Liz. Poor

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dear soul, it’ s as if she ’ s waiting for grim death to take her and reunite her with her husband. Been here seventeen years, that one. ” One night, engulfed in the darkness of her cubicle-sized room, Elizabeth listened to the rain beat against the dilapidated house, differentiating the sources of the sounds. The rain against the window produced a gentle tapping; a rough smattering against the bricked exterior; from the overflowing leaf-clogged gutters, a heavy and rough cascading downpour. Then, through her paper eyelids, spots of yellow and red disturbed her personal darkness. Her eyes sprang to life, and through blurry vision, she saw a light outlining the drawn curtain, framing the window in all its splendor. She reached for her glasses on the nightstand next to her bed and slipped them on, bringing the world into focus. She exhausted herself, forcing the covers from her body. Years of inactivity and malnutrition ravaged her, making her eighty-eight-year-old physique almost incapable of such drastic movements. With great effort, she compelled her body to follow the demands her brain issued until she was sitting on the edge of her bed; all the while, her gaze never abandoned the window. She rose from the bed in sporadic slow movements, shuffled and dragged her feet to the window, and drew the curtains. Pure white radiance engulfed the room, but she dared not look away as she saw two silhouettes dancing in the distance. She held her hands in front of the window, hesitating as she felt the discharge of heat. Darkness was gone, the rain dissipated; she felt like her body and soul were merging with the light. This mustbe whatdeathis like. Are angels coming for me?This is whatI’ ve been waiting for, butam Iready? Elizabeth reached forward, placing her hands on the glass, embracing the light, and in an instant, it gathered around the dancing figures and imploded, filling the room with darkness. She was falling and drifting into a deep well with no end, a rabbit hole of her own creation --darkness. Darkness in the understanding. Darkness in reality --internal, external. Somewhere, a final candle faded, and all that was left was smoke drawing gray shadows. Fade to black.

Elizabeth awoke shrouded in darkness, lying on a rugged carpet placed over wooden planks. Her head felt clear. She rose with little effort; her old bones no longer struggled to find strength. Bathed in a lightless

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world, she rubbed her eyes with the knuckles of her index fingers, trying to adjust to the darkness; instead, the harder she pressed, the more she saw the embedded image of two illuminated figures dancing in the distance. She stretched her hands out in front of her, searching for anything tangible. Extending her arms to her side, she paddled her hands, soft and gentle, as if she was lost in a vast ocean trying to keep afloat, and with the tips of her fingers, she glided them on a flat rough surface. As her fingers slid across the walls, she heard the familiar hum of electricity. She turned around and saw the distant flickering of a ceiling light, and below was a framed picture of an image too distant to take shape. Elizabeth urged her body forward, spending little effort. The further she walked, the more distant the image became. She stopped and placed her hand against the wall to gather her composure. As she felt the coarse texture of canvas, hundreds of lights sprang to life, revealing the hallway where she stood. Under each light appeared a painting. Her hand rested upon an impressionist painting with a white frame. The grays, blues, whites, and reds blended, creating a foggy image, but the visuals of a woman with her hand on a cradle, in which a baby is resting, were distinguishable. The gently swayed brushstrokes alluded to the baby being rocked back to sleep ’ s comfort. Elizabeth is reminded of the nights her mother would spend rocking and persuading a distraught baby back to sleep. As she caressed the canvas, one by one, tears followed the curves of her cheeks, rolling down her chin, tapping the rhythm of sorrow on the crimson carpet. Elizabeth continued forward, making her way to the image below the flickering light. She shuffled her feet, slowing her pace as she examined each painting: a young girl riding her bike in an empty leaf-canvassed street, a distant father and daughter standing on a beach allowing the ebb-tide to bathe their feet, a young woman smiling, holding a brown and black German Shepard in a barren apartment where boxes lined the walls. As Elizabeth made her way towards the image below the flickering light—progressing slowly, as the closer she got, the hallway seemed to expand further—she halted her movement when she happened upon a painting of a blanket and a wicker basket in the middle of a blue field. She reached out her hand, gliding her fingers across the ridges of the red frame. Slowly she drew her fingers to the canvas, which created ripples in the painting as if a pebble was dropped in a still pond.

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Elizabeth felt the wind caress her neck as her hair drifted towards the fire-like sky. She ran her right hand across her face, feeling the smoothness of her almond skin. Holding her hands in front of her, she was astonished by the manicured nails, the slim fingers, the absence of veins and loose skin. She heard the gentle flapping of light wings as a black-winged butterfly fluttered by, landing on the tip of her right index finger. The butterfly expanded its wings, revealing spots of amber along the wings ’ borders. The black butterfly began to flap its wings until the movements became slower and slower, then it slipped off Elizabeth’ s finger, floating into the palm of her left hand. She watched the poor creature undulate its six legs until it inevitably collapsed and ceased movement. She held it in her hands and watched the black wings become gray, then crumble to ash and drift away in the wind’ s cool breeze, dissipating. Her eyes began to swell, then blur, filling until the dam burst, and a single tear rolled down the curve of her face. A rough-gentle finger brushed a strand of auburn hair that was out of place. “There ’ s no need to shed a tear, my dear sweet, Elizabeth. ” A voice, soft yet rugged. Her eyes slowly shifted from her ash-stained palms to a familiar, comforting voice. “Frank!” Elizabeth cried as she threw her arms around his neck, burying her face into his firm chest. “Why does my darling feel so much sorrow?” Frank said as he caressed the back of Elizabeth’ s head with his right hand, intertwining his fingers with her thick, wavy hair. “I… ” Elizabeth said. “ …I am exhausted by all the pain that accompanies life. I cannot comprehend such beauty when all beauty will inevitably die. ” Frank slid his hand from her head, taking her chin in his palm, prying her from the safety of his chest, until he was staring into her wide brown eyes, and she, staring into his hazel eyes; as though it were the first time. “Do you remember the day we met?”

cloud. ” “You came to me, ” Elizabeth said. “You said you sensed a dark

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“An aura, I said. ”

“Yes, an aura. Then you asked me to dance. I was inclined to say no, but you had a way about you, ” Elizabeth said as the left side of her mouth began to curve upward, “ a gentleness that made it feel as though my darkness could fade. ”

“And do you remember the story?” he said, holding her hands, raising them to his lips, and kissing them with soft taps. “The one I told you as I held you, and you swayed in my arms?” “It was a sad story, about Apollo and the woman he loved— ”

“Daphne. And what made it so sad, my dear?” Frank said, sliding his thumb along the side of her face, collecting her tears.

“Because Apollo loved Daphne with such passion, but she would never love him back. ” “Cupid’ s cruel trick, ” Frank said. “A sharp gold arrow for Apollo. One blunt and lead for Daphne. Apollo chased her far and wide, but she continued to flee and eluded his grasp. Exhausted, she pleaded to the River God to transform her body. She would rather be relieved from the confines of her natural form than accept Apollo ’ s love, for that was her curse and one Apollo must bear. She was stripped of flesh and blood, for bark and sap. ” “It’ s a sad story of love ’ s cruel fate, ” Elizabeth said.

“You might think the story has a painful end, but I think it has quite a spectacular ending. When her body changed, Apollo adorned a crown made of laurel to honor her memory. The very laurel that Daphne became. Daphne ’ s memory is forever displayed upon Apollo ’ s head. A reminder that his love for her is eternal and her beauty always will be. ”

“But I cannot comprehend a beauty that will never die. ”

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“I can because I am staring at the source of all beauty. And even as your body will inevitably shed its features and you will leave your physical form, ” Frank said as he took her right hand and placed it on his chest, “the memory of you and your beauty will remain forever here. ”

The field of blue arose as thousands of butterflies filled the vastness of the orange sky, revealing a sea of green. Tears began to paint the side of Elizabeth’ s face as she grasped Frank’ s cheeks in her tender grip, pulling him closer, closing her eyes, and feeling the firmness of his lips against hers. He took her hands in his, lowering them to her lap. She opened her eyes and found that the field, blanket, basket, and butterflies had dissipated. She was holding Frank’ s aged hand as he lay in a hospital bed, the beige covers pulled to his chest. Machines thumping to the rhythm of his quiet heartbeat. “There ’ s my beauty, ” Frank said with a fading voice, struggling to catch his breath. “Don ’t speak, my love. ”

“If I don ’t speak, then how will I express my love for you. ”

“I’ m not ready for this, ” Elizabeth said.

“Remember the butterflies. Everything, one day, will fade to make room for more beauty. Just because we will depart does not mean our beauty will die. In our memories, it will live on forever. I will be a part of you forever. ” Frank’ s hand became limp in hers as the constant beat of the machine altered to a prolonged note, one with no end. Elizabeth collapsed on the chest of her lifeless husband, wishing that her heart had stopped as well. Closing her eyes, succumbing to the darkness, leaving her soul in that hospital room, she couldn ’t feel Frank beneath her, nor could she smell the stale air of death. Slowly, she opened her eyes, blinking the world into focus; in front of her, was a painting of a woman holding the hand of a dying man. She was in the painted hallway staring at an endless stream of memories as the lights, one by one, began to burn

The Wayne Literary Review: Escapism