"Phantom!" - We-Write #12 with @owasco
Thank you, @zeldacroft and @freewritehouse, for hosting the twelfth We-Write contest, We-Write #12: October Partner Week + Last Week's Winners Announced!, and thank you, @owasco, for inviting me to pick up where you left off - a daunting challenge! You come up with brilliant images, characters, and quirky, delightful, cool stuff.
The prompt by @owasco for @carolkean to continue:
Phantom
Elsie hated sunflowers. Everyone who knew her knew this, but every single time a new person came to her beautiful house on the sea cliffs of Northampton, they would have stopped at the farm stand just outside the winding dirt road to her house and picked up an armload of sunflowers for her. When Elsie answered the door and the guests delightedly handed her the huge bouquet, her face would drop, she'd toss them in a corner of the mudroom much to the visitor's dismay, and she'd usher the gawkers in without so much as a smile. She would then caution them to avoid the hooked wool rugs that were strewn throughout the house right where it would be easiest to step, so that the deflowered visitors would have to creep, hop, sidle and leap to get to the studio on the far side of the house overlooking the bay.
Her hubby, you see, had been famous, a prolific and beloved musician confined to a wheelchair. Edgar Viscardo was his name, and Moog synthesizer was his game. He'd made the instrument famous back in the seventies when he could still walk, but it wasn't until after the accident that his music became the trans-formative stuff it was in his later years. His devoted sunflower-toting followers just had to see his studio now that he was gone.
Edgar had been a bit odd. He held ones gaze with a green-eyed and intense stare. He never felt he got his fill of sea urchin at dinner, and he insisted that everyone in his presence at sunset do a celebratory dance to salute the twilight. But his oddest trait of all was that he was known to blurt out the word "Phantom!" without warning or apparent cause at socially unacceptable times, such as at funerals and civic association meetings. These outbursts, although fairly rare, were always followed by prolific periods of musical composition.
It was after these periods of mad music making that he and his wife Elsie would work together on yet another rug.
@carolkean
source: WoollyWormsRugs on Etsy
"Phantom!"
"What did you see when you shouted Phantom?" Elsie wanted to know. Edgar couldn't explain. "Did you see a ghost?" No, it wasn't like that. "What is this Phantom, some kind of Muse?" Edgar said there were no words for it.
"Not-knowing is a good place to be," he told her and re-told her with infinite patience.
She couldn't disagree more.
Not knowing was a darkness, a void, and it led only to futility and madness.
The Phantom would visit him and he would compose prolifically. Had the Phantom given him the music? He had no need to know. He just accepted whatever happened. Without question. After each frenzy of music making, his hooking needle would fly back and forth as he pulled yarn through the rug's backing material.
Those beautiful hands, that beautiful soul, so close to her, creating something with her: a rug, yes, something people might wipe their feet on, but the images drawn on the canvas came to life one stitch at a time. Together, they did this. Without her, he composed music apparently inspired by a Phantom Muse he could not, or would not, describe to her.
Let his legions of fans trample his rugs. But the sunflowers, no, let them not torment her with the sunflowers.
"What did you see when you shouted Phantom?"
Yes, she'd asked him too many times. He didn't have the answer, but she persisted.
"Why do you have to know everything?" he replied. "What can I tell you? If you could hear my heart, you'd know your name is branded on my soul. Elsie, my light, my love, I do not require a reason and a why and a wherefore; I am content with the not-knowing. I am. It's that simple! I am."
Not anymore.
Edgar was no more.
How was she to believe "all is well and all shall be well," the motto of mystics across the ages? Edgar, he who danced to salute the twilight, was suddenly confined to a wheelchair because of a ludicrous "accident"--but everything happens for a reason (right) and nothing is random; one can choose to believe that, or choose to be bitter and disappointed by life.
Edgar. Edgar! He was dead now, and it was not all right. It was no consolation that he lived on in the minds and hearts of these people making pilgrimages to his beautiful house on the sea cliffs of Northampton--their house, hers as well as his--bringing their sunflower tributes and tripping over the rugs.
"Phantom!" came a familiar voice. Elsie tripped on the kitchen rug and let fly an armful of sunflowers. It wasn't a bad fall, really, but the world went black for a minute. She smelled the coppery aroma of warm blood. Hers. Her head had struck the corner of the old wood table on her way down. A silly accident, tripping on her own rug.
From behind, a pair of hands clasped her by the ribs and helped her to her feet.
"Steady now."
Edgar's voice again! Slowly, she turned to face him.
"Elsie, you poor, dear, silly lass. Tell me you didn't do that on purpose."
"Do wha..."
He was standing. Edgar, standing! Looking so young and healthy! He held her gaze with a green-eyed and intense stare, the one that pulled her into his orbit and kept her there.
"You know I didn't trip on purpose. I heard your voice, Edgar. What does this mean?"
He laughed, with all the frenetic joy she remembered.
"Have you seen the sunset?" He didn't wait for her answer but led her through the people wandering through their house.
Literally, they walked right through them. He didn't let her look back at the body on the kitchen floor, but she heard people exclaiming over it now.
"They don't matter," Edgar said. "They don't even see us now. Isn't it lovely?"
He took her by the hand and she joined him in a celebratory dance to salute the twilight.
The Phantom's Muse Music Selection ~ Your Eyes See But My Shadow
Lyrics:
Your eyes see but my shadow
My heart is overflowing
There's so much you could come to know
You're content not knowing
Tenderly
You could see
My soul
Here in the dark I only touch you in my dreams
But will you ever hear my heart
The way it calls to you
As if your name were branded
On the very soul of me
It's calling like a child who's lost his way
"I'm here - please say you hear me calling"
Please say you see me
Please say you hear me
Please give my heart its home
Don't leave me here all alone.
A beautiful love story! I'm sitting here with tears in my eyes. Not morose!
I too saw them as a loving couple without saying so. I'm happy you picked up that piece and went with it.
Beautiful music too. How do you do that?
Do you mind if I edit my post to include this story? Or wait I will just put a link to it at the end of mine.
Thank you so much for continuing my story Carol.
ps: haha Nai Yahk! No, not the same. Worth the trip for Niles though I should think.
YES, you can edit your story and attach my half to it.
I don't need people toggling from story to story, post to post, just for statistical evidence that someone read my post. Do it! Attach it! I have your half in my post, so it's only fair.
I will revise my post to include your revision.
And maybe some goats will eat all that farmer's sunflowers before Edgar shouts "Phantom!" one more time. An omen!
I'm glad you did see them as a loving couple. I was hoping I'd guessed right on that. But the hordes of fans invading the home... eeep! Did he see it coming? Did he approve of it in advance? They're your characters. I feel weird about We-Writes and the risk of messing with someone else's people.
"The Phantom's Muse" - I was thinking of Edgar's phantom as a music Muse, so I entered phantom + muse in the google search, and this came up. :)
Holy freaking cow! @owasco started the story brilliantly, and you knocked it out of the park! I would have taken it somewhere dark if I was writing the other half too, but you surpassed anything I could have done. That was masterful. You two should write a book together or something. Wow.
OMG, I can't believe you liked it - thank you! I regret that I didn't achieve that witty, bright, ironic tone @owasco does so well, with quirky humor. Also, I'm still thinking of the story: the tourists are there because Edgar made a provision in his will that they should be welcome; they love his music; they love him; therefore, they should be allowed to invade his home and consume all the atmosphere and aura and museum-like sense of seeing the artifacts of his life. Elsie, I'm thinking, is more private, and sees the artist as one who works alone and apart from the fans. So, it might have pained her to see the feet of the doting hordes on her rugs. ("Their" rugs, but he is more open and giving of his person.) I was thinking of the invasiveness of Penelope's suitors in Ulysses, and having someone send a herd of goats into the sunflowers, and a swarm of bees into the house (knowing that bees never sting Elsie so she'd be safe), but that was more dark than comical, and I just decided to call it a day. Stay closer to the sense of #freewrite and #5MinuteFreewrite (no turning it into a novel!) - LOL - thank you so much for the kind words! (*How did I not think of goats until after I'd posted this??)
Because you never think of goats until I arrive! Hahaha! I loved the darkness of the whole piece. The invasion of the tourists made my skin crawl, and I know you are not a fan of horror writing, so good job with the creepy! The moment of her death was so perfectly written. Coppery taste of blood... You can't mask your genius. And neither can @owasco for the perfect setup. Seriously, you two should collaborate again!
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You're awesome!!
Actually if you look at @owasco's comment box in part one, I did think of the goats before you commented, but then, now that I've gotten to know you, I think of goats on a daily basis - they're right up there now with cats and dogs of you-tube as my "go-to". In fact that's what made me think of them. The leafless onset of November, the shorter days, the time of year (my sister killed in November) is just a thing that affects me even if I manage not to consciously think about it. I swear I don't even realize it's That Time of Year again until I write something dark, or I over-react to things, write a scathing review of a novel about a guy who dies and doesn't realize he's dead...yeah. Suddenly I think "Oh. November." That explains it. Being "Aware" doesn't stop the unconcsious from setting me up for another fall... but now my excuse is handy whenever it happens again. :)
Thank you again for all your kind comments. I am no genius, but far be it from me to argue against any such claims! I need more of @owasco's humor...
And I meant to say you DID inspire the goat idea that didn't make it into the story.
And you are a fantastic writer, with so many of your own original and awesome stories to tell, and so much knowledge, authenticity, and descriptive detail. You're totally a natural at that. I am not. Look at the richness of @owasco's details and the abstract (lacking in specific, concrete details) of my half. Yeah. You're the natural writers!
holy cow I'm just getting to these comments! I had no idea we'd sparked such a conversation. I had no idea there had been such wonderful things said by @goat-girlz, who really might want to someday sort of like consider continuing a wewrite herself. It's super fun and nobody judges you! Except maybe @carolkean, who can often be far too hard on herself.
I like what we both wrote, a lot, and hope to get back to it someday TOGETHER. but I've joined a womens's chorus and I am one of the very few in it who is not a professional singer, so I've been working on the music. Which is what I used to do when I wasn't writing, or dancing, or gardening, or cooking, or walking my dog and cat.
You don't consider yourself a professional singer? You have the talent!
You walk your cat? On a leash? Bobi the Bad wouldn't agree to that (we tried).
I like our we-write too! Unfortunatey I bumped off Elsie, but a revised and expanded version could save that for the very end,..
And ditto that on @goat-girlz, our talented writer who doesn't find time to write much--our loss!!
Very nicely done, the phantom pair finally reunited.
thank you!
Great story on both ends, @carolkean and @owasco! I do not know how you can do this being the non-fiction type myself. I'm so glad you two got together to create this work :)
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Thank you so much!
You're welcome, @carolkean. I am so glad to be a part of freewrite to get the chance to see work like this :)
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Thank you!!!!!
OK, I see how it is.
I think it's lovely that the story ends with both becoming 'phantoms'. They wove the rugs that made it so.
Oooh, I like this: "They wove the rugs that made it so" (for her to become a phantom with him).
Thank you for reading and adding your insights!
That's a really nice interpretation of the rugs.
A nice continuation. Actually not a continuation but a separate piece as it exists in almost polarly opposite cognition. @owasco presence is derisive, almost caricature, while yours is of a sentimental rhapsody.
I liked how softly and smoothly you waltzed away from the enigmatic hint left by @owasco and filled the story with the endearing soul plucking smoosh (smoothie).
Great job!
ohhhh man, this is why I'm so daunted by we-writes. From @owasco's "derisive, almost caricature," I shift to a "sentimental rhapsody." You articulated that very well. All I could figure was that the wit and humor were washed out of the second (my) half.
Please oh please spell it out for me: what is the "enigmatic hint left by @owasco" that I bypassed?
Thank you for reading and commenting!