The Painted Room - Short Story

[speakmoretti]

Hi there!
I'm looking for critiques of this short story, written for my Creative Writing class last term Both general and specific criticism is welcome - I'm mostly trying to find out what people think of it.

I should probably note that whilst this IS fantasy, it is so in the loosest possible sense. I'm not deliberately aiming at a particular genre, only at a particular story.

Meg xx

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The Painted Room.


1. April


The halls at this end of the palace were deserted and unclean. Elizabeth glanced at her watch. She placed the bucket on the carpet and wriggled her fingers.

“Okay.” She spoke to a stain on the wall. “How do I get out of here?” Chewing the ends of her hair, she turned slowly. “I need a window,” she said. The dark hallway did not change, and she turned again. Grasping the handle of the nearest door she forced it open.

The first thing she saw was the face of a girl. Half hidden behind a table, her expression was caught at a moment of sly amusement. Elizabeth remained in the doorway for several seconds, and then stepped slowly towards the painted face. A myriad of colourful scenes spread outwards from the girl.

“Wow.” Elizabeth moved slowly, following the images. She wondered if every possible moment of happiness had been trapped inside these walls. Opposite the girl, the painting stopped abruptly - there was half a boat, painted with precision, and then a plain, grubby wall. Elizabeth turned back to the girl, raising a finger to touch her hair.

“Who’s there?” A pale young man edged into the room. Elizabeth jumped backwards, hiding her hands behind her back. He was gripping the bucket tightly with both hands.

She did not move.

“Who are you?” The man asked. He did not lower the bucket.

“I was lost,” Elizabeth stuttered. “Sorry.”

“I see that.” The man took a step forwards. Elizabeth still did not move.

“I was cleaning,” she said, “I thought that if I found a window…” she gestured. “Sorry.”

He stepped forward.

“I like the paintings.” Elizabeth stepped backwards into a table.

“Who are you?” he asked again.

“Elizabeth. I work here.” She gripped the edge of the table. “I’m new, I didn’t know where I was.”

He put the bucket on the floor. “No one knows this room exists-”

“I won’t tell.” Elizabeth moved sideways along the table. “Did you paint these?”

He nodded.

“Can I come back?” She asked, scratching her head. “To look.”

He said nothing.

“Please? I won’t tell.”

He shrugged.

“Who are you?” She asked.

“Joseph.”

“Oh.” Elizabeth snatched the bucket from the floor. “Sorry,” she said again, backing towards the door. “How do I?” She pointed vaguely down the corridor.

“Turn left at the end, the stairs are on the right.”

“Thank you.” She fled.



2. June


“What do you do?” Elizabeth was playing with her hair. “Besides painting. For a living?”

He dipped his paintbrush in the water. “I’m an Idealist.”

Elizabeth looked up. “You’re a-,” she laughed. “Sorry,” she said, glancing back at the floor. “It’s an unusual career…”

He continued to paint. There was silence.

“What does the king say?” Elizabeth asked. Her fingers returned to her hair.

“Excuse me?”

“The king.” She walked to the window and touched the glass - it was refreshingly cold. “It’s his house.”

Joseph laughed and stopped painting. He put the brush down and took one step towards her. “It’s my house,” he said, after a moment.

“Oh…” There was a bird in the tree outside. Elizabeth turned around suddenly. “What?”

“It’s my-”

“I heard.” Elizabeth scratched her arm and looked outside. The bird had vanished.

“Sorry,” Joseph said, “I should have told you.”

Elizabeth picked up the paintbrush and dipped it in the water “You shouldn’t ‘have’ to tell me anything.”

“I am an idealist.” Joseph squeezed more paint out of the tube.

Elizabeth smiled and raised her hand to the wall. “Yes. I see that.”

He shook his head slightly. “This is how it used to be.”

“What?” Elizabeth wiped the paintbrush on her top and held it out.

“Everything,” he said. He turned, watching the people on the wall. “I read a lot. My father kept copies of all the banned books… life was so much happier then.”

Elizabeth scratched at the paint on her T-shirt. “I wouldn’t know.”

“But it looks better,” he asked, “In the pictures?”

“I don’t know. Is anyone ever happy with what they have?”

He shrugged.

“Children still play,” Elizabeth said. The girl on the wall laughed her agreement. “That hasn’t changed.”

“Why do you come back?” He asked.

“I like it here.”

“Oh.”

“I can still pretend that I am playing, you know?”

He nodded. “I know.”



3. August


“I never wanted this.” Joseph put the book on the floor and stood.

Elizabeth nodded.

“It is my birthright, but…” He smoothed the creases in his shirt. A tiny fleck of paint stood out against the white cotton. Elizabeth pointed at it.

“You have-”

“Blue - I know.” He scratched at the stain. “I have other shirts.”

Elizabeth picked up the book and turned it over. “What is this?”

“My father kept it.”

“Is it good?” Elizabeth opened the book and turned a page. Joseph had picked up a paintbrush and placed it between his teeth. He shrugged, opened a tube of paint, and took the brush out of his mouth.

“It’s…” He touched his hair. “It’s different.”

Elizabeth closed the book.

“I don’t know why he changed everything.” He looked at the boat on the wall.

“Your father?” Elizabeth put the book back on the floor. Joseph nodded and dipped his brush into the paint.

“I don’t understand,” Joseph said. “I don’t want to understand.”

Elizabeth ran a finger along her lower lip. “But it is your birthright.”

He nodded.

“Joseph…” She hesitated. “Your father made the world a different place. It only took him weeks.”

“I know the stories.” Joseph rested his forehead against the wall.

“Change it back.”

“It’s not that easy.”

Elizabeth took a step towards him, and stopped. She turned in a slow circle, her arms raised. “Look,” she said. “This is the world you wish for. Give the people that.”

“I am a painter.”

“You are also a king.”

Joseph turned slowly. “What if it doesn’t work?”



4. September


“It’ll be autumn soon,” Elizabeth said. “I don’t like autumn.”

“But it’s so beautiful.” Joseph sat on the table and watched the painted girl. She was wearing mittens.

“It’s decaying. It’s like, everything dying before the winter.” She leant on the doorframe. There were clouds beyond the window.

“You don’t like winter?”

Elizabeth laughed and shook her head, “It’s too cold.”

“Wear a coat!”

Elizabeth scratched her face and examined the floor. “I don’t have one,” she said.

“Oh.” Joseph looked at her. “Sorry.”

She shrugged. Somewhere outside a man was shouting. “What was that?” She turned towards the window and approached it slowly. Her footsteps thudded on the wooden floor.

“They call themselves ‘revolutionaries’,” Joseph spoke quietly.

“Oh.” Elizabeth watched the man at the gates. “He’s not alone.”

“No.” Joseph raised a hand to his face. His eyes did not stray from the girl.

“I don’t understand.” Elizabeth took a step towards him, and then another back to the window. “You’re trying to help them.”

Joseph nodded and looked at her.

“You’re not your father.” Elizabeth turned her back on the window and approached him.

“I know. If I could change things... undo what he did…” He shook his head and returned his attention to the girl’s mittens.

“You can still try?”

Joseph laughed. “No,” he said, “I can’t. Look.” He took her hand and led her to the window. The mob writhed at the gates, rising and falling against the palace guards. Elizabeth stepped backwards, catching her feet on the uneven floor – she almost fell.

“Why are they doing that?”

“I’m not my father,” he said. “I set them free.” He was standing at the window, looking out. “I tried – like you wanted - and now they’ve... come for me.”

“What’s going to happen?” She asked. Joseph shook his head, and she moved towards him.
He shrugged. “Does it matter?”

“You shouldn’t give up.”

Joseph’s right hand was resting on the glass. “I should go outside,” he said.

“They’ll slaughter you.”

“I know.”

“But-” Elizabeth touched the unfinished boat.

He stepped towards her and touched her arm. “I have to try.”

Elizabeth’s finger lingered on the wall. The crowd was breaking through. Joseph closed the door gently behind him.

“You never finished the boat,” she whispered. The little girl on the wall carried on laughing.

[rol7805]

I really enjoyed the story. Hints of something larger, but you let me fill in the details. I like that you haven't tried to create too much of a world with names for nations and places and such. Still, I feel the conversation is a little too much of quick back and forth at times, I almost felt like I got verbal whiplash! Read the two characters' dialogue in different voices to yourself, and try to feel the pacing. Quick back and forth can work at times (and you should keep it some places), but try to lengthen out each character's speech at other times. Inject a little more setting. If you don't want to tell us more about the painting, tell me more about the two characters: what do they look like, wear, what are they thinking and feeling? Use all their senses. Great work!

[Anarchon]

It's interesting, but it looks like a play, all dialogue and no exposition.

As Roll7805 said, you should inject some setting, otherwise we get the impression of characters talking in the void.

[Lord_Rahl]

I liked it a lot. It does hint at so much more- ambiguous and intriguing. It made me think that Joseph wasn't actually a king, but the son of god or some such- like he created a world his father destroyed, and he created it with his paintings.

Anyway, a great read. Thanks for sharing!

[Nik]

Weird...

It reminds me of a surreal SF writer from the 60s, who wrote about mutant tortoises with leaden shells, civilisation winding down, roses freezing time etc etc...

Sorry, I can't remember who...

But his tales won many awards.