Flash Fiction Anthology

The portrait of a lady

The artist took a step back from his finished picture as he wiped his paintbrush with a solvent-infused square of cloth.

The strong scent of turpentine flared up his nostrils, reminding him, as always, of a forest... a place... a trip he could not remember. No.... It was more. It made him recall... home.

He shook his head and walked to the window of his studio. Nonsense. This was his home, the only home he had ever had after moving out of his parents' house which sat at the outskirts of this city years ago. The city whose roads he could see deep down, artificially straight and tree-less, crawling with people and cars.

He opened the window to let some fresh air in, then shut it quickly again as he was reminded about the price to pay for breathing the air in this place-- the unbearable noise and smell of the never ceasing traffic. He much preferred the wood scent and silence reigning inside his flat.

The young man returned to his just finished picture, letting the clean brush drop into a glass jar placed on the easel, next to many others. He observed the castle he had conjured up with hundreds of patient brush strokes on the previously blank square of canvas critically.

The bright, fragile-looking building seemed to have materialized out of the rugged veil of early morning fog rising from the depths, and stood on top of a tall hill covered in mint-green conifers, as if it was floating on a silvery cloud... The view was... eerily motionless, lifeless... Timeless.

This was the upteempth time in the course of the last few years that he felt the urge to paint this castle, a place only existing in his imagination.

He turned around slowly, observing the pictures covering every single surface of his studio. His breath caught when he realised that it had really been a long time since he painted anything else but different views of the same castle, its numerous chambers, vast courtyards, white towers, sweeping staircases and the forests surrounding it... and... the girl from his dreams.

The artist faced the wall by the window, and stared at the life-size portrait of a lady, dressed up in a fairytale-like gown. He approached it, and as always, brought his fingers gently to her full rosy lips, then to her cheek which seemed to blush under his touch. The Princess, that's how he named the painting, was breathtakingly beautiful, and perfectly lifelike.

He sighed, he had become obsessed by this fantasy, and it was growing stronger, clearer with every new dream. The young man knew that he should stop thinking about it before he went completely crazy.

But not before he... found out if this place, and his lady, were really just figments of his imagination.

He started, letting his hand drop to his side. This thought was not his, it seemed... as if it belonged to someone else. As if it was transmitted to him by the girl from the painting. The artist shook his head. Of course the place was not real, it belonged to the realm of his dreams, but... he had to make sure.

He cleaned up the rest of his paintbrushes, then set his laptop on a desk by the window. How did one look for a castle from a painting, he mused, letting his eyes stroll back to his newest picture, observing the elegant bright towers he knew so well.

It didn't look ancient. It must be... neo gothic castles he typed, then added, of Europe. It could not be anywhere else, he felt sure about it. Not too far, somewhere in the north...

The young man looked through the pictures appearing instantly on the screen of his laptop, not really expecting to find anything more than a vaguely similar building.

Until he found it-- a photograph of a castle perched on a hilltop, of the same white towers piercing through a cloud, or a veil of morning mist, rendered in the same, unusual pastel hues as in his painting.