Lessons Learned by tyk
Jan. 12th, 2005 02:02 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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ds_flashfictionAnother small attempt at looking at Ben's life after caroline's death. tyk
At eight years of age, Benton Fraser had learned the art of deflection; he was able to avoid lying, yet not actually answer the question asked. He had almost two years of practice, living with his grandparents. His newest endeavor, learning about natural dyes in order to create colored inks, had helped him to perfect his skills in deflecting. Somehow, he wasn’t sure that his father would approve of this skill to fabricate non-lies, although he thought it might be a good one for a peace officer to have. Might not one need to not tell the truth to a criminal, in order to get information from the miscreant?
Actually, part of the deflection had more to do with why he wanted to create the colored inks, than the inks themselves. His grandmother would probably approve of finding a natural and inexpensive way to create the variety of inks he had been able to produce. The journey had led him to learning more about the fauna of the area, had required hours of research in the library, and had fueled his curiosity of how the some of the First Nations peoples had learned to adapt to the unforgiving lands where they lived. He had, however, not so far shared his interests with his grandmother.
He was trying to create a portrait of his mother. That was why he thought the project would not be so welcomed by his grandparents or his father. He really couldn’t understand why they all become so solemn when he tried to ask about her. It was as if he was supposed to forget she had existed. All attempts to ask questions or remember her were cut off without explanation. Only Buck Frobisher, on the very rare occasions he came with Benton’s father, would allow Benton to talk about his mother. Buck would smile, wink at him, and say, “Ah, Caroline.”
Benton felt he needed the portrait. He was scared he was forgetting what she looked like, who she was. He knew his father had a very few pictures of her, but they were back at the family cabin, and had not traveled with Benton to his grandparents. The vivid memories in his mind were beginning to blur, become less distinct, and take on more the feel of a dream than reality. So he determined to create a portrait of her in colored inks. A portrait he would keep for himself, to help remember. If his father and grandparents would not help him remember his mother, he would help himself.
And so he had developed a plan. First he obtained the ink. He knew better than to ask for it, and so he set out to make his own. He had created several different colors of brown, for the colors of her hair; he had pale peaches and dark pinks for her face, cheeks and lips; he had bright blue for her eyes. He had also fashioned some reds, for he wanted to draw her in her favorite red sweater.
He had made some sketches, and believed he had captured the best memories he had of her. The final sketch has a profile in which she was laughing. This was the sketch he would color with his inks. He had been very careful to not let the occasional tear drop stain his sketch.
And so he created the portrait. As it came to life he was able to celebrate his own memories of his mother. She had been beautiful, loving and laughing. She had smothered him with affection much to his father’s disdain. She had been the center of his life.
When the portrait was finished, he had cried.
He then found what he hoped was a good hiding place for the portrait now it was completed. He was of an age when his grandparents expected him to keep his own room clean and to care for his own clothes once his grandmother washed and dried them. He believed that if he hung it in the back of his closet no one would be likely to find it. He could remember his mother in secret, deflecting his own need and loneliness in order to keep his grandparents happy.
At eight years of age, Benton Fraser had learned the art of deflection; he was able to avoid lying, yet not actually answer the question asked. He had almost two years of practice, living with his grandparents. His newest endeavor, learning about natural dyes in order to create colored inks, had helped him to perfect his skills in deflecting. Somehow, he wasn’t sure that his father would approve of this skill to fabricate non-lies, although he thought it might be a good one for a peace officer to have. Might not one need to not tell the truth to a criminal, in order to get information from the miscreant?
Actually, part of the deflection had more to do with why he wanted to create the colored inks, than the inks themselves. His grandmother would probably approve of finding a natural and inexpensive way to create the variety of inks he had been able to produce. The journey had led him to learning more about the fauna of the area, had required hours of research in the library, and had fueled his curiosity of how the some of the First Nations peoples had learned to adapt to the unforgiving lands where they lived. He had, however, not so far shared his interests with his grandmother.
He was trying to create a portrait of his mother. That was why he thought the project would not be so welcomed by his grandparents or his father. He really couldn’t understand why they all become so solemn when he tried to ask about her. It was as if he was supposed to forget she had existed. All attempts to ask questions or remember her were cut off without explanation. Only Buck Frobisher, on the very rare occasions he came with Benton’s father, would allow Benton to talk about his mother. Buck would smile, wink at him, and say, “Ah, Caroline.”
Benton felt he needed the portrait. He was scared he was forgetting what she looked like, who she was. He knew his father had a very few pictures of her, but they were back at the family cabin, and had not traveled with Benton to his grandparents. The vivid memories in his mind were beginning to blur, become less distinct, and take on more the feel of a dream than reality. So he determined to create a portrait of her in colored inks. A portrait he would keep for himself, to help remember. If his father and grandparents would not help him remember his mother, he would help himself.
And so he had developed a plan. First he obtained the ink. He knew better than to ask for it, and so he set out to make his own. He had created several different colors of brown, for the colors of her hair; he had pale peaches and dark pinks for her face, cheeks and lips; he had bright blue for her eyes. He had also fashioned some reds, for he wanted to draw her in her favorite red sweater.
He had made some sketches, and believed he had captured the best memories he had of her. The final sketch has a profile in which she was laughing. This was the sketch he would color with his inks. He had been very careful to not let the occasional tear drop stain his sketch.
And so he created the portrait. As it came to life he was able to celebrate his own memories of his mother. She had been beautiful, loving and laughing. She had smothered him with affection much to his father’s disdain. She had been the center of his life.
When the portrait was finished, he had cried.
He then found what he hoped was a good hiding place for the portrait now it was completed. He was of an age when his grandparents expected him to keep his own room clean and to care for his own clothes once his grandmother washed and dried them. He believed that if he hung it in the back of his closet no one would be likely to find it. He could remember his mother in secret, deflecting his own need and loneliness in order to keep his grandparents happy.
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no subject
Date: 2005-01-12 08:42 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-01-13 04:05 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-01-13 11:24 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-01-13 11:32 pm (UTC)shades of Narnia ... and then the back of the cupboard disappears and he finds he can walk through it and have long talks with his mother (which he later forgets about)
lovely, lovely story. very clever.
no subject
Date: 2005-01-18 09:23 am (UTC)