Turners to See

Turners were mostly yellow.  The sky, the sea, the reflection of the boat in the water and its image through the mist, were yellow.  I walked through halls and halls of yellow paintings, all of boats, all using minimal lines to create the cliffs and the birds and the water and the horizon.  They merged together, a collective blur.  I glanced slightly to the left, slightly to the right, as I passed.

Through large arches hung a Turner like no other in the museum.  It was black.  The oils swirled in grays and bulged from the canvas, crawling to me.  A ship — the same ship from the yellow paradises? — was engulfed in a storm.  The paint was a vortex, consuming us whole.  The sails whipped in the wind and to its mercy.  The vessel dipped into the sea, which rushed into every crevice, but I was the one swelled and weighted with salt water. Hours passed, and I walked out off the hall, still alone and waterlogged; and there were no more Turners to see.

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Turners to See

2 thoughts on “Turners to See

  1. I found this to be an interesting piece and you’re clearly a proficient writer. You’re choice of words is very effective and insightful. I have little experience of reading or writing this kind of flash fiction/ micro fiction but I’m now curious to try it myself. I would suggest that you make the final paragraph more personal. I felt the final two sentences were compelling and would urge you to emphasise a bit more that the painting is impacting you – e.g. something as simple as changing “the paint was a vortex, consuming us whole” to “…consuming ME whole”.
    At the moment I can’t seem to think of any other improvements and as always this is just my opinion! Keep going!
    -Kate

    Like

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