Robin Camille Davis
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Flash Fiction Friday: A Portion of the Autobiography of James Amasamo, a Famous Artist

July 25, 2009
Tags: fiction

A Portion of the Autobiography of James Amasamo, a Famous Artist

Painting was a hobby I had picked up to fill the days at camp when my eyes were good. An odd compulsion gripped me to paint in only blue and grey, charcoal and lapiz lazuli. The abstraction was a bit much for people at the time but one of the other soldiers was a painter, too, and he encouraged me, and I thank him for it.

After that, the other soldiers came to visit me more often. I gave them snow peas and zucchini while they talked around my bed in my room. They always played poker, something I resented, but they also brought stories in with them, stories from the field. Their tales of action and movement made me antsy to start doing something else.

Gardening became a sort of temporary pastime. What else could I do? It was lonely but I bargained my way into friendships by bartering vegetables for cigarettes. For men who had for months been deprived of fresh carrots and celery, it was too much to resist.

For men so long deprived of beautiful women — or even plain women — Nurse Eriksson was heaven-sent. I couldn’t see her, of course. But I heard her voice and felt her hands. She was gentle when the other nurses were not, and she was more educated than anybody else in the camp. She took care of me for weeks. Daily, I would ask her to recite some poetry to me. Looking back on it, she may have been reading from a book, but she assured me she wasn’t, and I believed her. I can still remember the beginning of that Robert Browning poem, pronounced slowly in that olive oil voice of hers. She told me my eyes were getting better. One day, when I was able to walk, she helped me limp out into the garden.

I suddenly felt hands dragging my body over the dirt and down the hill. Were these the hands of the enemy? Was I now a prisoner of war? I mumbled something but I was too weak to protest overmuch. My vision was blank, black. Cool hands cupped my burning cheeks, the hands of Nurse Eriksson.

My eyes opened. Above me the tree limbs blurred into each other in front of a deep blue sky. Like a serpent, a grey cloud slithered slowly into view, followed by an angrily black cloud that blossomed and took up every corner of my vision. I smelled something burning and knew I had to get up and run, but I couldn’t.

An explosion rocked through every bone of my body and threw me aside like a doll. After the initial blast, I couldn’t hear anything else. I lay on my back, praying I would evade death.

My eyes opened. Above me the tree limbs blurred into each other in front of a deep blue sky. Like a serpent, a grey cloud slithered slowly into view, followed by an angrily black cloud that blossomed and took up every corner of my vision. I smelled something burning and knew I had to get up and run, but I couldn’t.

I suddenly felt hands dragging my body over the dirt and down the hill. Were these the hands of the enemy? Was I now a prisoner of war? I mumbled something but I was too weak to protest overmuch. My vision was blank, black. Cool hands cupped my burning cheeks, the hands of Nurse Eriksson.

For men so long deprived of beautiful women — or even plain women — Nurse Eriksson was heaven-sent. I couldn’t see her, of course. But I heard her voice and felt her hands. She was gentle when the other nurses were not, and she was more educated than anybody else in the camp. She took care of me for weeks. Daily, I would ask her to recite some poetry to me. Looking back on it, she may have been reading from a book, but she assured me she wasn’t, and I believed her. I can still remember the beginning of that Robert Browning poem, pronounced slowly in that olive oil voice of hers. She told me my eyes were getting better. One day, when I was able to walk, she helped me limp out into the garden.

Gardening became a sort of temporary pastime. What else could I do? It was lonely but I bargained my way into friendships by bartering vegetables for cigarettes. For men who had for months been deprived of fresh carrots and celery, it was too much to resist.

After that, the other soldiers came to visit me more often. I gave them snow peas and zucchini while they talked around my bed in my room. They always played poker, something I resented, but they also brought stories in with them, stories from the field. Their tales of action and movement made me antsy to start doing something else.

Painting was a hobby I had picked up to fill the days at camp when my eyes were good. An odd compulsion gripped me to paint in only blue and grey, charcoal and lapiz lazuli. The abstraction was a bit much for people at the time but one of the other soldiers was a painter, too, and he encouraged me, and I thank him for it.

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Don't forget to read more Flash Fictions from Crow and Caiti. Every week, one of us comes up with a prompt. Can you guess at what this week's is?