In Her Own Image

"Art be damned!" A woman's bitter voice echoed down the marbled corridor of the university's art building. "I'm through! I goddamn QUIT!"

Kelly Holman gripped the phone receiver with suddenly-white knuckles and apologized: "Sorry—I've got to go. It sounds like Ariel's in one of her famous moods." Hanging up quickly, she urged her wheelchair down the hallway. "Ariel …?"

With a dramatic glare, Ariel Stevens slammed her painting against a refuse can as Kelly rounded the corner, shouting, "I have been stepped on, struck down, and stamped out for the very last time!" She kicked it until it smashed. "I REALLY QUIT!"

Kelly winced at her friend's violence. "Wait, Ariel … wait," she cried. "It can't be that bad, can it?"

With a silent arch of her manicured eyebrows, Ariel stormed out of the art building and stalked down its concrete ramp toward the student-union cafeteria. As Ariel disappeared, the building's heavy glass doors momentarily slowed Kelly.

Hoping her friend could be reasoned with, Kelly caught up as Ariel paid the cashier. "More trouble …?" she chanced. "Who this time … Glover?"

"Glover! Hah!" retorted Ariel, slamming her tray onto a high-visibility table. "That pig-headed, egotistical fool wouldn't recognize talent if it bit him."

"Calm down, Ariel," admonished Kelly gently, "Don't say nasty things when you're so angry …"

"Damn right, I'm angry," interrupted Ariel, stabbing a fork into her salad. "That meddlesome … martinet refused my painting. Refused it! I've never been so humiliated in my life."

Kelly shook her head. "Late with another assignment?"

"Well …" the fork paused. "Sure I was a … a little late … but I still finished it. And it was a damned good piece, too. Right on the mark."

"A little late!" snorted Kelly, in spite of herself. "As long as I've been Norman's teaching assistant, you haven't completed a single assignment on time. If you can't take the humiliation, Ariel, perhaps you should re-evaluate its source."

"Yeah … its source. Right!" Face poised indignantly over the straw of her soda, Ariel snapped, "I'm an artist. And my art doesn't march to the programmed agendas of petty dictators."

Clenching the padded handles of her wheelchair, Kelly swallowed with exasperation. "You MIGHT become an artist … someday. IF you pay attention to the lessons. IF you do them on time. IF you stop smashing things in anger. IF …" Kelly took a breath, stopping to calm herself. "… if I live long enough," she whispered.

"What's that supposed to mean?" demanded Ariel, taking another noisy sip. "Is scorn the price I pay for social acceptance? Is ridicule my reward for participating in activities my peers enjoy?" She twisted fingers through her blonde hair.

Kelly's hands were sore from the hasty pursuit and her back hurt from bouncing along the sidewalk. She was weary of being Ariel's peacemaker. "We've been friends since grade school, Ariel. You've done some really nice things for me, and I'm grateful." She felt the dull beginning of a headache.

"But, honestly, you don't try hard enough, All you care about is … is surface. Clothes, surfing, music … art—you name it. If it's popular, you always push into the front row. Norman Glover is the hottest painter in the world right now, so you're here to cash in on his celebrity … and it helps that I'm his teaching assistant.

"But you can't mimic art … or be an artist simply by wearing paint-stained smocks," Kelly added. "You've got to pay some dues; show some results."

"Who've I ever mimicked?" Ariel glowered over the last of her salad. "What's wrong with being creative in my own special way?"

Kelly sighed. "You'll never learn, will you?"

"What's to learn? This kindergarten trifling," grumbled Ariel. "It's so immaterial—skip the lecture."

"Hey!" Kelly snapped. "The great painters—Leonardo, Picasso, Rembrandt—they did more than three, four paintings a year. They developed their styles and techniques by painting constantly … conscientiously; hundreds of canvasses, until they thoroughly understood the mechanics of the medium. Then," Kelly wagged an accusatory finger at her friend, "and only then did they go out and become artists."

"So?"

"So …" Kelly sighed. "Ariel, you need to do these assignments. Norman has a reason for assigning them. Creativity follows effort … patience IS a virtue. Do things on time, and you'll be better off."

"Some people," huffed Ariel, "are content to be followers. I intend to shine forever—like a comet. People will remember me."

"Comets don't last," whispered Kelly. "Nothing's more insubstantial. You'd know that, if you studied harder. Comets always fade away."

"Yeah. Well, a girl CAN dream, can't she? Thanks for the big vote of confidence, Kelly." Ignoring her own tray on her way out, Ariel paraded past a BUS YOUR OWN TABLE sign.

"Well," muttered Kelly as Ariel disappeared again. "Dreams don't just happen by accident." She dropped Ariel's napkin to the tray and wheeled it over to the clean-up station.

* * * * *

Dr. Norman Stimson Candler Glover, MFA, Ph.D., chairman of the university's art department—and world-renown painter, as attested by cover articles in TIME and People—addressed his painting class: "Trompe l'oeil is a distinctive school of realism, in which objects are depicted as if photographed. Literally, the name comes from the French words: 'fool the eye'."

"Now we're getting somewhere," whispered Ariel. "I can paint so it looks like a photograph."

Kelly hushed her, as Glover continued: "Trompe l'oeil is art's equivalent of the fantasy novel. The style carries little tangible weight, but it is useful for developing your technical control."

The professor displayed several printed examples. "Note how these juxtapose quixotic elements against down-to-earth settings. Especially notice how the bas relief effect seems to move with you as the angle of viewing changes." He turned one of the examples to demonstrate.

"I expect that you will jar your viewers with a sense of the preposterous; make your paintings unexpected. Microscopic detail should be used as your illustrative tool. And remember, have fun with your painting."

"Here's the assignment, Ariel," advised Kelly. "You'd better listen."

"In four weeks, you will each submit a completed trompe l'oeil for examination and grading. Size, subject, composition, and choice of medium are at your discretion. Some of you …" Glover fixed Ariel with a stern look, "… may use this assignment to redeem yourselves for work not previously accepted. A full critique of each piece will be conducted during this class by Ms. Holman and myself. Until the due date, all class time should be used to discharge the assignment."

As other students gather to study Glover's examples, Kelly wheeled on Ariel. "That's not much time. He's going to watch your progress."

"I'll manage," sniffed Ariel.

"Don't blow this one, Ariel," cautioned Kelly. "He's being conciliatory. This may be your last real chance. Use your class time productively."

"Well excuuuse me, Ms. 'High-and-Mighty Teacher's Pet.' I may not appreciate the philosophy of creative chauvinism espoused here …" Ariel nodded toward the professor, engaged in a discussion with several students. "But I understand when I'm being taunted—and I'm not going to let him have the satisfaction of stealing my dignity from me."

"If you really believe that, Ariel," Kelly finally let go of her temper, "you're stupider than I ever suspected." She rolled out of the classroom, angry at herself for giving in to anger at her friend.

From behind, Glover matched pace with her wheelchair in the corridor. "Something troubling you, Kelly?"

"Oh, it's nothing." She bit her lip against the tears. "Just Ariel again."

Glover stopped her with his leg. Kneeling, he turned her wheelchair to face him. "Kelly, you are a gifted, dynamic young artist with extraordinary empathy and a brilliant future. I have never seen a young artist with the strength and maturity you've already displayed. Ariel Stevens, on the other hand, is a selfish girl who uses people shamelessly and doesn't care whose feeling she tramples."

"Funny," Kelly sniffed, digging in her purse for a tissue. "Ariel just accused you of the same thing."

"Did she now?" he smiled. "Kelly, I know you've been Ariel's friend for years. But if she disturbs you, if she so constantly tests your self-control, your patience—why continue the relationship?" wondered Glover.

"I don't know," answered Kelly. "I … I guess I just feel sorry for Ariel. Some things you do without thinking about them. Ariel is my weakness."

"Ariel is her own weakness," Glover retorted, quoting: " 'Ars non habet inimicum nisi ignorantem'—art hath no enemy but ignorance." He patted Kelly's free hand.

"It may seem to her that all we do around here is play," he continued, "but thus far she hasn't demonstrated any real artistic integrity. Well, she has exactly four weeks …"

"Norman, is that fair?" interrupted Kelly.

"No, it isn't," he replied, giving her a serious look. "I should be objective, that's my responsibility as an educator. But—as an artist—I pass judgment. Your talent means more to me than any but my own. And that includes young Miss Stevens."

* * * * *

In Kelly's office, Ariel whined in desperation. "This is due tomorrow and I need help. It's not gonna get finished on time." She clutched her painting, fully four feet wide and a third taller.

Kelly was used to students seeking advice and assistance; they came as part of her duties. But here sat Ariel, demanding as usual. "What happened to the four weeks of class time, Ariel? That's twenty hours … plus all the hours the university's open that we don't have classes in that room. You're sure you can't finish in time?"

Tears welled unexpectedly in Ariel's eyes. "I … I thought I could do it, Kelly. I really did. But …" she swallowed hard, "… I guess I was wrong."

"That almost sounds human, Ariel. An admission of weakness?" Kelly forced a tiny smile. "You've never sought help before."

"I never thought I needed it," braved Ariel. "People think I'm arrogant—I know it's my fault that I want to be assertive. But I'm scared!"

"So you hit a roadblock—and good ol' Kell' will bail you out."

For a moment, the familiar spark danced in Ariel's eyes. "I thought I could count on your friendship …" Then her shoulders slumped.

"Forgive me," apologized Kelly. "I didn't mean to be cruel. Show me the painting, please."

Ariel turned the image to face her friend. Kelly stared in astonishment. "You did this to impress Norman?" she asked, remembering to close her mouth.

"No. I did it …" whispered Ariel, swallowing again, "… to prove … to meet your expectations, Kelly." She wiped tears on the sleeve of her designer blouse. "But I can't."

"You painted it to please me?" wondered Kelly. "But … why?"

"I know I disappoint you with my airs. But you've always been a friend." Ariel struggled unhappily for words. "I … you're the brilliant one around here, Kelly. Everyone says so. Do you know how hard it is, trying to be like you? You paint with such ease …"

"Painting's the hardest thing in the world," thought Kelly, but kept quiet as she examined her friend's creative vision. "You do fantastic work, Ariel. Even close up, I can hardly see your brush strokes. I can't paint like this."

She held the painting at arm's length and savored it. "Do I really look so beautiful?" Ariel's eyes sparkled briefly at the compliment.

In the painting, Ariel had portrayed Kelly with photographic exactitude in the otherwise empty canvas—with a glamorous twist. From the waist down, the painted Kelly was a snail; behind her spiraled a huge, sparkling, perfectly-executed mother-of-pearl shell.

Kelly studied Ariel's subtle detailing of her own face. "Do my eyes really twinkle like that?" she wondered. "And that shell—it's absolutely amazing. What fantastic attention to detail. The brushwork … the iridescence … superb. What are you going to paint into the background?"

"That's what I need your help for. I'm … kind of stumped."

"Ohhh …" sighed Kelly, "… I was afraid of that. You want me to help fill this in?"

"Well … at least suggest something I can do tonight … something that won't take too long." Ariel looked down. "Please?"

"Ariel, from wherever you dreamed this wonderful fantasy up—it's uniquely yours. Anything I suggest will spoil it," said Kelly, turning sad eyes to her friend. "I'm sorry. I can't ruin this with my conventional concepts."

"Kelly, you're a beautiful artist," pleaded Ariel. "Everyone knows you have great ideas. Can't you just share something to finish this. Help me tie it together, so I can finish painting it tonight."

"I … can't. Norman knows me too well. He'll recognize the source of your inspiration. If I help at all, he'll know instantly that it's partly mine. You'll be graded down."

"But …" sputtered Ariel, "… I need the grade—any grade! It's due in 24 hours."

Kelly leaned back in the wheelchair. Ariel's painting pressed heavily on her legs. "Maybe if other assignments had been satisfactory, you wouldn't need to rely so much on this one."

"I … I'm wasting my time," snapped Ariel. "Why'd I ever believe you could be fair, anyway?"

"Hey," objected Kelly. "My motives aren't under scrutiny here—yours are. When are you going to grow up, Ariel? It's time to live in the really world."

"Sometimes, I wish I could paint the perfect place—then crawl into the painting for the rest of my life." Ariel shrugged her shoulders as she paused in Kelly's doorway. "I thought art might be my true calling, like it is for you. But since nobody seems to care … this time I really quit."

For a long time after Ariel's departure, Kelly cradled the near edge of the painting in her arms. Finally she wiped the tears from her eyes and prayed, "Please, God, grant Ariel serenity to find what she really wants."

* * * * *

"Well," said Norman Glover, reviewing the painted surface with a magnifying glass. "Subject's a bit strange but the brush strokes are as sophisticated as any I've seen."

Kelly relaxed. "I wish Ariel could hear you say that. Your opinion worried her."

"What happened to Miss Stevens?" Glover wondered. "She missed the semester finals. It's been—what?—five or six weeks since I last saw her." He set the painting on Kelly's desk.

"It's been almost four months, Norman."

"Do tell …" he replied slowly. "And what's she doing with her 'talents' these days?"

"She's teaching aerobic dancing at a fitness center uptown."

"She couldn't resist another fad?" gibed the professor. Then his smile faded. "She had a way about her of ignoring mundane realities. Well—now that art's beneath her dignity, are you two still friends?"

"I don't know," said Kelly, avoiding his eyes. "She won't answer my calls."

"Oh, Kelly, I'm sorry. I understand how close you were. You invested a great deal in the relationship, didn't you?" Glover's question was more an evaluation.

"I guess I'm better off without her," Kelly admitted. "She was mean and spiteful—she said things that sometimes really hurt. But she was the one person I could talk to. You know …" she looked up at him, "… girl-talk. She was the only friend I had in school. Everyone else was intimidated by my … wheelchair." She kneaded her useless legs.

"And when I first started to think about … when, well … about boys. Ariel listened to my feelings. She gave me perspective on things I never knew … intimacies I'd never felt. It was her experience I relied on, when …" Kelly broke off, blushing. "Ariel showed me the 'brave new world.' You see?"

"I don't," conceded Glover gently. "But I'm beginning to understand why you supported her." He held out his hand. "I'm sorry, Kelly. I shouldn't have judged her so harshly."

She smiled up at him and squeezed his hand. "It's okay. Ariel was selfish—and I admit it. It's just … well, she was there for me when no one else responded."

* * * * *

The party was a tribute to Kelly. Everyone from the art program wanted to congratulate the university's star pupil as she celebrated her graduation with honors as a Master of Fine Arts. The festivity started in the art building immediately following the commencement ceremony.

Soon, however, the constraints of state blue laws concerning college campuses led the revelers to seek more congenial quarters; they adjourned to Kelly's house. Ever the gracious hostess, she settled her guests appropriate to each personality:

"You might enjoy that bunch of watercolorists by the fireplace," she'd say.

Or: "The school of modernism is in the sitting room," she'd suggest, waving her hand that direction.

Or even: "Instructors, you'll find them—dominated, as always, by Norman—around the serving table."

Her guests, as much amused by Kelly's ability to accurately place their artistic leanings as by the attraction of their colleagues, would dutifully join the indicated groupings and find themselves welcomed and instantly able to enjoy themselves.

Thus the impromptu party was in full and pleasant swing when the doorbell rang again. Kelly was surprised when she opened the door. "Ariel," she hugged her friend. "I'm glad you came. It's been such a long time and … I really miss you."

"I missed you, too, Kelly." Ariel reddened as she embraced Kelly. "I heard the good news. Congratulations—it's great you got what you wanted out of your precious college."

Kelly wanted desperately to say, "I lost something precious, too." But they chatted lightly instead, as she steered Ariel toward a group standing in the hallway. "They'll talk about anything BUT art," she whispered. "They're married to, engaged to, or living with artists—and art bores them."

As hard as she tried, Kelly wasn't able to remain close to her friend more than briefly, as others at the party demanded her attention. And, too soon, Ariel lost interest in her group and began to wander aimlessly, eavesdropping politely at each gathering and moving on. Finally, eyes glazed, she approached Kelly. "I'm sorry, Kelly. I guess I really am a loner."

"It's all right, Ariel. I'm sorry I haven't been able to spend much time with you tonight. We need to have a good long heart-to-heart. I'd like to hear about how your life is going—are you still painting?"

"Yeah. Kind of. I guess I learned enough to dabble and have some fun at it. Nothing like what these people are engaged in, though."

"It doesn't matter, Ariel," soothed Kelly. "Art only has value if you feel happy while you're doing it or seeing it. Like that wonderful snail-girl painting of me; I feel good about that and my guess is you really enjoyed yourself painting it." She smiled.

"Do you still have that old thing?" wondered Ariel.

"It's hanging right in my studio. I use it for inspiration."

"Really! Do you like it that well?"

"Ariel, I love it. I told you that ages ago."

"You know, Kelly. I feel bad about what happened. I really ought to make up for my bad temper." Ariel shuffled her feet, then brightened. "Would you like me to finish it?"

"Tonight?"

"Why not."

Kelly beamed. "I've always wanted you to return to it. I knew someday you'd get your inspiration back." She wheeled and led Ariel down the hallway into her studio.

Ariel lifted the painting off the wall as Kelly cleared a work area and got out her paints. Then they carefully removed the painting from its frame and set it on the easel for Ariel.

"I … is this a good idea?" stammered Ariel. "I mean … with the party and all …"

"Oh, go ahead, said Kelly agreeably. "I'd love to stay and watch but I've …"

"I know," interrupted Ariel. "You have guests to entertain." She started testing brushes and mixing paint. Then she looked down at Kelly and smiled. "Hey, don't worry about me, okay. I'm a big girl—and I owe you this."

"We'll be serving snacks shortly," said Kelly. "Thanks." She hesitated briefly, then closed the door.

The party waxed for hours, and Kelly became pleasantly distracted by her most charming guests. As the last reveler departed, she remembered her friend. Tapping lightly on the door, she called, "Ariel?"

"Just a minute," Ariel responded. "I'm almost finished. What shall I do with these brushes when I'm done?"

"Bring them to the kitchen," said Kelly. "I'll start cleaning up."

She was out of sight when Ariel sauntered in, a rainbow of brushes in one hand and the huge drying canvas in the other. "Here it is, Kelly. Happy graduation."

"I'm dying for a look," said Kelly, gliding serenely into the kitchen with an armload of goblets and napkins, as Ariel propped the painting against the cabinets. "Oh, Ariel, it's wonderful."

Ariel's smile collapsed as she turned around. "Yuh … y-yeah," she stammered, staring at Kelly. Her face drained of color.

"Hey, are you okay?" asked Kelly, sliding up quickly to keep Ariel from falling. "You better sit down." She pulled a chair away from the table and lowered Ariel into it.

Ariel squeezed her eyes tightly shut and gripped the counter. She gulped several deep breathes, and turned to Kelly. "Y-you're a s-s-snail … just l-like the painting."

"Well, of course I am," stated Kelly matter-of-factly, glancing idly down at her broad-brown retractile foundation. "Are you all right?" she worried. "You need some coffee. I think the paint fumes have affected you." Marking a long arc on the linoleum, she swept across the kitchen to the still-steaming pot.

"No!" protested Ariel. "You're not real."

"Take it easy, Ariel," soothed Kelly, handing over the cup. "You've had a busy night."

Slumping wearily, Ariel clutched the coffee cup. "No," she repeated, pinching herself deliberately. "You have to be imaginary. Otherwise, I'm in trouble."

"If you need reassurance, should I pinch myself, too?" smiled Kelly. "Will that help?"

"Are you really a … a s-snail?"

"Yes. Of course." Again Kelly slapped her hand against the fleshy mass below her waist. Then she adjusted her apron. "Saves a lot on shoes."

Ariel looked down at her own shoes. "What … what am I, Kelly?"

"I haven't a clue, Ariel. You've kept to yourself for so long, I'm not sure what or who you are … or who you ever were. I thought we were friends. We've been together all our lives," Kelly sighed, "but if you ever shared your secrets—it wasn't with me."

Ariel sipped her coffee and studied her painting. "I just don't understand," she muttered. "That's supposed to be fantasy. It's too bizarre."

"Is it, Ariel?" Kelly slapped herself again and let the sound cut between them. "I'm real. You're real. The coffee is real."

"What is real?" wondered Ariel.

"Finally—you asked yourself the right question," said Kelly, "but … you have to find the answer yourself."

"I've heard this lecture before," sparked Ariel.

Kelly snorted. "Ariel, I'm not sure you understand what constitutes reality …" she indicated the painting with a wave "… and what doesn't. You've never been forced to choose. You've never recognized there's a dividing line between your dream world and the real one …"

"I know the difference," interrupted Ariel. "I know what's real."

"Then, why," snapped Kelly, allowing her pent-up years of exasperation to show, "why don't you concentrate on living with reality? Why do you run when the going gets a little tough? Have you ever stuck with anything long enough to learn it well? You could be an excellent painter—but no-ooo, you had to run away and play exercise leader."

"I'm good at aerobics."

"It's just a fad, Ariel. What will you do when it dries up?" Kelly wagged her finger sternly. "You never set any goals; never admitted to yourself that Ariel might have talent—if you'd only develop the work habits to realize your potential." She sighed as her anger waned.

"I guess not," Ariel sighed, too. "Do you really think my painting is any good?"

Kelly relaxed and her shell drooped. "Oh, Ariel. I've been so worried about you. You never answered any of my calls. I was afraid you hated me."

"For what?"

"For letting you down. I'm upset with myself for not helping when you asked. I decided you had a right to put me out of your life."

"But," protested Ariel, "but that's why I came tonight. I was so mad at you then. Finally, I realized you were trying to do me a favor."

"I thought I was," admitted Kelly.

"So I had to give you another chance … No! I had to give myself another chance."

Kelly smiled down at her friend in the chair.

"You're going to make it this time, Ariel," she said happily. "I just know it."

"Do you really think so, Kelly?" asked Ariel. "I want to be an artist like you."

"You are, Ariel," whispered Kelly, stroking her friend's hair. She took a long, careful look at the painting, savoring all its complexity of rich detail. "You are."

* * * * *

As he examined the painting, Dr. Glover took a long breath, and smiled. Seated beside him in her wheelchair, Kelly Holman smiled in relief. Glover's wife smiled, too, and they all sipped their drinks.

"This is a well-executed piece," Glover pronounced. "The composition is marvelous. Technique and medium are nicely matched. I am unable to detect where the painting was halted, or where it was restarted. Of course, trompe l'oeil usually focuses on inanimate objects, not living subjects, but on the whole, I am impressed. Miss Stevens has finally done an assignment correctly—if only about a year too late."

Kelly nodded in agreement, looking admiringly up at her mentor. "It would be nice if Ariel could hear you say that."

"I could tell her, if it would make you happy," said the professor.

"That's … umm, going to be a problem," said Kelly glumly. "I haven't … well … seen her since my graduation party. No one saw her leave. She never said goodbye—never even took her purse."

"What about her family?" wondered Glover's wife.

"I talked to her mother. They don't know, either. They asked the police to search, but …" Kelly let the statement fade into a drawn-out sigh.

Glover peered closely at the painting. "Interesting," he grunted, almost to himself. "Lovely twist to trompe l'oeil."

"Norman!" rebuked Mrs. Glover. "Speak up. We'd all like to hear."

"What we … had … was a fiery, unrealistic temperament—coupled to a lack of respect for authority. Miss Stevens wanted to live an unstructured life, wanted to … inhabit her own … her own world … and …" His eyes were focused deep in the painting.

"And …" prompted Mrs. Glover.

"And … now we're given a glimpse into that world." He placed his hand against the painted surface. "She's … gone home."

"No!" Kelly strained upward in consternation, fighting the dead weight of her useless legs. "No, that's impossible. That's not Ariel." She stabbed a finger at the painting. "She left in a hurry … or something. She wasn't able to say goodbye."

"What other explanation fits?" Glover asked, turning to face her as she sank, drained, back into her wheelchair. "It's well documented that people out of step with their surroundings—the so-called round pegs in square holes—are often gifted with powerful psychic abilities."

"But how could she do that? And why?"

"Norman?" questioned his wife. "Are you suggesting …?"

"Why not?" he shrugged, holding up his fingers and listing, "One, Miss Stevens had a domineering personality. Two, she wanted desperately to contrive her own universe. Three, as the painting indicates, she had a very clearly perception of her own place in that universe. Four, there's the fantasy element of trompe l'oeil …" Glover paused.

"There's so much that science doesn't comprehend," he added. "That's what makes art successful."

Kelly shivered as she took a long, careful look at the painting.

Her own studied face and the enormous coiled snail shell still dominated the portrait. But now Ariel had framed her into a painting within the painting, and around the snail-Kelly canvas, Ariel had painted Kelly's studio.

A familiar pair of hands and a brush intruding from beyond the canvas' border—Ariel's hands—holding pallet and brush, painting the snail-Kelly, who was painting another, smaller picture. In the second picture, Ariel had portrayed herself, painting yet another canvas. Each was done in the careful forced perspective so unique to trompe l'oeil.

In the next smaller picture was again the snail-girl Kelly, painting yet another Ariel, who was painting yet another smaller snail-Kelly. The duplication went on, back and forth, until too small to hold detail. At each iteration, Ariel smiled contentedly, pleased with her effort.

Relaxing back against her wheelchair, Kelly folded her hands in her lap. "I … I hope she's found herself in there. I hope she's happy."

Copyright © 1998-2005, Trainmaster, All Rights Reserved. Used by permission.