Short Stories from the Nelson
While visiting the Nelson Atkins Museum this year, LSW book club members started short stories inspired by a piece in the Museum. Below are a sample of their stories.
He has never felt like this before, something like this but never like THIS. The butterfly of guilt that tickles his stomach as he drowns drinks, over and over again. Holding a glass of wine and tasting the life, 
grape, and bitterness, well…He didn’t need to think about that anymore. Now it was all about the powder, the wine, the massive amount of people who know Him and are like Him. If this is what it feels to be in the first estate, by God, would He give up His old life and memories again, over and over again. With a half crazed smile as he fully looks into the dark in front of him remembering what has led Him to this moment. Betrayal, gold, money, lust, as he smiles into the eyes of the dark beholder encouraging him to continue his deeds.
Story by R. Dixit
It was a quiet, summer day. It was warm, but every once in awhile a soft breeze of cold air would hit at fall’s arrival. Charlie walked down the soft dirt road, struggling to keep the contents of his water pail from spilling over. He nodded politely at the passer byers, never speaking a word. Clouds on the horizon loomed overhead, confirming his moth fears of a coming storm. She had fretted all morning “ a storm’s coming” she whined to a guest in their inn. “I just know it.” Charlie couldn’t understand them that his mother was lot, in fact, worried about rain clouds but instead a war. He was only 6, more concerned with fetching water and pouring coffee, his job at the family inn. The inn, an old house with 8 rooms touched in the forests of England, had belonged to Charlie’s family for nearly 50 years. Charlie liked living in the inn. He loved the stories of travelers, the soft changes of seasons and getting freshly cooked meals of the inn’s chef. He liked the walking trails around the house and thought the forest, the pine needles and dead leaves providing a cushion under his feet, the endless adventures and pretend games to have. He even liked the chores, the ones his siblings had whined and complained about until their father warned about using their nights desserts. He liked the inn he liked his home. He had no idea, however, that the storm clouds were moving in and that soon they would never step foot in the inn again.
Story by Ellie R
I uttered the word love and I witnessed his face transform from a playful smirk to one of disdain. I knew he didn’t love, but I said it with a hope that only one consumed with love would understand. As I stood observing the Balthasar Griessmann, my heart wrenched like the god pan and the boy who squeezed all of the passion out of my soul, was the syrinx turned to reed. The reed that made the sounds of any musical instrument turn to sorrow and ache, my father likes Eros proclaiming “I told you so” like my soul wasn’t already a fragile, minced shadow of a woman who once was. (unrecognized word) and daring. See i am no aphrodite, but I have one the “Judgement of Paris” like the golden glimmering apple fruit that I am. Although my endearment sare like an ivory pokal, my minds is now as wise as the man who girthed the music from agony.
Story by Ismael B and Maryam K
My mother always told me to be careful, I should have listened to her. Now I’m stuck in London with no friends, no family, no anyone, all because of a teeny tiny coffee pot. How was I supposed to know that it would drag me half way around the world only to find out my story is way more complicated than it needs to be.
It was 5am as I boarded my flight to London. I was in no mood to be anywhere. I didn’t have to be and in my opinion I didn’t have to go to London. My best friends Mallory and Melinda talked me into going with them for the annual senior class trip that is offered at our school. I initially didn’t want to go because I prefer my home to anything else. I’m pretty introverted when it comes to these things. I’m dull, boring, unspontaneous whatever you want to call me. If it were any other saturday morning, I would be sleeping in ready to be awoken but the delicious smell of eggs frying and coffee roasting in the kitchen.
Story by Lina