Still Life

© 2025 Still Life. All Rights Reserved to Allie M. Rose. No permissions to copy or duplicate this story. This is an original story by Allie M. Rose

Many thanks to Jenivere Conan for her work on revamping the image for the book cover. Her efforts took the imagery from cute to captivating. I am so grateful and appreciative.

I must also give a hearty thank you to my favorite writing group; this story would not be here without their support, friendship, and encouragement.

Trigger Warning: This book has themes of grief, death, mental health issues and references to war. Proceed with caution if sensitive to these topics.

Chapter One: I woke to a living nightmare

Hello, I’m Rose, the main character. Welcome to my story. I’ve quite an adventure to share with you. My tale begins in 1870 when I was 23 years old. Thank you for reading; I hope you enjoy the journey.

On a cool April morning, not long after midnight, I wrestle with yet another nightmare. My mind reverberates with terrified screams, but they remain trapped inside. It’s one of those dreams where I’m aware, but I can’t seem to move. Those loathsome dreams are horrifying! Especially the ones that feel as if an attacker is holding me down by force or something is sitting on my bosom. Usually, my faculties would have returned by now, but this seems to be a new variation of the nightmare.

What unfathomable curses plague my slumber? Must I always suffer with unrest?

In paralyzed disbelief, my eyes are locked in place as a procession of red-eyed, darkly clad relatives and friends pass over me. The swish of dark silk carries to my ears as a mourner moves on, and my uncle steps into view, eyes downcast and weary.

“Poor Rose. Life is cruel to take such a sweet maiden before your time…” He struggles to find the right words, his aloof nature betraying his intentions. “Rest in peace, niece…”

Uncle Edmond! Wait!

Voiceless, the words ring through my mind, and my lips stay pursed. A scream broils in my chest, filling me with angst and a longing for release. I try to expel my terror, but not a squeak is uttered. They carry on in their funeral customs, sniffling, bawling, and bidding their goodbyes.

I can barely glimpse the bodice of my gown as it clings to my ample bosom, but I gather that it is virginal white silk from the cool feel of it against my legs. I attempt to move any part of me—my fingers, arms, and legs—but my efforts seem futile. Weakness pervades my body, and a heaviness weighs me down, rendering me immobile, as in my usual nightmares.

Attempting to wiggle my toes elicits no response; they remain still. Nor is there any indication that my efforts are visible to the people parading through my vision.

The familiar faces passing through my line of sight remain somber, grimly set in mourning. The dark brim of a top hat clears the edges of my vision, taking its shadows with it, and my eyes glimpse something eerily recognizable above me. The familiar flaws of the living room ceiling—a moon-shaped watermark and delicate fractures in the paint—are committed to my memory from countless hours of teenage boredom spent lying on the settee.

I listen for the familiar ticking of the mantle clock, and it’s absent. In true funeral custom, the clocks in my vicinity have been stopped and silenced, aside from the one in the hallway intended to keep time for the necessary cycle of daily farm chores and routines. A shiver of realization jolts my soul as reality sinks in.

I’m laid out in the family parlor as if I were dead. This is no dream; this is a living nightmare! But how?

My mind spins with fear and a whirlwind of questions as I struggle to understand what has happened to me.

I had been ill, but I thought I was feeling better…

A draft from the open window sweeps the silk of my dress, sending a chill up my spine, adding to the creepiness of the situation.

No, no! It can’t be true. How can this be happening? I’ll go mad imprisoned like this!

My chest grows tighter in response to my panic. A ball of desperation building, torturously akin to a feeling of claustrophobia, heavy and smothering. Unraveling inside, I endure a series of internal screams until I’m weeping silently or at least imagining the actions in my confined state.

I must remain calm. My lungs may merely be functioning rotely; panic will make this worse. Take command of yourself, Rose! I chastise myself, grappling for any fleeting whisper of calm.

Redirecting my mind from panicky visions toward problem-solving initiatives, I continue to rationalize with myself. I am not dead! This is preposterous. If this is a dream, it’s far more detailed than most!

A searing burst of indignation and determination surges through my hollowed stomach, filling the pit of it with angst.

I will not let all my dreams and loved ones go so easily! Whatever has befallen me, I will get through and survive this! I’m not missing out on seeing little James achieve literacy or on my hopes of a courtship with Ethan.

I ought to assume that no matter my circumstances, I must get my body to respond to my will if I am to survive this night terror. I try to encourage myself as if I’m talking to a friend.

You can do this. You have to at least try! If this is a dream, I’ll surely perish from fright, and if it’s not… Well, if it’s not, I shudder to think of my fate.

Willing all of my strength into my diaphragm, I attempt to push forth my screams. As in my nightmares, no sound is produced, no movements are elicited, not even a quiver of my lips.

Faces keep shadowing and lurking in my sight. Some whisper to me, some are crying, and a few wail with anguishing sobs. Lucy steps forward, tears spilling down her cheeks. She bends down and whispers to me.

“I’m so sorry, Rose…” A sob racks her frame, shuddering her shoulders with sorrow. “I shall never read another adventure, especially Dickens, without thinking of you. Oh, I’m going to miss you so!”

Mentally I am screaming at her, begging for her to hear me somehow.

Lucy! Hear me! Help me, please!

Yet again, there is no activity from my vocal cords, and I grapple for any wisp of energy I can muster. Angling to get her attention, I struggle to kick a foot, but there’s nary a breeze or a jostle. My body is frozen in place, like the elements in a painting or a sculpture.

“Goodbye, my friend. Rest peacefully.”

My mother’s loud wails permeate the room, taking reign over my auditory senses as Lucy disappears from my sight. Mama's grief is a potent, harrowing melody that plucks the heartstrings of all in attendance, as a weepy violin can reduce even the most stoic men to sniffles. Her voice draws nearer to me, and she lurks within my sight, her face wan, her eyes puffy and bloodshot.

“Why!? Why has the Lord forsaken me so? Aren’t the losses of my infants and my husband enough penance?”

“There, there, dear sister. Let me help you to the settee.”

There’s a rustling of skirts as my uncle presumably settles my mother on the seat.

“Rest a moment before you fall ill yourself,” he urges her softly.

“What sins have I committed to befall this fate? I am a good Christian woman.”

Mama, I’m alive! Please sense me! My cries resound in my head as I keep trying to move, to cry, or to whisper. To lift my tongue or turn my head to summon any action from myself. Neither my limbs nor the mourners respond to my attempts.

My eyes remain focused on the room, fixated and immobile. The sweet scent of tulips and daffodils invades my nostrils in occasional drifts from their stations surrounding my open casket.

Uncle Rory steps into my view, his shoulders bobbing slightly due to the limp he suffers from his war injuries. His form looms over me, dark, sorrowful eyes downcast. Uncle Rory is my favorite uncle and Ethan’s benefactor, though he and Aunt Pat are more like parents to him at the core.

“I’m sorry, sweet Rose. Rest easy, now.” His Adam’s apple bobs as he chokes down his emotions, rendering him unable to speak. A work-weathered hand swipes my eyelids shut, and he replaces the pennies.

As he leaves, my lids spring back open, the coins sliding off, the cool metal tracing my cheeks. My eyelids are the only body parts that move, although not of my own volition.

Aunt Pat, my favorite and spunkiest aunt, appears. It takes me a moment to register her features under the shadow cast by the decorum of her millinery. Her signature, garish feather hats are a marker of her personality.

“My Spunky Rose. I’m so sad to see this day dawn. You are too young, too vibrant for this fate; too much intelligence lost to the world.”

Her soft leather-gloved hand swipes my cheek gingerly. My aunt chokes on a sob, and wet tears land on my collarbone. My insides curdle at seeing such a strong and feisty woman brought to violent tears in her grief, nearly matching the volume of my mother’s despair. She leans in closer, and I barely catch her whispers.

“I’m sure you would have married our Ethan. It’ll remain our secret. Speaking of secrets, I have one too, and I wish to share it. Your uncle and I are expecting! I haven’t felt the quickening yet, so I haven’t shared the news. I’m so sorry you won’t get the chance to do so many things. You would have been such a wonderful cousin to our baby and a great help to me.”

She pulls back, stroking my arm with her gloved hand. My heart clenches with sadness and yearning.

Oh, Aunt Pat. You’re going to be a mom—you’ve wanted that for so long! And if I don’t find a way to signal my vitality, I’ll never get to meet my cousin.

Aunt Pat pats my hand softly, in a gentle gesture of goodbye. Grunts and screams rack my mind as I struggle to instill my life force into that hand.

Please move, please.

But nothing happens, and Aunt Pat retreats, allowing the candlelight to highlight the parlor’s features once more.

My weeping mother appears again, supported by my older brother Tom’s substantial grasp.

“I’ve got you, Ma.”

Her puffy eyes and wan face linger over my form in disbelief.

“My poor baby. My beloved daughter. Why has time forsaken me by taking you so soon?”

Wet tears land on my nose as I am forced to bear witness to my mother’s potent grief. She leans in, and her soft lips leave a feathery kiss on my cheek. I feel my mind begin to unravel again, with desperation setting in. I can stand it no longer.

Mama, I’m here. Please feel my presence! Please, help me, Mama!

“No amount of time will ever be enough to say goodbye to you or any more of my kin.”

Another soft kiss tickles my cheek, and then the sensation fades away, like the presence of my mother and brother.

Mama! Tom! Please don’t go! I am not dead!

Another mourner approaches, and I feel his presence before I see him, like our souls are beacons of energy that sense one another. Ethan Doherty slips into my view, his usually cheerful face drawn tight with misery.

“Oh, Rose... ”

His hand strokes my cheek gingerly, igniting the shivery sensation that only springs from his touch. He draws closer, lowering his voice to a whisper, and the tips of his beard brush against my chin as he speaks.

“You’ll always be my one true love. None other could fill my days with such light. I will be so lost without you.”

Visions of stolen kisses in the barn and holding hands on long walks in the countryside fill my mind. Ethan had intended to approach my uncle and brother about our courtship soon, but we wrestled with how to gain my cantankerous uncle’s approval.

“Goodbye, my love.”

Ethan, NO! Wait!

“I’ll never forget you and shall treasure our memories always." With a fist to his mouth, he stifles a sob. Then he gently caresses my cheek with his other hand.

Ethan! I’m still here. Don’t leave!

His hand drops back to his sides, shoulders slumped in a defeated pose of sorrow. His figure lurks for a moment, before clearing, allowing the light of the candles in.

All is quiet for a time, and I’m left to my thoughts. I hear the soft murmurs of my family and friends talking but can only make out snippets of conversation. Surrounded by people but alone in my solitary prison, I drift off to sleep for a time until a shadow blocks the candlelight, startling me into awareness again.

The shadow of a figure lurks and stares quizzically. I feel warm hands swipe my lids closed and the cool metal of the coins as their weight burdens my eyes again.

The unknown figure disappears and one final griever steps forward. My best friend Marigold enters my vicinity; the telltale click of her distinct pacing announces her presence. In my imagination, her golden hair surrounds her like an ethereal halo.

“Rose, it can’t be true. Even seeing you this way, I can’t believe you’re gone.”

Marigold’s hair is the reason for her nickname, which she much prefers to her real name.

“I knew you’d fallen ill, but I never thought you’d succumb. Who will be there with me through all our adventures in womanhood?”

I imagine her trying to smile through her tears at the references to our inside jokes. She pats my gloved hand, and I try to react, but I can’t summon any strength; my usually nimble piano-trained fingers are limp.

The weight of the pennies is unbearable, and a tremor ripples through my lashes. My eyelids twitch and, again, jostle the pennies from their place, sending them gliding down my face.

Marigold’s shrill screams pierce my ears as she runs and disappears. Her frightened voice calls out from across the room.

“The coins fell off again! Is that normal?”

“That can happen; the body still emits reflexes during rigor mortis.” Uncle Rory says remorsefully. “It’s likely just a reflex. Sadly, I’ve seen similar occurrences in our farm animals and with casualties during the war.”

“Are you certain... there’s no chance she could be...?” My mother’s hope-tinged voice rings out.

“I’m inclined to Eleanor’s thoughts. Didn’t someone just replace the coins again?” Ethan quietly agrees. “Her eyes keep opening so quickly; it’s hard not to wonder…” His voice dies in a whisper of flickering hope.

“I wish there were some hope, some possibility.” Uncle Rory says.

“Rory is right. Uncle Edmond agrees, speaking in a stoic tone. "I understand we all wish this wasn’t so, but it is. Prolonging hope will only cause further grief.”

No! Listen to Mama and Ethan. I am alive! Please don’t give up on me!

I can hear my own loud, desperate screams; why can’t they?

A troubling thought occurs to me, rattling my mind and soul with a jolt of chilling irony. Why, I am stuck like a still-life painting above a mantle, a centerpiece of life frozen in time for all to peer at!

~ What is happening to Rose, and what will happen to her next? See where the next leg of her journey takes her in chapter two. ~