So in a continued digression from my main topic, namely that of the imitation game, I have another introduction to a piece I've been working on. I wrote this a few weeks ago after glancing quickly upon a quote from Keirkegaard that left me with a strangely compelling inspiration. This is only the first part, but I've put it through my first round of editing and I feel a little better about it than I do of the last piece I posted. I recently read an article about how to write fiction in a compelling manner, and I've taken some of it's advice in the construction of this introduction. I have left a link to it at the bottom of this post if any of you find yourselves interested. It's a very compelling piece, and I think any young or newly budding writer will find something intruiging in it. I hope you enjoy my piece and the blog post I linked! It was just turning autumn when my eyes began to give. The world was a blur of yellows and reds bursting from the trees all about me. If there was ever a time to paint, it was now.
Feeling the desire all of a sudden at the bursting colors, I ran to my study. The deep wooden room was as filled with echoes of the past as it was with canvases. Stacks sat left and right, many composed of things I once loved for a short time until boredom overtook me and a new infatuation arose. Some multicolored and swirling, others more defined but still confusing. Not a single one held meaning though. Canvasses littered the ground like forgotten laundry, some heaped upon one another, others strewn aside, alone and dejected. Often I would come here for inspiration. Often I would leave with dejection. Walking in this time, I found myself enamored at the sheer amount of work I had created. Soon, I told myself, I would allow others to see all this. Surely there was something of worth here. Surely I was working towards something incredible. A single one, splattered in green and blues sat nearby, its rounded edges calling to me in the song of a siren. Compulsion led me to them, but the hope for clarity brought them to my hand. Only, what I held in my hands made no sense to me. Confusion clouded me suddenly. Surely I had painted this at some time. Surely I ought to know what I had envisioned then. But I didn't. My poor eyes could only see was colors, misshapen and disjointed. All held together only by the occasional black line that declared shape. Putting it down, I searched about in my heaps in stacks picking randomly. I must have just misplaced my inspiration for that particular one. It happened often enough, in fact most of my pieces ended with a forgotten memory. The corner of another canvas caught my eye, the peak of crimson glaring angrily at me. I reached for it, hoping for it to be more recognizable as a recent piece, the red reminding me of a feeling I had had just the other day. I stared slowly at the painting, searching its angry-red and seething-blue for understanding. But still it never came. There ought to be some image, some shape to this I knew, for all art was based upon something that was known, something that the creator had seen. But still, nothing came forward. No understanding, no appreciation. Only colors. Frowning, I placed it down upon the pile. Looking about I searched for another piece, one that I might understand, one that might remind me of my work. Perhaps the church tower would refresh my eyes and inspiration. Picking up a canvass at random, I hoped something would be recognizable, something would be familiar. But nothing stood out. The next yielded similar results, shapes melting away before my eyes to leave me only with colors washing away like footsteps in the sand. I began to move faster, selecting anything around me. Painting after painting I dug and dug until I reached the bottom of the first stack. Still no shape appeared to me. Still nothing was clear. I moved to another stack. Then another. One blur after another passed before my eyes. Piece after piece, canvas after canvas. All that was there was insubstantial colors. Absolute abstraction. I threw the final piece down, cracking the wooden frame against the hard floor with a resonant crack. A twinge struck within my heart at the sound, running down my spine in a chilling way. Turing towards the mantel, a thought struck me. The clock that sat there had a clear image, it's meaning already defined. I picked up the old piece and looked at it. Eyes squinted and heart thumping I look long and hard at it. The face looked no different than any of the half-baked paintings I had just ripped through. Black and white intermixed, congealing into a sad grey that revealed no understanding. Anger rippled through me, forcing my hands to tense until my nails bit into the soft wood of the antique clock. I thew it back to its place on the mantle before I could break it. My mind raced with, anger finally bleeding into it until all that I thought was red-tinged, until nothing I thought made sense. Grabbing my coat off the rack, I streaked to the door, throwing it open to the cold autumn air. Wind ripped through my clothes, sinking deeply into my bones and leaving me shivering, Still I marched outside. The world I walked out into, however, was not the one I had been expecting. It seemed to me as though I had traded one abstract canvas for another. I could hear the sounds of the world, people laughing, cars honking, the wind howling, but I could make none of these things out. All that I could see were colors. Reds and oranges fluttering in the wind, greys and navy-blues moving on what once had been sidewalks, and large swaths of fiery-red that I knew to be other buildings lit with hazy fluorescent whites. The sky was a tumultuous grey, drenched in black that seemed to descend slowly onto the streets before me. All this color, but there was not shape to them. I rubbed at my eyes for a second, hoping to clear away the haze that seemed to have descended on them. When I opened them once more, nothing had changed. I tried again. Still nothing. Again, and again. My eyes began to burn, but still I rubbed at them. It seemed like the only thing I could do. Finally, eyes sore and hands tired, I stopped. The world had fallen silent and red light glowed on the horizon. Not only had my paintings become obscured, but the world had followed suit. I couldn't make out my brush from a pencil. I couldn't even make out the church tower. Sitting down on the steps to my apartment, I closed my eyes. Even the blackness behind my eyelids seemed hazy. For a glance at what I used to help me create this, check out an awesomely inspiration blog here: http://www.advancedfictionwriting.com/articles/writing-the-perfect-scene/
1 Comment
Adam Robb
12/3/2016 12:43:46 am
My broader won't open the link for the article so I'll have to wait for my laptop. BUT! I read your story and really enjoyed the descriptive aspects. By reading your story I assume the article talks about how to keep the reader following by bringing to life things that would normally seem lifeless. Like the nails sinking into the wood or "colors faded like footprints in sand" I really liked that part. Good read! I hope you keep posting, I will also be checking out that article as soon as technology lets me
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Eric FoxWhen I'm not writing or reading, you can find me playing games or in an existential crisis. When I'm not doing those, I'm probably checking my email, so don't hesitate to reach out. ArchivesCategories
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