(August Challenge--Revised) "Inspiration" 1400
Dave Allyn
is tighter, yet still maintains the artsy feeling IMHO.
See what you think.
Inspiration
Copyright 2004 Dave Allyn
a.f.o. August 2004 Challenge
When she rented the studio apartment overlooking the park, Samantha
knew the scenery below and the sky above would inspire her to create
paintings that would one day become famous. Spacious skylights opened
up most of the ceiling to the heavens, and during a full moon,
Samantha could almost read by moonlight alone. Most of the area
around her block shut down at night, and the resulting darkness gave
such a view of the stars above, that her seven year old nephew would
camp out in her apartment, where they would make s'mores over an old
Coleman stove until the wee hours of the morning.
The skylights lent themselves to less innocent events as well. Not
two weeks after moving in, her former boyfriend had made love to her
during such an intense thunderstorm, with the full spectacle of
lightning above, that neither partner knew where the storm ended and
the lovemaking began.
That was then, as the saying goes, and this is now. The inspiration,
once so plentiful, was now a distant memory. Her boyfriend set her on
a downward spiral when he took up residence with a young artist not
far away. In parting, he cut deep with his statement: "At least SHE
knows how to paint."
What should have been only a passing insult thrown in the heart of
battle, festered inside Samantha, and began to grow into increased
self-doubt. As her mood darkened over the period of snow and ice, the
inspiration she so needed to harness appeared to abandon her as her
boyfriend had not long before. The more Samantha's self-esteem
worsened, the more her painting followed suit. In the end, she was
forced to take a job at a coffee house just to pay the bills.
A friend of a friend managed to get Samantha a commission to create a
four foot wide portrait of a fifties era locomotive. The painting was
to hang in the central subway station where possible employers would
see her talent.
Samantha had doubts about her abilities. It was only due to the
intense begging on the part of her friend, and a little persuasion on
the part of strawberry daiquiris, that Samantha relented and signed
the offered contract. She only had three days remaining to finish a
painting she had yet to begin. Such a feat would have been a
challenge months before her descent into depression, and now the task
seemed next to impossible. In Samantha's mind, this painting
represented her future. Should she fail, she was prepared to tuck her
tail and return to a normal life with a normal job, admitting to the
world the defeat of her dreams and ambitions.
However, should she succeed, this painting could become the drive to
regain her inspiration. The irony of a train getting her career back
on track was lost on Samantha.
Determined to, at minimum, fulfill her contractual obligations,
Samantha knew she had no more time to wait for inspiration to make an
appearance in her life again. The picture she saw in her mind was
tainted by her mental state, and was a gloomy, depressing image of a
locomotive chugging up a mountain, it's single headlight shining faint
ahead, as a beacon for the eyes of the viewer.
In her studio, however, the sunlight pouring past those wondrous
skylights, now threatened to burn everything in sight. The resulting
brightness on her canvas did not lend well to the scene Samantha was
attempting to create. When she opened a skylight to relieve the
unbearable heat cause by the incessant sunshine, a bird's song found
her ears, and the crisp melody did not play off her mood in any way
that can be described as positive. Even the children's voices, joined
in unison by whatever game they had discovered, accomplished nothing
for Samantha but a scowl.
Returning to the canvas, Samantha began to fill in the ominous clouds.
As the clouds grew thicker and darker in her work, the few clouds
outside vanished from the sky as if they could not exist in both
places. The struggle between the painting inside, and reality outside
came to a temporary cease-fire when Samantha realized she needed more
black paint.
The art supply store lay on the other side of the park. Samantha
donned a wide brimmed straw hat in a vain attempt to keep the
afternoon sun out of her eyes, and headed out.
Samantha, once a girl often found painting flowers and sunsets in the
great outdoors, now preferred the gloom of a cloudy day and the hum of
a florescent light. She despised all outside activities--summer most
of all. Contrary to years past, her bathing suit remained tucked away
with most of the remainder of her summer clothes. She had no
intension of showing enough of herself to anyone to justify the
effort. There would always be times when movement outside could not
be avoided. At these times, Samantha would hide beneath her hat, and
move at a brisk pace with her head down.
On this occasion, she was walking faster than usual, and was lost in
her own world of despair and self-pity. It was not until she heard a
shout of warning that she looked up. Her mind registered the flash of
color in the air, and her only thought was remembering she was
supposed to paint the locomotive red.
Having been all but raised on the beach, it should have come as no
surprise when her body reacted as her mind could not. The shiny
circle of plastic was plucked out of midair and returned to its former
caretaker in the same method she received it. The recipient of the
disc flashed Samantha a smile. Much to her mind's horror, she found
herself returning his gesture.
As she continued on the path that would take her to the other side of
the park, she could not shake the image of that man and his smile. A
moment of reflection in the store allowed her battered heart to place
several bright shades of red on the counter next to the black.
Stepping out of the store, she placed her hat in the bag and inhaled,
filling her lungs by way of her nose. The aromas assaulting her
consciousness carried back memories she thought she had lost. The
tropical scent of sunscreen flooded her mind with the beach. Scanning
the park, she took note of a group of people playing volleyball as
speakers on the ground nearby blasted songs long since off the charts.
Another generous inhale and her eyes traced farther up the street to
the hot dog vendor crying out his wares, begging the casual passer-by
to sample his delights. As her head tracked upwind, the distinct
smell of rich, roasted beans reminded her of work tomorrow, and that
in turn, reminded her of obligations waiting at home.
As her thoughts of painting returned, her heart leaped with renewed
inspiration. Nearing the entryway to her apartment, an odd feeling
compelled her to turn around. Standing not far away, the man she
exchanged looks with less than an hour prior raised his hand in silent
greeting. Smiling to herself, she found her own hand rising in
response. Satisfied for now, and thoughts of the urgency of the
project waiting for her upstairs still on her mind, Samantha sighed
and entered through her doorway.
Samantha had placed the final brush stroke on her masterpiece when the
dawn peeked its head over the wall and through the skylight above.
The painting presented was different than the dark canvas last seen.
The clouds were still dark, but the image of the sun peaking from
underneath the storm was beginning to show itself on the left edge of
the canvas. The locomotive was the brightest of reds, leading the
viewer to believe a fresh coat of paint had been applied just for this
occasion. The lamp on the front of the train was not dull as
intended, but shined bright enough to illuminate the track before it.
This portrait showed hope instead of despair and perseverance instead
of defeat. The event in the park, minor as it was, had begun
Samantha's transformation. Finding the red, plastic disc filled with
flowers and a phone number on her doorstep the next morning had
continued it. Samantha realized she was the only one who could
complete the change. Wondering if she could do it, she took one last
look at her painting, and picked up the phone.
Wind River
>
> Many thanks to all who gave suggestions for improvement. This version
> is tighter, yet still maintains the artsy feeling IMHO.
>
> See what you think.
I like it. It's a good revision. I've been choosing a favorite line from
each story for my wrap-up. I was pleased to see you didn't change the
one I chose. :)
-Sue
bkr
Nice story. I didn't get to read the first version, so I don't know
how much improvement there was or what other people had comments about.
I noticed I had a little confusion in the line below. I had to read it
a couple of times to realize you were talking about putting paint on the
counter. Call me thick, but I didn't make the connection immediately
because of the description about the man and his smile etc.
>
> A
> moment of reflection in the store allowed her battered heart to place
> several bright shades of red on the counter next to the black.
By the way, I loved how the clouds darkened on the canvas as they
cleared from the sky...the idea that they couldn't exist in both places
simultaneously was good, but perhaps saying it blatently was a little
too much. I think the inference was there and didn't need explaining.
bkr
Patrick Null
"Dave Allyn" <dally...@yahoo.com> wrote in message
news:qktui0l1lc09ebt9d...@4ax.com...
> Many thanks to all who gave suggestions for improvement. This version
> is tighter, yet still maintains the artsy feeling IMHO.
>
> See what you think.
Hi, Dave. I didn't really notice much difference, though it has been a long
time since I read the original. My main problem still remains the same:
it's too telly at the beginning. You have a few passive sentences. One is
"a bird's song found her ears." If you have "she heard a bird's song," it
would make it more active. I also didn't like the bit about something
compelling her to turn around. I think because it is too general; now, if
you were more specific, and said "she felt someone watching her," I could
buy that more. The story is a little predictable and boring. A woman has
lost her inspiration, walks to the store, meets a possible boyfriend, finds
the inspiration again.
This was an ok story. I liked the brushstrokes of the train.
Take care.
Opus
Sorry I'm late in getting to this, but was excited to read it.
Well, I can see why Sue liked it. It's very atmospheric with some
_very_ nice images in it. Some of your language was simply beautiful.
However.
The entire thing is narrative, thus, more boring than if you had chosen
to show some action through dialogue. There was just too much telling
and not enough showing for me to really enjoy it.
I don't like the beginning. I was talking to Markham Eggleton on the
phone the other night, when I mentioned that I just don't understand why
writers feel the need to begin a story with a mountainous description,
or a sunset, or describing a character's surroundings, and he had a
perfect answer: "I know I do it because I think in cinematic terms. I
see scenes in my head and endeavour to draw them out for people." This,
to me, made sense, because the opening scene in a movie usually is what
they call an establishing shot--a camera pan of the area to establish to
the audience where they are.
But fiction needs to be different, for obvious reasons of not having the
luxury of being optical in nature.
> When she rented the studio apartment overlooking the park, Samantha
> knew the scenery below and the sky above would inspire her to create
> paintings that would one day become famous.
>
While this sentence does hint of things to come, it's still pretty bland
and "telly." Also, as an artist, as in painting since I was twelve, I
find her last thought about becoming famous off-putting. BUT, that's
just me and a pet peeve of mine. It turned me off from the character,
actually, and I felt no sympathy for her whatsoever from that point on.
She's too prideful. Dip her in the inkwell of humility and you've got a
character your reader can be empathetic to, AND care about.
> Spacious skylights opened
> up most of the ceiling to the heavens, and during a full moon,
> Samantha could almost read by moonlight alone. Most of the area
> around her block shut down at night, and the resulting darkness gave
> such a view of the stars above,
>
I'm curious as to why you put both of these sentences in the same
paragraph. You can't have a full moon with magnitude great enough to
read by if you can see the stars. The moon drowns them out, and for
whatever reason you DID put the two points in the same paragraph, so
they read almost contradictory.
Since this is a studio apartment near a park, I'm assuming that this is
in a city, yes?
Going on that assumption, couple of problems. 1, the resulting light
bleed from city lights makes it nearly impossible to see stars. The
atmosphere diffuses the light to such a degree that you have to leave
the city in order to see a clear sky. When I first moved to Southern
Maryland, I lived on Cove Point Beach, near the Cove Point Lighthouse
across from the Patuxent Naval Station. On a moonless night, you could
see approximately 70% of the horizon and endless star fields. Now that
I live in DC, the stars are only a distant memory.
2, You can't have a full moon and stars at the same time, if you're in
the city especially.
I know this may seem pedantic, but if we are going to be poetic and
metaphorically so, we can't forget that the prose needs to make sense
and be plausible at the same time.
> The skylights lent themselves to less innocent events as well.
>
This is passive voice. Re-word.
> Her boyfriend set her on
> a downward spiral when he took up residence with a young artist not
> far away.
>
Since your POV is from the protagonist, I think this would be considered
to be passive voice, because she is not engaged in the event taking
place.
> "At least SHE
> knows how to paint."
>
When doing emphasis, don't use capital letters. Use italics, denoted
like _this_. It's a throw-back to the old dot-matrix printers and was
code for them to use italics when printing. Editors still use them for
plain text.
> As her mood darkened over the period of snow and ice,
>
I've found many instances of what appears to be you trying too hard to
sound literary. Why don't you just say winter?
> The painting was
> to hang in the central subway station where possible employers would
> see her talent.
>
I'm confused as to what possible employers would be scouting for artists
who did murals. Maybe gallery owners would sound more plausible.
> Samantha had doubts about her abilities.
>
I'd say you can cut this--you've already laid it out in the previous
paragraph.
> that Samantha relented and signed
> the offered contract. She only had three days remaining
>
The time span that seems to take place between these two sentences is
very jarring. In one breath she's just signed the contract, and in the
next she only has three days left? You make it sound as if she only had
three days left at the time she signed the contract.
> Determined to, at minimum,
>
This is confusing. At minimum compared to what?
> skylights, now
>
No comma.
> did not lend well to
>
Did not lend itself well
> a bird's song found
> her ears,
>
Aw, c'mon, get that passive junk out of there.
> and the crisp melody did not play off her mood in any way
> that can be described as positive.
>
Another instance of taking too many words to say it made her even more
depressed.
> accomplished nothing
> for Samantha but a scowl.
>
Passive!
> As the clouds grew thicker and darker in her work, the few clouds
> outside vanished from the sky as if they could not exist in both
> places.
>
This, is just _absolutely_ stunning! Very nice, Dave.
> Samantha
> donned a wide brimmed straw hat in a vain attempt to keep the
> afternoon sun out of her eyes, and headed out.
>
Why do we need to know the attempt was vain? How does that add to the
story?
> Samantha, once a girl often found painting flowers and sunsets in the
> great outdoors,
>
Passive!
> She despised all outside activities--summer most
> of all.
>
Er, summer isn't an activity.
> It was not until she heard a
> shout of warning that she looked up. Her mind registered the flash of
> color in the air, and her only thought was remembering she was
> supposed to paint the locomotive red.
>
Why would she make this connection? Was the frisbee red?
> Having been all but raised on the beach,
>
Couldn't you just say that she was raised on the beach?
> it should have come as no
> surprise when her body reacted as her mind could not.
>
This is just too convoluted to read well.
> The shiny
> circle of plastic was plucked out of midair and returned to its former
> caretaker in the same method she received it.
>
Another instance of trying to be too literary or poetic. Just keep it
simple. Say it was a frisbee and she flung it back with as much zeal as
she caught it, or something to that effect. Method isn't the right
word, because of course she's going to throw it back the same
way--there's only one way to get it back to the guy, and that's by
throwing it.
> Much to her mind's horror,
>
Passive. Can't you just say much to her horror?
> A
> moment of reflection in the store allowed her battered heart to place
> several bright shades of red on the counter next to the black.
>
Is there something metaphorical here I'm missing?
> and inhaled,
> filling her lungs by way of her nose.
>
Naw. and inhaled, filling her lungs.
> The aromas assaulting her
> consciousness carried back memories she thought she had lost.
>
consciousness is too pedantic. Just try senses. And "carried back
memories" is another passive instance.
> The
> tropical scent of sunscreen flooded her mind with the beach.
>
Since you have this sentence, then you can remove the one before it.
> begging the casual passer-by
> to sample his delights.
>
I'd drop this sentence. You just said it, only in a different way in
the previous sentence.
> As her thoughts of painting returned, her heart leaped with renewed
> inspiration.
>
Just because a guy smiled at her? I'm finding this hard to believe.
And the first part is passive.
> Standing not far away, the man she
> exchanged looks with less than an hour prior raised his hand in silent
> greeting.
>
Make it simpler. Something like, "Standing not far away, was the man
who had smiled at her."
> Smiling to herself, she found her own hand rising in
> response.
>
Passive voice. Anytime you remove your characters from the action, it's
making them passive and weakens them.
> Samantha sighed
> and entered through her doorway.
>
What made her sigh? She was just comforted by the guy with the smile.
I don't follow.
> Finding the red, plastic disc filled with
> flowers and a phone number on her doorstep the next morning had
> continued it.
>
He put flowers in a frisbee? How? And continued what? Her
inspiration? Re-word that; wonky.
Also, misspelling of intention.
I hope you're not passed out right now from all the things I noticed.
But it's a good story; just needs more tweaking. I hope you stay with
it and find a suitable magazine for submission.
HTH and thanks for posting,
Opus
--
"My God--she's published a story. Now there'll be no living with
her."--Carla's family and friends
http://www.carlarene.com --updated calendar
http://www.opusgraphics.net
Dave Allyn
wrote:
>Hi Dave,
>
>Sorry I'm late in getting to this, but was excited to read it.
No problem, I'm late in getting back to everyone too!
>Well, I can see why Sue liked it. It's very atmospheric with some
>_very_ nice images in it. Some of your language was simply beautiful.
Thank you.
>However.
Ah, there is always that isn't there?
>The entire thing is narrative, thus, more boring than if you had chosen
>to show some action through dialogue. There was just too much telling
>and not enough showing for me to really enjoy it.
I'm not really sure how to show what is in a person's head, her
emotions and thoughts. While at the same time, keeping the "artsy"
feel of the piece. This was never about action, it was about the
change in Samantha's head.
>But fiction needs to be different, for obvious reasons of not having the
>luxury of being optical in nature.
I disagree. Ficiton is very optical, for me at least. I read a book
and I see what is happening. If I watch the movie based on the book,
I always get upset because the actor is not what the main char looks
like.
>> When she rented the studio apartment overlooking the park, Samantha
>> knew the scenery below and the sky above would inspire her to create
>> paintings that would one day become famous.
>>
>While this sentence does hint of things to come, it's still pretty bland
>and "telly." Also, as an artist, as in painting since I was twelve, I
>find her last thought about becoming famous off-putting.
The general thought here was her ambition, not her pride. maybe that
didn't come though very well.
>> Spacious skylights opened
>> up most of the ceiling to the heavens, and during a full moon,
>> Samantha could almost read by moonlight alone. Most of the area
>> around her block shut down at night, and the resulting darkness gave
>> such a view of the stars above,
>>
>I'm curious as to why you put both of these sentences in the same
>paragraph. You can't have a full moon with magnitude great enough to
>read by if you can see the stars. The moon drowns them out, and for
>whatever reason you DID put the two points in the same paragraph, so
>they read almost contradictory.
Yea, they should probably be seperted or such.
>Since this is a studio apartment near a park, I'm assuming that this is
>in a city, yes?
Kinda. The apartment I am thinking of is in an old industrial area
that gets quite dark at night. There actually is this type of setting
(regular apts, not studio) in a town nearby.
>Going on that assumption, couple of problems. 1, the resulting light
>bleed from city lights makes it nearly impossible to see stars. The
>atmosphere diffuses the light to such a degree that you have to leave
>the city in order to see a clear sky. When I first moved to Southern
>Maryland, I lived on Cove Point Beach, near the Cove Point Lighthouse
>across from the Patuxent Naval Station. On a moonless night, you could
>see approximately 70% of the horizon and endless star fields. Now that
>I live in DC, the stars are only a distant memory.
Agreed. The stars in the country sky are amazing. They are lost in
the city. There are, however, parts of smaller cities that do have
such an area.
>2, You can't have a full moon and stars at the same time, if you're in
>the city especially.
Yes, the time frame is muddled. Will try to fix.
>> The skylights lent themselves to less innocent events as well.
>>
>This is passive voice. Re-word.
Lots of passive voice, agreed. I am trying to find a way to show not
tell while still having the style of the piece be artsy-fartsy. Also,
I didn't place action as high up on the list of priorities for this
piece. It was suppost to be more of a literary work.
>> As her mood darkened over the period of snow and ice,
>>
>I've found many instances of what appears to be you trying too hard to
>sound literary. Why don't you just say winter?
Good question. I liked teh way it flowed, but now I'm not so sure.
>> The painting was
>> to hang in the central subway station where possible employers would
>> see her talent.
>>
>I'm confused as to what possible employers would be scouting for artists
>who did murals. Maybe gallery owners would sound more plausible.
perhaps...
>> that Samantha relented and signed
>> the offered contract. She only had three days remaining
>>
>The time span that seems to take place between these two sentences is
>very jarring. In one breath she's just signed the contract, and in the
>next she only has three days left? You make it sound as if she only had
>three days left at the time she signed the contract.
No, there is an indeterminate amount of time between the events.
>> Determined to, at minimum,
>>
>This is confusing. At minimum compared to what?
she wanted to at least give the commisioner something. Kinda like if
I say I am going to enter every challenge for the next two years. One
month may be rough, and in the last several days I put together
something to meet my own deadline. May not be the best, but at least
it's something.
>> did not lend well to
>>
>Did not lend itself well
okay.
>> a bird's song found
>> her ears,
>>
>Aw, c'mon, get that passive junk out of there.
:) I kinda like it.
>> As the clouds grew thicker and darker in her work, the few clouds
>> outside vanished from the sky as if they could not exist in both
>> places.
>>
>This, is just _absolutely_ stunning! Very nice, Dave.
thanks.
>> Samantha
>> donned a wide brimmed straw hat in a vain attempt to keep the
>> afternoon sun out of her eyes, and headed out.
>>
>Why do we need to know the attempt was vain? How does that add to the
>story?
Vain was suppost to be removed. I must have missed it.
>> She despised all outside activities--summer most
>> of all.
>>
>Er, summer isn't an activity.
summer activities most of all.
>> It was not until she heard a
>> shout of warning that she looked up. Her mind registered the flash of
>> color in the air, and her only thought was remembering she was
>> supposed to paint the locomotive red.
>>
>Why would she make this connection? Was the frisbee red?
yes
>> Having been all but raised on the beach,
>>
>Couldn't you just say that she was raised on the beach?
posibly.
>> it should have come as no
>> surprise when her body reacted as her mind could not.
>>
>This is just too convoluted to read well.
I kinda liked it...
>> The shiny
>> circle of plastic was plucked out of midair and returned to its former
>> caretaker in the same method she received it.
>>
>Another instance of trying to be too literary or poetic. Just keep it
>simple. Say it was a frisbee and she flung it back with as much zeal as
>she caught it, or something to that effect. Method isn't the right
>word, because of course she's going to throw it back the same
>way--there's only one way to get it back to the guy, and that's by
>throwing it.
literary or poetic is exactly what I am aiming for. Sure, there are
other ways: she could hand it to him, try to underhand toss it and
fail misserably...etc..
>> Much to her mind's horror,
>>
>Passive. Can't you just say much to her horror?
I was trying to seperate the mind from the heart.
>> A
>> moment of reflection in the store allowed her battered heart to place
>> several bright shades of red on the counter next to the black.
>>
>Is there something metaphorical here I'm missing?
probably, but I can't put it into words exactly.
>> and inhaled,
>> filling her lungs by way of her nose.
>>
>Naw. and inhaled, filling her lungs.
:) again, I liked it.
>> The aromas assaulting her
>> consciousness carried back memories she thought she had lost.
>>
>consciousness is too pedantic. Just try senses. And "carried back
>memories" is another passive instance.
agreed on the consciousness. Not sure on the passive "carried back"
>> Finding the red, plastic disc filled with
>> flowers and a phone number on her doorstep the next morning had
>> continued it.
>>
>He put flowers in a frisbee? How? And continued what? Her
>inspiration? Re-word that; wonky.
He left a frisbee of flowers on her doorstep. he didn't continue
anything, Samantha finding the flowers continued it. remeber, this is
all in her head.
>Also, misspelling of intention.
oops.. :)
>I hope you're not passed out right now from all the things I noticed.
>But it's a good story; just needs more tweaking. I hope you stay with
>it and find a suitable magazine for submission.
I'd rather someone be honest then just flattery. Thank you for that.
Do you think it is good enough to submit to a literary magazine?
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
email: dave-afo (shift-2) mchsi period com
Use the address above to send personal items.
For stories, reply in the group so others can share
in your brilliance.
Opus
I'll answer the rest later, but I wanted to show you something quickly.
Go to the archives, and under my name find a story called, "The Needles
Drip Blots of Blue." I wrote this story in response to one of WestyB's
challenges, and he wanted metaphor. Since I wrote about a Van Gogh
painting as my inspiration, I also gave him large brush strokes and
mood. The reason I want you to read it, is because I did a LOT of
showing in it, while keeping it, "artsy-fartsy," as you say.
Oh, hell, I'll just repost below. Hope it helps give you some ideas of
how you can show while still keeping those brush strokes and mood.
----------------------------------------------------------------
The Needles Drip Blots of Blue
Copyright (c) 2003, Opus (CR)
2494 Words
Dedicated to Barry.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Life is a dance of the grotesque. Find the beauty bemused and you've
mastered your demons.
The blood gushed river-raging down my cheek, orchard sweet. Wine I'd
tasted once, when Jimmy took me to my junior prom. We drank it on the
way home before he fucked me raw. I never told them . . .
"Now look what you've done," Mr. Lewis said. Eyes flashed red like
Satan's scrotum.
I sat up, trying to focus. Mistake. My body floated back to the pillow
as another blow locked with my head. I began to dream of far away
fields of clover and golden retrievers.
Sleep, child.
"Guess what? Today makes one year since the courts said you could live
with us. Isn't that *wonderful*?" Mrs. Lewis gave a thread-bare smile
when Mr. Lewis was around.
He sat proselytising to no one.
"After breakfast, we are taking you to the Museum. Wouldn't you like
that?" she asked with fear singeing her eyes.
Nodding was a way of life for me. Safer that way, I s'ppose.
But not today.
"The LORD has kept me from having children. Go, sleep with my
maidservant; perhaps I can build a family through her." He whispered in
my ear and shoved into me until he fell sweat-stained onto my padded
cell bed. He hiked up his pants.
I didn't look him in the eye -- it was still swollen blue from
yesterday.
"You are doing God's work here, my little maidservant. Get ready for
the museum. I'll be back to unlock the door when you're ready."
Mrs. Lewis watched from her hole in the wall.
The golden retriever jumped over the fence.
My mind ran rampant with joy at the museum. The paintings were full of
cheap-paint colours I adored. Cold marble felt good on my bare feet and
the air was like in our refrigerator. When "he" wasn't looking, I would
smile at Mrs. Lewis and she would muse-touch my shoulder. For an
instant, it was almost like . . .
We always had lunch in the café. I was allowed water or sometimes if I
was good, iced tea. Today I wasn't good. As they munched burgers I saw
pig teeth and giggled. I didn't mean to. He kicked my leg. I was
brave as the knot raised on my shin.
"Is anything wrong?" said the manager, whose head was twice its normal
size. "Did you just kick that child?"
Mrs. Lewis dropped her coward-head and Mr. Lewis lowered his fool one.
"No sir, I had a leg cramp and accidentally kicked his." I waited,
heart-leaden.
He ignored me. "If I ever see you touch that child again, I will have
you arrested." He didn't wait for an answer.
Mr. Lewis glared at me.
I'd never seen a man's bathroom before. It's not like I imagined. The
stalls are big enough for two people. I always got to wear dresses
cause they hid things better. This time lasted a long time, and the
hand-gagging kept me from making noise, so as not to "'mburrass the
family."
"My, doesn't she look pretty? What a beautiful young lady. I'll bet
the boys are lining up for you already. Dear, did you see that
beautiful golden retriever just jump through those clouds?"
The tile was cool. I was dizzy. He shoved me to stand up straight.
The whispering. "That you may tell your children and grandchildren how
I dealt harshly with the Egyptians and how I performed my signs among
them, and that you may know that I am the LORD."
He brushed my cheek.
I'll try harder.
Mrs. Lewis gave me sunglasses and we walked to the Van Goghs. I liked
one they called "Starry Night." It swirled and massed and danced and
eye-flirted with me. I stared at it so long the colours washed into
each other and began to drip.
"Will you behave yourself while we're over there?"
Another nod.
I resumed my game. Its circles hypnotic and beckoning. Endless.
Joyous and endless. I followed each brush stroke around the perimeter
of each star. I couldn't stop myself. Each stroke pushed me into the
next and the next and . . .
"May I swallow you whole?"
I turned but no one was there.
I resumed my star-gazing.
"Let me swallow you whole."
This time it exhaled from the painting, and I walked as close as they
would allow. I heard a euphony like ocean waves. It so soothed me that
I wanted to sleep-serene on its shores.
"Are you talking to me?" I answered my own question by assuming I was
now brain-busted.
"Your visits here are as welcome as a swallow in the spring." The voice
had a chime-like quality while still floating on top of the whooshing
wave, and I got greedy and wanted to hear more. It read my thoughts.
"And in the proof much comfort will I give, If ye will take that comfort
in its truth and enter in." The lights from the stars began to pulsate
and I stared transfixed, the soporific combination of wave-chimes and
pulse-particles nearly tipping me over.
"Are you for real?" I sounded like I was in the third grade.
"Soft voices had they, that with tender plea
Whisper'd of peace, and truth, and friendliness unquell'd."
For a moment, the voice went quiet and I waited. Instead of soft-water
poetry, a wind began to blow the fields beneath the rotary sky, and as
the wind became louder, the grasses and trees swayed with such vehemence
that they overlapped the entire community below. Everything in the
painting increased in concentration: intensity of the starlight,
colours of the sky and field and the din of the wind. The painting was
coming to life!
I looked for my fosters, but they were still on the other side and
didn't notice me for once. Fear welled up and blow-punched every
thought in my head, making holes in my logic where meagre wisdom had
once resided. My heart began searing strips of pain as my breathing
laboured, but I was powerless to stop it.
Then, as if on cue, a golden retriever raced across the field, leaping
higher than any amber wave. He stopped and turned toward me, and wagged
his ragged tail as if he really saw me.
My heart leapt for joy and pushed a tear onto my face simultaneously,
and as I stared transfixed into his trusting eyes, I watched the canvas
getting closer, the frame drawing nearer, my body becoming smaller, and
the rope passing beneath my feet as I sailed toward the painting. I
closed my eyes and stifled a scream, but when I opened them, I was
standing in the field next to the golden retriever and he was licking my
face. I could feel it -- his hot breath on my tear-tracked cheek.
I turned back to see the gallery, but it was no longer there. Bright
blue and aquamarine fields surrounded me on every side, running stately
between the purple and black dwellings. I could still see each brush
stroke, only this time each was larger than me. The colours were so
intense and vivid that I felt if I had to look at one more, they would
cause my insides to ignite.
At that moment, the golden retriever nuzzled my hand and pointed upward
with his nose. I looked up.
There, shining above me, was Van Gogh's starry night -- his illumined
vision. The very sky I had lost myself in! The circular brushstrokes
began fading into solid colours that washed effortlessly over one
another, and oh the colours they were! Brazilian blacks, illicit
indigos, purples dripping with passion, saturnine stars . . .
"Welcome home."
It was the voice.
"Is this my home now? Will you never let me go?"
"Do you wish to go?"
The golden retriever licked my palm.
"It is time to sleep. You must prepare," said the voice again.
I wanted to ask for what, but suddenly I was so tired I couldn't stand.
The golden retriever lay down at the same time I began to fall, and my
head softly landed on his side.
At sometime during the night the voice awakened me with a chorus of
singing, and I got up and danced. The golden retriever morphed into a
man -- a handsome, rugged, dark long-haired man with gentle eyes and
touch. He placed his arms around me and we tangoed. He never stopped
staring into my eyes. We danced circles around trees, flower fields and
rivers; each measure accompanied by doves that flew from my chest, then
lit delicately on tree limbs as they watched our pas de deux.
When the song ended many hours later, the man leaned in slowly, placed a
hand to my hair and kissed me as softly as I'd ever imagined. He
lingered for a moment, pulled away, smiled deeply, and I watched him
turn slowly back into the golden retriever.
I arose the next morning to green fields, a gleaming sun, and hunger.
The food materialised as I wished it, and soon there was enough food for
ten. I shared with the golden retriever who hadn't left my side all
night. Above me, I was distracted by the sound of cooing doves. . .
"It is time," said the voice.
"For what?"
"You have much to do before they arrive."
The word "they" blood-boiled.
"Don't be afraid. Here, the sky obeys your commands."
A deep hum came from the forest behind me. As I turned, a soot-black
swarm of wasps, one mile wide, targeted me and ice-water ran up my
veins, certain it would drown my heart. I stood motionless as the swarm
came closer, growing in size and din. I looked for a body of water, but
remembered I couldn't swim. There were no caves, and no covering to
protect myself. So I did the only thing I knew to do.
"VOICE! HELP ME! What do I do?"
Silence.
Again, I pleaded as they swarmed closer.
Silence.
I begged once more.
"You have the strength within you. Use it."
"But I don't know ho . . ."
The wasps were upon me and I let out a throat-ripping scream. They flew
around me, above, between, chilling me to the bone. They dived bombed
for a relentless two minutes, and as they did, I felt an anger well up
from within. It felt foreign, as if I had red-hot goo in my belly, and
it spread to my extremities.
The wasps continued, but this time, I heard them laughing --
taunt-teasing my fear, and as the queen drew up in front of me, now as
large as an adult human, her eyes flashed green as she stared me down,
her wings creating an intimidating tumult.
For a moment, we both stared, neither moving. She advanced on me, her
stinger raised high and wings outstretched, and I'd had enough.
"STOP! NO MORE! You have no more power over me. Leave!"
She stopped forward-moving, beckoned to the swarm to return, and with a
final nod of her head to me in defeat, retreated to whence they came.
"Well done. Now."
I was getting tired of the voice's plastic bread crumb clues, but I
waited. At that moment, Mr. Lewis's voice rang over the once serene
flower-fields. I heard Mrs. Lewis crying. They rounded the corner of
the church, and were now standing in front of me. For an instant, the
golden retriever coward behind my legs, but I swallowed hard and
comforted him, then returned my steel gaze. I was on home turf now, and
I refused to be afraid.
"What are you doing here?" I said.
"Where in hell are we? Did YOU do this?"
"I did not, but don't think you didn't deserve it." My courage
continued to rise.
He became so indignant his fat face beeted up. "How DARE you speak to
me in such a manner." With that he advanced on me and in one stride was
in front of me, fists raised.
I did not cower. My hand made contact with his face and the knot on his
forehead sent him backwards. I braced for a second attempt, and he
delivered. He kicked his leg into what should have been my groin, but I
side-stepped him and laid my own boot into his crotch.
He folded like origami.
The doves, swallows and forest animals were laughing. So I laughed,
too.
"Have you had enough?" I said as he gasped.
"Why? After all I've done for you."
"Touché."
Mrs. Lewis spoke up. "I . . .I . . ."
"Can't stand to watch now, can ya?"
Mr. Lewis only coughed and she just stared dumbly.
The golden retriever began to circle me excitedly. The doves cooed even
louder.
"C'mon, you fat bastard! Bring it on!"
He shot up like a missile and charged me once more, with a force as
great as a hurricane. Again, I only braced, prepared to use his weight
against him. But this time I misjudged and he landed with his arms
locked around my windpipe, squeezing as hard as he could. He continued
squeezing and I began choking and gagging. He was close enough so that
I could smell the booze on his breath. I felt the air slip from me and
as I looked over the fields once more I saw them begin to dim, certain
my time had run out.
I noticed the golden retriever out of my eye's corner, and he wasn't
moving to help. As my eyesight drew darker, I pleaded with my eyes for
help.
He stood on his hind legs and into my ear, whispered, "Love yourself
enough to fight. You are worth it."
I looked back at the drink-ridden fat-bastard beet in front of me and
got pissed one more time. Raising my arms above my head, I brought them
down across his own and turned, loosening his grip on me. With a free
foot I kicked straight up behind me and into his crotch once more, which
sent him down a last time, passed out.
I fell to the ground exhausted, and the golden retriever licked my face
as the sky turned to night.
"How long has she been like this?" the nurse said as she tightened the
restraints.
"Four years now. Just keeps staring at the picture. Won't talk."
"She have any family?"
"She did, but they came up missing about two years ago and were never
found."
"It's a nice painting. Van Gogh, isn't it?"
"Starry Night."
Both of the nurses left, and the girl in the bed began to chuckle at the
painting and its two figures in the field who moved around like bugs in
a jar.
"You there?" she said.
A wet tongue caressed her restrained hand, then the golden retriever lay
down beside her bed -- where he had been sleeping for the last two
years.
Dave Allyn
wrote:
>Hi Dave,
Hi Opus!
>I'll answer the rest later, but I wanted to show you something quickly.
Fire away...
>Go to the archives, and under my name find a story called, "The Needles
>Drip Blots of Blue." I wrote this story in response to one of WestyB's
>challenges, and he wanted metaphor. Since I wrote about a Van Gogh
>painting as my inspiration, I also gave him large brush strokes and
>mood. The reason I want you to read it, is because I did a LOT of
>showing in it, while keeping it, "artsy-fartsy," as you say.
>
>Oh, hell, I'll just repost below. Hope it helps give you some ideas of
>how you can show while still keeping those brush strokes and mood.
>----------------------------------------------------------------
>
>The Needles Drip Blots of Blue
>Copyright (c) 2003, Opus (CR)
>2494 Words
<snip>
Wow. That was powerful. I must say, I am truly impressed. I see
what you mean about able to show, yet keep the "not really there, but
kinda" feeling of a story.
I'm not exactly sure if I am gonig to revise this again right now. I
am working 6 day weeks, most 12 hours days, and have little time to do
anything. It should slow down come mid october, so maybe then.
If/when I do, I promise you will be the first to see it.
Thanks for the marvelous read. It was a pleasure.
dave
Opus
> what you mean about able to show, yet keep the "not really there, but
> kinda" feeling of a story.
>
showing you would better demonstrate it than my inarticulate
explanation.
> I'm not exactly sure if I am gonig to revise this again right now. I
> am working 6 day weeks, most 12 hours days, and have little time to do
> anything. It should slow down come mid october, so maybe then.
> If/when I do, I promise you will be the first to see it.
>
Take a full month away from it. Actually, the more time away the
better. A year is perfect. But then come back to it with a red pen and
your harsh editor's eye and go to work. I literally put my drafts in my
freezer under the sherbet. I keep them on ice (A trick I learned from
Rob Walker) and when I'm ready, I take them out, unthaw them and go to
work hacking them with that red pen. It's crucial to get more distance
from it as you can before going back to it. But I hope you will revise
this--I'm serious, I think it would fit nicely in a number of periodical
publications. It's just such a beautifully written, beautiful story.
> Thanks for the marvelous read. It was a pleasure.
>
Sure thing. Just wishing you good luck with your story.
Opus