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fragilemacabre — muse.
Published: 2005-06-30 22:55:22 +0000 UTC; Views: 240; Favourites: 3; Downloads: 6
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Description
He stood against a sky the lifting dark of early sunrise, holding a small silver pistol as carelessly as if it were a pencil. The concrete beneath him glittered with crushed mica, especially in one space where the streetlamp glowed a sulphuric orange. His face was enshadowed on one side, but the other revealed a small smile."Do you like it?" My hand tapped impatiently against the side of the canvas, careful not to touch the still-drying paint, as he took his sweet time looking it over from the seat across the table. Always the art critic, though never the artist, he narrowed his eyes at one part. I expected a remark about it being pedestrian, but instead received a smile, one identical to the one in the painting.
"Yeah. Yeah, I really, really like it." He'd damn well better like it. For a square-foot big canvas, it required a lot of work. I spent two weeks working on nothing else-- not the portfolio for the spot in the upcoming show at the tea shop, not my self-portrait for class; nothing for my classes, actually. And it was all from memory. "Is it going in the show?"
"No. It's going to you."
His eyes shifted uncomfortably to the tips of his shoes, which were scribbled on in barely-legible ballpoint ink, as his mouth twisted up. Shaking my head, I touched a fingertip to the paint. Dry.
"Besides. I haven't had the time to work on anything for the show."
"Why?" He looked up, over at the window and its bright, clouded-over winter light.
"I've been working on this painting, Chris." While talking, I found a wet spot. Luckily, it was only on the side of the thing, which would be covered by a frame anyway.
"No. I mean. Why give it to me?" The forty-thousand-dollar question.
"It's you. I want you to have it." His eyes didn't shift from the window, but his mouth worked more. "Oh, come on." I removed my hand from the piece, letting its stand support it, and put both hands on the table, chipping off some old sparkly nailpolish as I tried to figure out why he was being so taciturn. I mean, months of no-talking might have changed the dynamic, but we had been on excellent terms for a good three weeks. My little sister had asked if he was going to come to our house again. I said probably not. But here he was.
In a movement more blur than motion, he took the painting in both of his huge hands, looking at it with even more care than before. He sighed as his eyes closed, and then he opened them.
"What?" My voice came out annoyed, though I was really scared. I hated this unpredictability.
"I started writing a story about you last night," he said, measuring out his words like spices in a recipe.
"Oh?" I sat still in my chair, trying not to flinch as his hand rushed in my direction. It was only coming to pick up the stand for the painting. To my relief, he looked it over in the light for any undried paint. Seeming satisfied, he stood up and carefully stuck it under his arm, the painted side resting against the soft cotton of his tee-shirt.
He stared at me, his height immense in my small dining room. He nodded, mouth in a line, when I stood up with haste enough to knock over my chair. He tried to hide a laugh, but his shoulders shaking gave it away. He left.
Later that night, I called him up. His voice on the phone was unfamiliar.
"If you're writing something about me, don't give me a happy ending."
And he didn't.
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Comments: 8
Your story, while better than what many people are writing, has a ways to go. The word choice is sometimes awkward, as is some of the punctuation.
The first line, as another reader pointed out, is quite odd. The word choice is so unusual that I had to read the line several times before I saw what you meant, but it then made sense.
The concrete beneath him glittered with crushed mica, especially in one space where the streetlamp glowed a sulphuric orange.
Is the streetlamp in the concrete? Your words seem confused.
His face was enshadowed on one side, but the other revealed a small smile.
"Enshadowed", which I do not believe to be a Webster-sanctioned word (it's not in my dictionary), sticks out like a sore thumb and says, "I'm trying too hard!" The rest of your piece does not do this. "Shadowed", "obscured" or some similar word would suit the piece better, I feel.
For a square-foot big canvas
The narration is all very informal and modern, but one can be informal and mondern while preserving word meaning. A canvas that size is not "big"; you might consider rephrasing the line to better reflect the situation and the meaning of the words applied to it.
working on nothing else-- not the portfolio
The dash should have either a space on each side or a space on neither side.
"No. I mean. Why give it to me?"
The flow of speech seems to indicate a comma here, but as this is dialogue, you may know better. A comma would better mimic the traditional flow of speech, but your character may be untraditional.
months of no-talking
"Not" instead of "no"?
The piece's content is fascinating; I want to know their history and their future. What is he writing, for instance? The characters draw me in and give the impression of being developed without revealing themselves. I like the ambiguity of the title - that's the wrong word - the duality? I mean that it could apply to either character; they are each crafting something inspired by the other, and I found that intriguing. The delivery, though, requires work. Polish this baby up and keep writing; it sounds like you've got something to say.
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Thanks for the excellent critique. I don't know if I plan to do anything with this; I have two unfinished serials on here, only one of which I can actually stand to look at without cringing horribly.
Anyway, thanks again.
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I like this a lot. You're a talented girl. It felt natural, real, unlike a lot of other prose I've read. The imagery is vivid, and the dialogue flows.
There were a few things that I feel could be fixed up a little, however.
>"He stood against a sky the lifting dark of early sunrise,"
This is a little awkward--the first time I read it I felt like it needed a comma or something. You'd either have to insert a "that was" or rearrange the order if you want to take my advce, which, as always, should be secondary to your own feelings.
>"The forty-thousand-dollar question."
I understand where you were coming from with this, but I feel as if it's a little trite, unlike the rest of this piece. FOr me, it really pulled me out of the narrative. I would say either to remove it completely or...yeah. I would probably say to take it out unless you can think of something to replace it.
OF course, as I said before, take whatever I say with a grain of salt.
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No, I want critique. That's why I'm on dA. Only a few people give me critique. Please join the ranks.
Yes, I shall fix that first thing. Already done, just not posted.
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Lovely. Reminds me of something that has happened recently in my life. *smiles wistfully* Very descriptive, though in a more abstract way, I think. I like it a lot.
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