Shattered

Rated 12+ (not sure if that's to high or not.)

Shattered
By Hayes Pierson

Waking up to get out of bed I started my usual routine. I get dressed and work my way through long corridors flanked by large portraits and sculptures. I am the wealthiest art dealer in the entire country. All the famous artists sell thier work through me, giving me complete control of the market. The only thing greater than my dominance of the market is my reputation. Everyone knows not to mess with me and that if they do it will be the last thing they'll do.

Everymorning I walk down the valley I live in and look at what the local artists are up to in the marketplace. I see these daily walks as nothing but an excuse to get out of the house and breath some fresh air. Today was diffrent though. There was word of a new artist who was gaining a lot of attention on the art scene. Some of the villagers had told me about him. He was this young man who worked with mirrors. Everyday he takes a pickaxe and smashes a mirror into a million pieces. Picking up the shards, he puts them all back together to form an amazing mozaic. This is my heart, he says, that breaks everyday. I don't really care about that though. All I cared about was making sure he dealt the art through me. It was selling like crazy and I needed a cut of the action.

He accepted my offer and things worked out for awhile. I was able to display his mirrors at partyies I held at my mansion in the valley. So much pride was held in my heart that I was the dealer of this fine art. I couldn't bear to see it leave my possesion. After awhile though he stopped making the shattered windows. I remember traveling down the valley to talk to him. "Why have you stopped making the art?" I remember asking him. All he told me was that he was done: he told me that he had found what he had been searching for his whole life. That he had finally connected with the woman of his dreams. That was why he had smashed all those windows. He said that he did that because everyday he felt like his heart was smashed as he watched her walk by, not being able to tell her how he felt about her. "Why should I hold all those heartbroken feelings inside of me?" he had told me.

I told him that he still needed to produce the mirrors. He said no, that he was only going to make the mirrors if he could spill passion into them. I couldn't accept that answer. In a fit of rage I then killed him. He wasn't the first man that I killed, and it doesn't matter how I killed him or where or if I used a gun or knife or sword. All that matters is that he died, and my hands are the ones covered in blood. It was all his falut though: he had crossed the line and defied me. So he had to pay the price. I couldn't just let artists like him screw me out of prime material like he did.
Going back to my home I started the process again of looking for art to sell off. A week passed after the killing with out anything coming up. After that week though strange things started happened. Every day I would wake up and get out of bed to start my morning routine. Walking out into the hallway, I would find one of my pieces of art shattered into pieces. Monday I walked out of my room to find my most prized vase in a million pieces all over the floor. It happend Tuesday and Wednsday also. Calling the police, I decied to hire some security to ward off whoever was smashing my pieces of art. I wasn't going to just sit here and let them smash my entire collection.

Even after hiring the private guards things were still being smashed. Thursday I awoke to find my favorite portrait torn in half. Friday I discovered a bust of Stalin smashed in. The next morning, Saturday, I woke up and skipped my normal routine. I decied when I woke up I was going to just search for whatever had been broken during the night and not wait to be told later in the day what had been broken. Going over the entire house, I couldn't find anything missing or broken. Seemingly nothing was messed up.

Walking back into my bathroom to take a shower I realized what was out of place today: My bathroom mirror. I had walked into the bathroom to find that my mirror that hangs over the sink had been struck in the center and all the shards in the mirror formed this amazing mozaic in front of me. This is where things got really crazy. I didn't know what to do with myself. All I could do is tell myself that the person doing this will either stop after all the art I have is destroyed or if I get away. I told myself if this happened Sunday ill go on a vacation across country, get away awhile and get out of this situation.

Today I awoke in the middle of the night. I was tapped awake and my eyes opened and I stared outwards at my ceiling. I could see the eyes of the person who apparently has been behind all the smashed artwork: the woman who had loved the man I had killed. I glanced momentarliy at my bedside table and knew the gun that sat on it was out of reach, and while I panned my eyes back to her face I noticed she held a pickaxe in her hand. Well, I might get the last word in the art world, but I deffinatley won't be getting the last word tonight. Tonight she pulls back her pickaxe, and it's all I can do but imagine that she must be looking at her reflection in my eyes as she thinks to herself "Now I can show you the passion that is in my soul: here is my smashed mirror, my shattered heart that you helped smash. Now you will know how it feels to truley be shattered."


Hope you enjoy- Hayes

1. Grammatical Mistakes


Green means I liked this particular phrase
Grammar corrections are in light purple
Red/Orange/Rerange/Oranged :p means I feel you should change that part

Waking up to get out of bed I started my usual routine. I get dressed and work my way through long corridors flanked by large portraits and sculptures. I am the wealthiest art dealer in the entire country. All the famous artists sell their work through me, giving me complete control of the market. The only thing greater than my dominance of the market is my reputation. Everyone knows not to mess with me and that if they do it will be the last thing they'll do.

I liked the foreshadowing of the artist's death with the "last thing they'll ever do"

Maybe describe a bit more, tell us his usual routine. Describe more, instead of: I am the wealthiest art dealer in the entire country, use something more like, It took years and years of hard work, but I enventually climbed to the top and I now control the entire art industry, or something like that. Make it more personal, less blunt and boring.

Every morning I walk down the valley I live in and look at what the local artists are up to in the marketplace. I see these daily walks as nothing but an excuse to get out of the house and breath some fresh air. Today was diffrent though. There was word of a new artist who was gaining a lot of attention on the art scene. Some of the villagers had told me about him. He was this young man who worked with mirrors. Everyday he takes a pickaxe and smashes a mirror into a million pieces. Picking up the shards, he puts them all back together to form an amazing mozaic. This is my heart, he says, that breaks everyday. I don't really care about that though. All I cared about was making sure he dealt the art through me. It was selling like crazy and I needed a cut of the action.

You could put the two sentences in red together, Some of the common-wealth village peasants had told me abouth how he worked with mirrors, or something like that. Don't re-use words so much though. Instead of villagers use peasants, common-wealth, etc.
Again, make it less common. Don't say I walk down the village..., say something like, I told others my morning walk was just to look around for new talent but I really just wanted out of my lonely, stuffy house.

He accepted my offer and things worked out for awhile. I was able to display his mirrors at parties I held at my mansion in the valley. So much pride was held in my heart that I was the dealer of this fine art. I couldn't bear to see it leave my possesion. After awhile though he stopped making the shattered windows. I remember traveling down the valley to talk to him. "Why have you stopped making the art?" I remember asking him. All he told me was that he was done; he told me that he had found what he had been searching for his whole life. That he had finally connected with the woman of his dreams. That was why he had smashed all those windows. He said that he did that because everyday he felt like his heart was smashed as he watched her walk by, not being able to tell her how he felt about her. "Why should I hold all those heartbroken feelings inside of me?" he had told me.

Grr....make it more personal! I liked the sentence in green but don't use smashed that much, use crushed, pulverized etc etc. Didn't the artist work with mirrors?

I told him that he still needed to produce the mirrors. He said no, that he was only going to make the mirrors if he could spill passion into them. I couldn't accept that answer. In a fit of rage I then killed him. He wasn't the first man that I killed, and it doesn't matter how I killed him or where or if I used a gun or knife or sword. All that matters is that he died, and my hands are the ones covered in blood. It was all his falut though: he had crossed the line and defied me. So he had to pay the price. I couldn't just let artists like him screw me out of prime material like he did.

The first sentence is too plain jane, fix it. I LOVED the second sentence, there's some personality! I don't know how I feel about the crazy art dealer guy's view of murder, he seemed to be fine with it...creepy....in a good way though

Going back to my home I started the process again of looking for art to sell off. A week passed after the killing with out anything coming up. After that week though strange things started happened. Every day I would wake up and get out of bed to start my morning routine. Walking out into the hallway, I would find one of my pieces of art shattered into pieces. Monday I walked out of my room to find my most prized vase in a million pieces all over the floor. It happend Tuesday and Wednsday also. Calling the police, I decied to hire some security to ward off whoever was smashing my pieces of art. I wasn't going to just sit here and let them smash my entire collection.

You could conjoin those two sentences (red). I think it's pretty unbelivable that he would get away with cold-blooded murder like that. Where was the body? Was there a funeral prosession? Didn't the town wonder who would kill such an upcoming artist?

Even after hiring the private guards things were still being smashed. Thursday I awoke to find my favorite portrait torn in half. Friday I discovered a bust of Stalin smashed in. The next morning, Saturday, I woke up and skipped my normal routine. (Which is what?!?) I decied when I woke up I was going to just search for whatever had been broken during the night and not wait to be told later in the day what had been broken. Going over the entire house, I couldn't find anything missing or broken. Seemingly nothing was messed up.

I personally did not like this part becuase the end was quite repetetive.

Walking back into my bathroom to take a shower, I realized what was out of place today: My bathroom mirror. I had walked into the bathroom to find that my mirror that hangs over the sink had been struck in the center and all the shards in the mirror formed this amazing mozaic in front of me. This is where things got really crazy. I didn't know what to do with myself. All I could do is tell myself that the person doing this will either stop after all the art I have is destroyed or if I get away. I told myself if this happened Sunday I'll go on a vacation across country, get away awhile and get out of this situation.

Wasn't he already in the bathroom?

Today I awoke in the middle of the night. I was tapped awake and my eyes opened and I stared outwards at my ceiling. I could see the eyes of the person who apparently has been behind all the smashed artwork: the woman who had loved the man I had killed. I glanced momentarily at my bedside table and knew the gun that sat on it was out of reach, and while I panned my eyes back to her face I noticed she held a [color=#8000FF]pick axe in her hand.[/color] Well, I might get the last word in the art world, but I definitely won't be getting the last word tonight. Tonight she pulls back her pick axe, and it's all I can do but imagine that she must be looking at her reflection in my eyes as she thinks to herself "Now I can show you the passion that is in my soul: here is my smashed mirror, my shattered heart that you helped [color=#8000FF]smash (think it would be better as crush). Now you will know how it feels to truly be shattered."

That first part in red doesn't make sense, he stared at her face and noticed the violent weapon in her hand? You should fix that somehow. I LOVED the last sentence, the comparision of her shattered heart and the broken mirrors, I applaud you on that.


2.Overall


Overall, I did like the feel of the story. If you could just stop the reader from feeling like a robot wrote this, you could have a in art terms Masterpiece in your hands! Good Job. I'd like to see more of you.


~Jasmine Bells~
Peace, Love, Writing and Chocolate

*Moved to Non-Fiction*

Thanks! I find that a very helpful review.

Snoink wrote:*Moved to Non-Fiction*

This should be in Other Fiction or something because it never happened so not relly non-fiction. It's a story and stories are usually fiction. Plus the non-ficiton is boring for something as good as this RANDOM ELEPAHNT!

Hehehehe, the cut-throat underworld of the legal art market, hehehe
A very amusing concept, bravo! Executed in somewhat naive fashion, but still, a nice little story. The main character and the concept are not at first beleivable, but then I told myself that perhaps the country where this takes place is Burkina Faso, or Ghana, or Moldova, heck, maybe even Russia. And then everything fell into place.
Just one thing, which can not be argued away - the bit where he decided to get some security. In any place in any situation, a guy like him - he already has it. So he shouldn't be just getting it, he perhaps should be doubling it or something.

Ok, so here is the story again with revisions-

I get up every morning and work my way through long corridors flanked by large portraits and sculptures. I am the wealthiest art dealer in the entire country, and control the entire industry. I put forth tremendous effort as a child to try to control the domain that matters most to me: art. I started out with nothing and worked from rags to riches to build an art empire. Now all the famous artists in the country sell their work through me, giving me complete control of the market. I have created my seat of power, and in the process am a master of my own domain. The only thing greater than my dominance of the market is my reputation. Everyone knows not to mess with me and that if they do it will be the last thing they'll do.

Every morning I walk down the valley I live in and look at what the local artists are up to in the marketplace. I see these daily walks as nothing but an excuse to get out of the house and breathe some fresh air. Today was different though. There was word of a new artist who was gaining a lot of attention on the art scene. Some of the locals had told me about him, he was this young man who worked with mirrors. Everyday he takes a pickaxe and smashes a mirror into a million pieces. Picking up the shards, he puts them all back together to form an amazing mosaic, dyed with different colors to create a rainbow master piece. This is my heart, he says, that breaks every day. I didn’t really care about that though. All I cared about was making sure he dealt the art through me. It was selling like crazy and I needed a cut of the action.

He accepted my offer and things worked out for awhile. I was able to display his mirrors at parties I held at my mansion in the valley. So much pride was held in my heart that I was the dealer of this fine art. I couldn't bear to see it leave my possession. After awhile though he stopped making the shattered windows. I remember traveling back down the valley to the market to pay him another visit. "Why have you stopped making the art?" I remember asking him. All he told me was that he was done: he told me that he had found what he had been searching for his whole life. That he had finally connected with the woman of his dreams. That was why he had smashed all those mirrors. He said that he did that because every day he felt like his heart was smashed as he watched her walk by, not being able to tell her how he felt about her. "Why should I hold all those heartbroken feelings inside of me?" he had told me.

I couldn’t live without those mirrors. Too much of my reputation had become invested in his work. Demanding him to make more mirrors, I threatened him. He said no, that he was only going to make the mirrors if he could spill passion into them. I couldn't accept that answer. In a fit of rage I then killed him. He wasn't the first man that I killed, and it doesn't matter how I killed him or where or if I used a gun or knife or sword. All that matters is that he died, and my hands are the ones covered in blood. It was all his fault though: he had crossed the line and defied me. So he had to pay the price. I couldn't just let artists like him screw me out of prime material like he did.

Going back to my home I started the process again of looking for art to sell off. A week passed after the killing without anything coming up. No one would defy me. Everyone must have known that I had killed him but none would be brave enough to stand up to me and point a finger at my face. They all know that if they mess with me they won’t win, and that in the end I always get the last word. After that week though strange things started happening. Each day of that following week I would wake up and get out of bed and walk down those decorated hallways in my mansion to be dumfounded to find one of my masterpieces destroyed before me. Monday I walked out of my room to find my most prized vase in a million pieces all over the floor. Tuesday I lost a valuable glass sculpture of an elephant. Calling the police, I decided to hire some more security to ward off whoever was smashing my pieces of art. I wasn't going to just sit here and let them smash my entire collection. All those years of hard work I’ve done wouldn’t be wasted. I was going to make sure of that.

Even after hiring more security guards things were still being wrecked. Thursday I awoke to find my favorite portrait torn in half, the face of a young Russian woman torn straight down the middle. Friday I discovered a bust of Stalin pulverized. The next morning, Saturday, I woke up and couldn't find anything missing or broken. I remember explicitly skipping breakfast and my morning shower to run around the house and try to find my latest piece of art that had been ruined, like a child on Christmas day running to find his presents. Only this time I was a dissapointed child. I didn’t see anything out of place today, none of my art had been ruined.

Walking back into my bathroom to get ready for my daily walk I realized what was out of place today: my bathroom mirror. I saw that my mirror that hangs over the sink had been struck in the center and all the shards in the mirror had formed this amazing mosaic in front of me. This is where things got really crazy. I didn't know what to do with myself. All I could do is tell myself that the person doing this will either stop after all the art I have is destroyed or if I get away. I told myself if this happened Sunday I’ll go on a vacation across country, get away awhile and get out of this situation.

Today I awoke in the middle of the night. I was tapped awake and my eyes opened and I stared outwards at my ceiling. I could see the eyes of the person who apparently has been behind all the smashed artwork: the woman who had loved the man I had killed. I glanced momentarily at my bedside table and knew the gun that sat on it was out of reach, and while I panned my eyes back to her face I noticed she held a pickaxe above her head. Well, I might get the last word in the art world, but I definitely won't be getting the last word tonight. Tonight she pulls back her pickaxe, and it's all I can do but imagine that she must be looking at her reflection in my eyes as she thinks to herself "Now I can show you the passion that is in my soul: here is my smashed mirror, my shattered heart that you helped smash. Now you will know how it feels to truly be shattered."

That was very creative i really liked it a lot.
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