Thanks all, your help is appreciated. Clau, Impy--nice pick ups, I edited slightly to make up for some of those things. Hope its better.
DD>>Thanks, lol. All the best to you.
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People often misconstrue the beauty of the blank canvas. They see it as nothing, something merely to support the vision, Ivan mused, smiling slightly. He knew better though, and gazed into the pristine perfection, waiting. It was always so; he sat on his small crotchety stool, placed before the open double window and stared at the canvas in anticipation of the image it would yield. Through the window streamed the noise of the busy metropolis, the chatter, laughter, yelling … the stench of humanity, tinged by the hues of a crimson gold sunset. He let it flow over him and into his cramped apartment undisturbed.
He so rarely ventured out anymore, that it was a blessing merely to feel the heated caress of the sun on his skin. He knew what people said about his absence, heard the whispers that surrounded him; naming him obsessed, eccentric, mad. He didn't care about the jealous slander; art was all he had. His passion, his love was being abused, and he had to fix it. No longer did the visionaries, recepticles of miracles, bless the grey world with their presence.
They had long since vanished, replaced by a circle of dissaffected fools trying so hard to find something new and exploitable: something that tapped into that creative streak of pure colour in a tapestry otherwise dull.[/i] The truth, the secret, lay in the blood.
He sat for days, merely waiting. Some pictures were harder to coax forth then others. As in this case, it took three days; rough stubble cropped up on his delicate features and a haunted look grew in eyes stressed and red from avid search. On the brink of exhaustion he smiled suddenly, then leaned forward, nub of a pencil in multi-hued fingers and began to draw. It always gave him a rush, the feeling of creating, of power; a brush with divinity that made him ache for more. The first bold stroke, the dark outlining shapes, things previously hidden.
He could see it now: a street encrusted in filth. Against a blur of people walking by a road oozing black blood along exposed veins, there existed a miracle of nature—a puddle in a pothole. The dark rain water pooled, glacial and still, nursing in its centre, a perfect flower. Brilliant red petals fanned outward, a contrast so vivid it seemed to leak into the water, while in the centre a soft understated gold shone.
It was lovely. And yet, something was wrong. His head was pounding, his vision swam and the image he saw was flickering. Ivan felt confused, this had never happened before. Always his genius, his vision would spread unhindered across the canvas. Unnoticed, blood dripped from his nose, bursting silently on the floorboards. Instead of the perceived pothole, a very different image was shaping up beneath his hand—a backdrop of mountains, rising spires, trees. He shook his head, trying to clear it; blood splattered onto the canvas.
He raised a shaking hand, only now aware of the blood streaming from his nose. His breaths were rapid and short, pupils dilated. He flushed, a wave of heat rising up from the floor to his head. All the while his hands jerked and flashed erratically over the page with a will of their own and the sinister world came to life. He could see the few trees he'd individualized from the forest, sway in a breeze. He felt his body go slack and lean in, drawn closer. Suddenly his head flew backward and a massive sneeze rocked his body, spraying the art with blood, freeing him from its grasp. His mind was numb with shock, mouth agape in silent terror. But he couldn't stop. The painting had to be finished.
Night descended on the outside world and brilliant cold stars glared down on the city. The hectic rush of man and machine slowed as lights and nylon signs burst into life. Ivan reached to the side, losing the pencil and acquiring a small, fine brush. He began to gently but firmly apply pressure, smearing his blood into a light haze. The painter in him knew this shouldn't be possible, was aware that normally the blood would dry and be difficult to spread. It was as if the laws of reality had been suspended just for the unfolding of this one particular ... nightmare.
After many hours Ivan stood back, exhausted and still. He felt not the usual triumph, but a hollow emptiness. Never had he created something so powerful, so dark that it tugged at his soul even as he watched. Vaguely, he was aware of a gnawing horror. When one paints a vision, a world, he gives away a part of himself. In a way, the art is a reflection of innermost self. But this, Ivan knew, was not one such. It had nothing to do with him. “Zis is no’ right,” he said aloud.
Behind him, a voice suddenly answered: “But it is beautiful nonetheless.”
Ivan whirled, heart pounding. Standing there was a tall man, richly dressed in black velvet. Swaying on his feet, Ivan could only get an impression: of dark sable hair, intense silver eyes, a trim salt and pepper goatee. The man reached out a hand. "And so are you," he finished, gently cupping the surprised artist's chin. Before he could do anything but gape, the man raised an ebony cane and smashed it across Ivan’s face.
The force of the blow sent Ivan reeling, spinning him backward and onto the painting. Yet he felt no resistance, nothing stopped him. The man watched, impassive, but silently regretful as Ivan began screaming. The painting sucked and tore at him; pulling him in. Just as suddenly as it had begun, the screaming stopped and Ivan was gone. The painting remained, gleaming now with a polished coat.
The man stepped forward silently. He studied the painting for a moment, as sounds of music and people drifted in on the ghost of a breeze. “Your blood is your cage. My collection is mine,” he said ritually, as he’d done, for the past hundred years. “And you are the last, the final piece.”
Thanks all, your help is appreciated. Clau, Impy--nice pick ups, I edited slightly to make up for some of those things. Hope its better.
DD>>Thanks, lol. All the best to you.
Firstly, Jig, this was solidly chilling - a heavy, consistent sense of its frame like the painting. Once you start reading, you're in. There can't be a much better definition of a well-drawn sketch or short story.
As far as critiquing, it's mostly in one or two awkward sentences and conjunctions. The thick-woven description set tone, and fit with the subject.
People often misconstrue the beauty of the blank canvas. They see it as nothing, something merely to support the vision, Ivan mused, smiling slightly.
He knew better though, and [s]so[/s] gazed into the pristine perfection, waiting. It was always so;
He knew what people said about his absence, heard the whispers that surrounded him; naming him obsessed, eccentric, mad. He didn't care about the jealous slander[ an em-dash or colon, perhaps? ], art was all he had. The sad truth is that the true visionary no longer exists, replaced by a circle of dissaffected "artists" trying so hard to find something new and exploitable. Something that tapped into that creative streak of pure colour in a tapestry otherwise dull.
The truth, the secret, lay in the blood.
He sat for days, merely waiting. Some pictures are harder to coax forth then others. As in this case, it took three days; rough stubble cropped up on his delicate features and a haunted look grew in eyes stressed and red from avid search.
On the brink of exhaustion he smiled suddenly, then leaned forward, nub of a pencil in multi-hued fingers and began to draw.
He could see it now; [ colon rather than semi? ] a street encrusted in filth. [sans comma - add fullstop] In a blur of people walking by while in the middle of a road oozing black blood along exposed veins, there existed a miracle of nature—a puddle in a pothole.
It was lovely. And yet, something was wrong. His head was pounding, his vision swam and the image he saw was flickering. Ivan was confused, this had never happened before. Always his genius, his vision would spread unhindered across the canvas. Unnoticed, blood dripped from his nose, bursting silently on the floorboards. Instead of the perceived pothole, a very different image was shaping up beneath his hand—a backdrop of mountains, rising spires, trees. He shook his head, trying to clear it; blood splattered onto the canvas.
In a way, the art is a reflection of [s]your[/s] innermost self
Behind him, a voice suddenly answered. “But it is beautiful nonetheless.”
Ivan whirled, heart pounding. Standing behind him was a tall man,
Swaying on his feet, Ivan could only get an impression: of dark sable hair, intense silver eyes, a trim salt and pepper goatee.
He finsihed, gently cupping the surprised artist's face. Before he could do anything but gape, the man raised an exquisite ebony cane and smashed it across Ivan’s face
The force of the hit sent Ivan reeling, spinning him backward and onto the painting. Yet he felt no resistance, nothing stopped him
Just as suddenly as it had began, the screaming stopped and Ivan was gone. The painting remained, gleaming now with a polished coat
The man stepped forward silently. He studied the painting for a moment, as sounds of music and people drifted in on the ghost of a breeze. “Your blood is your cage. My collection is mine.” He said ritually, as he’d done, for the past hundred years. “And you are the last, the final piece.”
Oy, Jig, with you having posted an entry like this, I don't stand a chance. >< Though, competition aside, this is a fine piece and I wish you the best of luck in the duel. ^_^
to burst, which not only seems like the wrong verb for such a thing, and silent are too different to be right next to each other. They contrast in a strange way, burst if very powerful, so how can it be silent?Unnoticed, blood dripped from his nose, bursting silently on the floorboards.
I think the of and the colon are doing the same job here, so use one or the other.Swaying on his feet, Ivan could only get an impression: of dark sable hair, intense silver eyes, a trim salt and pepper goatee
I loved this right here, because we're hearing beautiful sounds, but they aren't really there they are "ghosts". It present a really nice....mood.as sounds of music and people drifted in on the ghost of a breeze.
Well thank you, certainly a lot of what you said was valid. I don't really want to go into detail on his appearance or the process of assumption when the painting consumes him. I prefer to hint at it rather then explain completely.
For some reason lol, I really like reading this aloud slowly. I wonder why that is. Anyway I've revised it a bit, added an extra paragraph and slightly edited other things. Tell me what you think.
I like this a lot!
The fantasy element at the end came on too suddenly. I think it might be better if you introduce the possibility of magic earlier, rather than making it seem fairly realistic.
I wasn't sure how old Ivan was. At times he seemed young, but he also seemed really old. It would be cool if you gave more of an indication- you could describe his hands, or something. If they were spotted and wrinkly, he could be old. If they were smooth he could be younger.
I'd also like to know more about Ivan's location. It sounds kind of like Paris, and kind of like Boston, but that's just the impression I got.
The sneeze was kind of gross, but I liked it anyway. However, painting with blood doesn't work very well. It has bad consistency, clumps as it dries, is watery before that, and doesn't soak in to the shiny canvas like normal paint. Also, if the brush sits still for a moment it gets stiff and hard to use.
I loved the beginning description of the people outside the window. It's a little hard to get into because there's a lot of words and not a lot of conflict or action, but after the first few paragraphs that goes away.
It's cool how Ivan pours his life force into the painting.
When he falls into the painting I'd like more description. Does it stay on the easel? Or does the easel smash when he crashes into it? If he doesn't hit the easel at all, the painting must be gigantic, and you should stay that.
Awesome story! ^_^
Thanks everyone for your comments and help. Glad y'all liked it and I'll take a look at ths alleged over-description lol.
I already told you that i love it.
Just thought id, well idk what i thought.
That was really amazing Jig, gripping.
I couldnt stop reading, i think it works perfectly
as a short story, anything long would slowly become
a bore. *jealous much so*
Wow, that really was good. Normally something like this wouldn't interest me, but I found it quite gripping. I didn't find the descriptions a problem at all, and although the whole painting with his own nose blood was a little, well, disgusting, it was highly creative. The part of this piece I particularly liked was:
Through the window streamed the noise of the busy metropolis, the chatter, laughter, yelling … the stench of humanity, tinged by the hues of a crimson gold sunset. He let it flow over him and into his cramped apartment undisturbed.
Wow, this was very good. Unique and original (and good job on fitting that picture into the story!). I liked how you described the whole process of the painting and his feelings as it progressed.
My only suggestion would be, as well done as all your descriptions are, in some places they seem to be a little too much and drag the story down a bit.
Nice work!
I think what you have done in places is written things over descriptively spoiling the pace of the story. The dragging out of a picture can make the reader lose interest.
However this story was fresh and intriguing, I found it delightful to read and quite different from the usual sword-fighting fantasy story.
Wow. This really is some powerful writing, although a bit dark i thought it was beautiful. I have never really read anything like this, it is original and has something strange about it. Keep writing, this is amazing stuff.
miyaviloves
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