blustocking (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
blustocking) wrote2002-04-22 09:35 pm
blustocking) wrote2002-04-22 09:35 pm
show n' tell
Okay...it's finished.
Let me just preface this with, I had to write this in a few days because the story I was originally going to read has lyrics. I'm not going to ruin that story by reading it out loud. So, here is the replacment.
Some critique I've already received is that his p.o.v. is too short, which I do think could be true.
I don't know...we'll see.
Comment only if you're going to be honest.
He had started with a small red bird, in flight, soaring above her left breast, it's multi-colored tail gently, gracefully trailing in a curve to match her own. It seemed fitting, as this is where the disease began, deep in the tissue of her heart, later giving her a stroke and paralyzing nearly her entire body. The needle was small, not like the massive pieces of sharpened metal she was used to seeing enter her numb flesh. She watched intently as the silvery, beak-like, rapid-fire pulse of the gun pushed in color and pulled out the poison…or so she had wished.
There was no hope of that, she knew this. Her only joy now was seeing her once lustrous skin covered in violets, blues, reds, greens, and rivers of black ink. She would be his canvas. If science and medicine could not bring her back to life, then perhaps color and line would, or at least give her something to look at, concentrate on, besides sterile hospice walls.
So she would lie there, listening to the hum of the gun mix with the hum of the machine-that-did-her-breathing, occasionally looking at the work in progress. Every five minutes or so, he would look up from his work, smile, and ask her if she was okay. She would then lie by attempting to smile and nod her head in a rudimentary "yes". It was part of their daily ritual, every day except Sunday, from 4 to 6 p.m.
Even by the age of 28, she had never had a tattoo; her only piercings were her ears, and she rarely, only socially, drank alcohol. She had tried pot once, but it didn't seem to affect her, so she decided drugs weren't as alluring as her friends had led on. By the time the disease struck, she lived only to feed the cat and take photographs. The most painful loss was never being able to control a moment with the melody of a shutter-click again. Working mainly in black and white, she had used her one good hand to tell the tattoo artist to use as much color as possible. And with this permission, wrought-iron ivy soon sprang from her ankles, tendrils of deep red roses clinging to the vines. Eventually, they coiled the length of her body and wrapped around her neck, ending in a dangling gothic-inspired cross between her collarbones, though she had never been devoutly religious. Violet, gray, and blue stars shot across her back, co-mingling with the smoke from a velvety-green dragon's fiery breath. A black and blue heart rested on her right arm, for she always said she wore her heart on her sleeve, if not in words, but in photograph. And just like her own, this one was also bruised and broken.
He knew her. They had gone to high school together. Once, he had asked her to dance, but she had politely said "No". She was what you would call a "loner" then, perhaps still. Most of the time, she could be found in the photography class' darkroom. Most of the time, he could be found in the art rooms drawing or painting. And now, almost twelve years later, he had no intention of telling her who he was. Perhaps she already knew and he was content with the comfortable silence of their time spent together. She had been successful in her passion, he had not...really. Flitting from shop to shop and barely making rent wasn't exactly what he had in mind for his future. But there was still time, always time. He looked up at her again, asked her if she was okay...she was, or so she said in her limited gestures. He smiled and looked back at his work, the final piece, consisting of intricate scrollwork and spirals on her small feet, dabbing at the blood lightly seeping from the inked lines. Time. There was always time, right? He nodded to himself and made a mental note to start painting again when he got home...or perhaps tomorrow, as he was tired from the constant flow of work he had that day. Yes, tomorrow. He finally completed the lines and looked up, smile beaming with the thrill of beauty created and completed. He wanted to see her reaction when he told her it was finally finished...but it seemed as though she already knew.
Let me just preface this with, I had to write this in a few days because the story I was originally going to read has lyrics. I'm not going to ruin that story by reading it out loud. So, here is the replacment.
Some critique I've already received is that his p.o.v. is too short, which I do think could be true.
I don't know...we'll see.
Comment only if you're going to be honest.
He had started with a small red bird, in flight, soaring above her left breast, it's multi-colored tail gently, gracefully trailing in a curve to match her own. It seemed fitting, as this is where the disease began, deep in the tissue of her heart, later giving her a stroke and paralyzing nearly her entire body. The needle was small, not like the massive pieces of sharpened metal she was used to seeing enter her numb flesh. She watched intently as the silvery, beak-like, rapid-fire pulse of the gun pushed in color and pulled out the poison…or so she had wished.
There was no hope of that, she knew this. Her only joy now was seeing her once lustrous skin covered in violets, blues, reds, greens, and rivers of black ink. She would be his canvas. If science and medicine could not bring her back to life, then perhaps color and line would, or at least give her something to look at, concentrate on, besides sterile hospice walls.
So she would lie there, listening to the hum of the gun mix with the hum of the machine-that-did-her-breathing, occasionally looking at the work in progress. Every five minutes or so, he would look up from his work, smile, and ask her if she was okay. She would then lie by attempting to smile and nod her head in a rudimentary "yes". It was part of their daily ritual, every day except Sunday, from 4 to 6 p.m.
Even by the age of 28, she had never had a tattoo; her only piercings were her ears, and she rarely, only socially, drank alcohol. She had tried pot once, but it didn't seem to affect her, so she decided drugs weren't as alluring as her friends had led on. By the time the disease struck, she lived only to feed the cat and take photographs. The most painful loss was never being able to control a moment with the melody of a shutter-click again. Working mainly in black and white, she had used her one good hand to tell the tattoo artist to use as much color as possible. And with this permission, wrought-iron ivy soon sprang from her ankles, tendrils of deep red roses clinging to the vines. Eventually, they coiled the length of her body and wrapped around her neck, ending in a dangling gothic-inspired cross between her collarbones, though she had never been devoutly religious. Violet, gray, and blue stars shot across her back, co-mingling with the smoke from a velvety-green dragon's fiery breath. A black and blue heart rested on her right arm, for she always said she wore her heart on her sleeve, if not in words, but in photograph. And just like her own, this one was also bruised and broken.
He knew her. They had gone to high school together. Once, he had asked her to dance, but she had politely said "No". She was what you would call a "loner" then, perhaps still. Most of the time, she could be found in the photography class' darkroom. Most of the time, he could be found in the art rooms drawing or painting. And now, almost twelve years later, he had no intention of telling her who he was. Perhaps she already knew and he was content with the comfortable silence of their time spent together. She had been successful in her passion, he had not...really. Flitting from shop to shop and barely making rent wasn't exactly what he had in mind for his future. But there was still time, always time. He looked up at her again, asked her if she was okay...she was, or so she said in her limited gestures. He smiled and looked back at his work, the final piece, consisting of intricate scrollwork and spirals on her small feet, dabbing at the blood lightly seeping from the inked lines. Time. There was always time, right? He nodded to himself and made a mental note to start painting again when he got home...or perhaps tomorrow, as he was tired from the constant flow of work he had that day. Yes, tomorrow. He finally completed the lines and looked up, smile beaming with the thrill of beauty created and completed. He wanted to see her reaction when he told her it was finally finished...but it seemed as though she already knew.
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:)
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I agree that it seems a little short. Short's not bad if the entire story is finished in that time, but this time it seems as though you had to hurry and finish it due to running out of time. It seems as though there is more story there to tell.
I'm intrigued by the idea that when the tattoo's are finished, she is "finished". How does this affect the tattoo artist? Does he care? What is their relationship? Have they developed one during this time (I don't mean sexual, etc. but just any type of interaction-relationship)? Or do they just interact as tattoo artist/canvas with no thoughts to who each other is? You bring up that they went to high school together. Why? You must have had some other idea to make this point. What is it?
Anyway, sorry if these questions/thoughts are stupid or beside the point. This is why I don't like commenting on people's stories. I'm embarrassed by my comments.
P.S. Good idea. Love your first paragraph. This reminds me of two short stories. One called "In the Fields Where They Live" and another I can't think of at the moment. I'll try to remember it. You may like it.
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I don't think I'll go too much into their "relationship", as what you read was pretty much the extent of it. I don't want this to be a character-driven piece, all nice-nice about their lives. I want it to be more on-the-surface, symbolic than that. I think I might "disturb" it up a bit.
What I had hoped to convey is random. They haven't interacted until he was contacted to do the tattoo work.
I like there to be a silent connection, but no real interaction (as it's hard for someone in her position to interact anyway). I brought up the high school thing because I just needed a way to connect them, but not a solid connection, something in the past, something fleeting. It wasn't pre-meditated though, it just came out like that.
Thank you...I have some things to think about now. :
no subject