How are y'all?
How's life?
...
No seriously, how go things?
So, I suppose I should post something new...does something new that's old count? Like...I wrote this a long time ago for an English assignment "to write a symbolic story". Props to anyone who figures it o-- wait, have I posted this befo?
...hm...
ANYWAYS! I'll post it again, and if I've already posted it before, I'll just take if off soon. {Implying someone had best tell me...otherwise this isn't doing either of us good. come on now, guys. come on.}
...IN OTHER NEWS {this is like previews before movies, ok?}
I've been writing this kind-of-analogous story, similar in style to "crossroads", and perhaps it shall one day appear.
Also, in art, there's this competition thing they do every year, and for the past few weeks we've been working to come up with concepts and ideas to do - basically, just sketches of general composition before we actually get to work drawing out the actual image.
SO! For my idea, I'm trying to kind of illustrate "Crossroads", and if it comes out well {we'll know in about a month...}, I might possibly put it up here. Maybe.
Alright, you guys are pretty patient and enduring, so...without further adeau, hoohah, or koalas, ladies and gentlemen, here's an analogous story! Have fun! Bring popcorn! Hey, you, down in front!
Four silhouettes snuck across the shadowed doorway. The figures hesitantly entered the art gallery, unsure of what they would find ahead. Dark, empty walls enclosed them, bearing no decoration except for the wall facing them.
An aging man with hair as white as sheep’s wool gasped in alarm, for on the wall he saw a painting. The image sent a chill throughout his blood and froze him where he stood. His wrinkled face beheld the artwork while his lips moved as if mouthing unspoken cries of terror. Faces and eyes stared back at him, lifeless yet moving; dead yet stirring. The emotions depicted in the painting seemed to jump out of the canvas and encircle him – pain, horror, and a dreadful feeling of unfamiliarity – the feeling of walking into a pitch black forest without knowing what would attack.
Beside him, a teenage boy asked, “What are you so afraid of?”
The man stared at the painting. “Don’t you feel it? It’s like looking at a black hole – it’s like the opening of Pandora’s Box.” And he turned his face away; he could no longer bear to look at the awful picture.
The teenager glanced at the painting, a lazy smirk finding its way onto his careless countenance. He didn’t understand why the man was so flustered, for all he saw was an empty frame embracing the black wall behind it. There was no painting or portrait or landscape to fill the empty void of darkness. The boy uneasily diverted his stare from the simplistic frame, and tried to shrug off the nervous feeling he got with a comment to the woman standing next to him.
“Strange for an old man to be afraid of such a simple arrangement.”
“A simple arrangement?” The woman repeated. “That’s an understatement.” Her blue eyes were locked onto the wall, for on it she saw the most beautiful sculpture she had ever seen. Vines and butterflies entwining golden flowers seemed to breathe with life. Light danced and played upon the shiny surface of the sculpture, giving the models twinkling eyes and playful moods. The woman almost wanted to touch the piece of art, for it was so overwhelmingly wonderful she couldn’t hold back a smile from spreading across her face.
“I wish I knew what the artist was thinking,” she murmured.
The teenager stared at her, and then stared back at the painting. Its dull simplicity met his searching look, and he said, “It’s not very beautiful – it’s a terrible conclusion to the art gallery.”
The woman shook her head. “I think it’s the perfect ending. They saved the best artwork for last.”
All of a sudden, the last member of their group, who had until now been silent, asked innocently, “What is it?” He was a child no more than six.
The woman gently took his hand and pointed to the work of art. “It’s life, dear.”
Confused, the child lifted his head for a moment, giving them a glimpse of his perplexed face. Curiosity shone in his naïve eyes. “I don’t understand,” he stammered.
“Look at the sculpture, dear. What do you see?”
“That’s what I mean,” the child persisted. “I don’t see anything.”
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