Tag Archives: art

Friday Fictioneers – Lies Forevermore

© C.E.Ayr
© C.E.Ayr

Am I to believe all these circumstances?  Have I been bred to be so naïve?

Sometimes it feels like platforms are falling into the path of my steps, and I get to where I’m supposed to be.  This calculated fate designed for destiny; premeditated not by me.  Do they think that I don’t see just because I’ve always been here- that my sheltering would leave me transfixed?

To hear all my life the beauty of the painted skies, but when I finally reached out for them, my knuckles resounded a knock!

I beseech you the truth.  Lies forevermore, nevermore.


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Sunday Photo Fiction – Raft, No Reaps

116-08-august-9th-2015

I can see it from the dock; those golden sails that dim moonlight in their transparency.  The flapping softboxes light the deck, now a scenic set, for the maritime music to slip through the air like a celestial whisper.  The music drives closer as I see my intended passengers- those lost souls that seek guidance.  Those souls were ghostly dancers on the ship, and that ship I could not cruise to the Hereafter.

They swayed in twos, gliding across the stage under the radiance of the stars that shined on them like moths under a flame, but they feared no longer.  Under the delicacy of the melodies I could hear each spirit murmur to their partner-

“I love you.”

“I love you.”

“I love you.”

“I love you.”

                    -again and again like the chorus with no cadence.

It is my profession to bring those to peace, but some, few, do not need brought; few may find peace, but it is always in love.

I shredded my contracts as the vessel floated by and deemed such romance could stand the eternity it was sentenced.


Others here.

The #1 Thing I Love About Fiction

Suspension of Disbelief.

The concept that you can pick up a work of fiction (a book, movie, show, game, etc.) that YOU KNOW FOR A FACT is a lie, and yet you will your brain to believe it.  Media that is outright labeled ‘Fiction’, indicating to everyone that is false, made-up, dishonest, fraudulent- a lie, and yet we pretend the characters and situations and places are all real.

It’s not because we’re stupid.  We believe a lie so we can enjoy it.  Even if that means believing our beloved protagonist is harmed, mutilated, or even killed.  This doesn’t mean we’re sadistic (well, maybe a little), it means we’re human.  It means we want to relate to someone and care for them, even if the person isn’t real.  It’s really quite lovely.

We’re willing to believe Chris Pratt is really just about to be eaten by dinosaurs.  We’re willing to believe our toys come alive when we don’t see them, or you can make your house float with enough balloons.  We’re willing to believe zombies are all around us.  We’re even willing to feel that same fear and love and excitement vicariously.

We get to experience the most unbelievable situations and circumstances while sitting in a comfy chair, eating popcorn and drinking Coke.

And if we didn’t have this psychological phenomenon- if we weren’t completely willing to believe a lie, even when it is labeled as such, then we wouldn’t have fiction.

Mondays Finish the Story – Family Tree

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© 2015, Barbara W. Beacham
© 2015, Barbara W. Beacham

“What a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive.”

Obfuscating freedom with obscurity,

Trickery,

Deceptively-

Leading others to misery,

Melancholy,

Gloomy.

Unhappy-

Spindly spindles of sticky,

Tacky,

Gluey,

Lies not of necessity,

And they will inevitably,

Unavoidably,

Certainly,

Unescapably,

Unsurprisingly,

Be the end of me.

This web stuck up in a tree,

Of family,

Captured are he, she,

Me.

We’re all undeniably,

Irrefutably,

Indubitably,

Trapped for all eternity,

In this world we see,

Where things are not as they seem to be.

Our brothers are not brotherly,

And sisters not sisterly.

We never knew if our mothers were motherly,

Or our fathers fatherly.

Our guardians are not parentally:

Neither paternally,

Or maternally.

Those genetically,

Heritably,

Natively,

Naturally,

Evil things are a monstrosity,

That left us be,

Because of such a high fee.

They didn’t care about our survivability,

Leaving us under a park tree,

When our guardians selflessly,

Saved you and me,

From our deceptively,

Gloomy,

Gluey,

“Family” tree.

Your Painted Reflection

All the effort in the world won’t matter if you’re not inspired

Flat greens stretching past visible limitations chained to auburn by unseen growth, a curved azure dappled by bleached veils: a perfect art exhibit.  She sat under a large willow, branches extending down to kiss the grass a very formal hello, dreaming of lovely strokes of various hues which she would unite in her paintings.  As she often did to generate inspiration, she climbed up onto a sturdy branch, perfectly protruding through a chasm in the hanging leaves of the willow (exactly how she had painted it), and looked out upon the array of beautiful scenery.  Everything was artistically molded to its own uniqueness, but from the view atop a mountainous willow, through the void in the hanging green, all the individuality blended into one distinct foundation.  All of this the girl had painted with her enchanted brush on her cursed canvas which was then reproduced, in the exact figure and decorated in every specific detail the girl had painted, in the specific area she had painted it.

She climbed back down into the shadow of the willow, enthused by her own creations.  She picked the enchanting paintbrush up off the grass and walked to the easel, its canvas taunting its vacuity once again.  She began painting a large tree: the bark colored dark brown, covered in a turquoise veneer of moss.  In the center of the trunk she painted an imprint of a hand engraved in the bark; the exclusive signature.  She painted it with birds, each gathering beach grass and pine needles to build a nest.  Then, with foxgloves in bloom; her new creation of beauty, wet across the canvas.  When she had finished painting, she stepped back to marvel at her originality; perfection expressed through a thousand smears of paint and acrylic.  Above her view of the canvas, soaring through the sky came birds, each gathering beach grass and pine needles to build a nest.  As she observed the birds above her, she noticed branches reaching up in the sky, colored a dark brown, covered in a turquoise veneer of moss, as if they were trying to catch the birds just so they could be the lucky limbs to hold their home.  She peered around the side of the canvas to reveal foxgloves in bloom, sprouting from the ground near the newly placed tree.  All these things, matched precisely how the artist herself had imagined, now resided in a beautiful array of scenery.  Its uniqueness artistically molded, but from atop a mountainous willow, through the void in the hanging green, its individuality blended into one distinct foundation.  She walked over to the tree and placed her hand in the trunk she had painted, into the signature of the tree, as if she were signing it.

Where do you get your inspiration

                She walked along the edge of the pond, gazing down into the moving water.  Her distorted reflection stared back at her, as if it were her own self-portrait.  She hated the portrait waving in the pond; she had not been able to paint it herself.  In her own world of artistic creations, she felt as if she didn’t belong.  A duck in the pond ruffled its feathers, distorting the unoriginal portrait, weaved through the lily pads, and climbed up onto the grass.  She watched it as it came across another duck, which quacked in acknowledgement of a companion.  Loneliness crept in through her persisting thoughts, so much so that she converted loneliness to anger.  She screamed, causing the ducks to fly away, and ran across the grounds.  She ran past trees of blue she had painted while loving the sky, past boulders of purple she had painted while loving the night, past creatures of green she had painted while loving the grass, and past flowers of white she had painted while loving the clouds.

Everything is a diary

                When she finally calmed, she walked back to the willow.  In the shade, underneath the hanging greens, she held her enchanting paintbrush and walked to the easel, its canvas taunting its vacuity once again.  She tried to paint herself a companion, someone to love and ease the loneliness that so often crept into her persisting thoughts.  She painted this person by integrating the things she loved: eyes of curved azure, teeth as bleached as clouds, skin as soft as clay.  As she stepped away from the canvas, she realized she had painted herself.  Looking into her own self-portrait, she hated it.  She had tried to create a lover many times before; someone who loved the same things she did.  So she would paint the things she loved: eyes of green grass, of blue skies, of auburn ground; hair of bronzed grains, of gray rainclouds, of crimson rose petals.  Every time it would be a self-portrait.  And after she had finished her portrait, she would look around to see if it had spawned like her other creations, but it never had. She would stare at her painted reflection until it eventually rippled into an undistinguishable smear and then disappeared: the canvas taunting its vacuity once again.

As the sun set in the sky, deep colors of scarlet, orange, and lavender filled the sky.  She lay down next to the trunk of the willow, beneath the hanging greens, and closed her eyes.  Sleep was always hard for her to achieve.  Loneliness crept in through her persisting thoughts: the duck with its twin, the birds of a flock, and the flowers of a garden all made her jealous.  She opened her eyes to the night sky, unoccupied by the moon.  It was a night where she could see more with her eyes closed than open.  She imagined another person next to her, who she could love; someone to share the beauty she had created and to assist in her admirations.  She imagined this person lying next to her, arm around her waist, holding her tight so she would always remember she was not alone.  She imagined the warmth of a companion until she fell asleep.

Pain can be a gift

She woke to sunshine illuminating her surroundings: flat greens stretching past visible limitations chained to auburn by unseen growth, a curved azure dappled by bleached veils.  She looked up at the willow branch perfectly protruding through a chasm in the hanging leaves, then over at the large tree with bark colored dark brown, covered in a turquoise veneer of moss, an imprint of a hand its unique signature.  She stared at the tree with the imprint of a hand, recognizing that it was her hand she had designed it to hold.  Suddenly she was paralyzed by the realization that everything she had painted had been a self-portrait.  Every tree, every animal, every flower, revealed something about herself.  Then another comprehension crept into her persisting thoughts.

She needed to become angry.  She thought of the last time she was mad: near the pond with the two ducks, when she felt lonely.  She thought that if emotion can create a physical action, then duplicating the physical action can re-create the emotion, so she ran across the grounds, past trees of blue she had painted while loving the sky, past boulders of purple she had painted while loving the night, past creature of green she had painted while loving the grass, and past flowers of white she had painted while loving the clouds.  She ran back to the willow and angrily stood in the shadow, underneath the hanging greens.  She picked the enchanting paintbrush up off the grass and walked to the easel, its canvas taunting its vacuity one last time.  She painted a person with hair blonde like the feathers of the two ducks that caused her feelings of loneliness, the eyes dark like those of a bird flying in its flock, and the skin white like the canvas taunting its vacuity.  She painted this person sitting by the pond, staring at its own reflection, feeling lonely.  She furiously painted everything she hated.  When she had finished, she ripped the canvas in half and buried it in the dirt.  She threw her paintbrush at the large tree with the signature hand of the artist, and knocked down the easel.  She turned and walked toward the pond.

Sitting next to the pond, staring down at its own reflection, she saw her painted companion.  He had hair blonde like the feathers of the two ducks that caused her feelings of loneliness, the eyes dark like those of a bird flying in its flock, and the skin white like the canvas taunting its vacuity.  She walked over and sat down next to him.  He put his arm around her waist, holding her tight so she would always remember she was not alone.   They sat and stared down into their reflection.  Neither one had been able to create themselves, and in this way they were both unique.  They looked at their waving self-portrait and loved it.  A duck in the pond ruffled its feathers, distorting the new portrait, weaved through the lily pads, and climbed up onto the grass.  They watched it as it came across another duck, which quacked in acknowledgement of a companion.

Duck

The Illustrator

His hand was starting to cramp.  He had been drawing all night.  He loved being an Illustrator, but the long nights wore on him and his creativity drew thin for the night.  He had been given a large piece of circular poster board and told to draw as many different characters as he could.  He was filling one of the only remaining empty spaces when the cramp in his hand shot a painful twitch down his fingers.  The character was now disfigured.  He breathed a distressed sigh and pulled out his eraser, but when he brought it down to the board-

“Hey!”

He jumped, almost flinging his eraser across the room.  He collected himself and began his assessment.  He surveyed the room for the source of the interjection, but did not find it until-

“Down here!” said the character he had just been drawing.

The illustrator gave his head a gently shake and wiped his eyes.  It had been a long day at work.  Hallucinating just meant it was time for bed.

“Don’t erase me!”

The Illustrator leaned down closer to the drawn figure.  “But you are misshapen.  Your body has become twisted.  It has encircled and consumed all of you.  I must erase you so I can draw a new person.”  The Illustrator paused after saying ‘person’.  It was such a sentient, even human, term to describe such an entity.  The strangeness of the word did not surprise him, but rather his comfortableness with using it.  He loved illustrating and therefore he loved his creations.

“I am OK with my abnormalities if it means I can stay,” said the caricature.

The Illustrator paused and humbly considered this predicament.  Despite almighty position in this circumstance, he felt pity.  He pondered a resolution that would satisfy his love and his creation’s fear.

“How about this: I erase you now so I can make room for a new character, but I promise to redraw you, this time flawless.  I will frame you and hang you on my wall.”