[214] Cakewalk
Jan. 16th, 2010 03:57 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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kh_drabbleChallenge: [214] Cakewalk
Title: Canvasheart
Word Count: 281
Notes: This thing she’s created on flimsy paper is a feeble, insufficient replica to what’s been seen and done in the mind…
She has always known she was meant to create, not destroy. Manipulate, or perhaps be manipulated, by one of the two, or maybe both, or Nobody at all. After all, they probably manipulate each other enough already. That thought circled itself, then quivered, died.
Namine returns to her art.
(it could mean everything…
or it could mean absolutely nothing at all)
As she leans in, the images come; in the form of diluted inspiration they flow out of her. Like blood, like tears, in an expression of SELF as old as humanity.
Don’t put ripples in [the sea of] time, a muse whispers in her ear.
The multicolored pencils: her fingers.
His memory was her canvas.
To synthesize thought, all emotion, her purpose (in this bleached-white room she was destined, no, determined to fill with drawings) fulfilled only in his memory, which is where her usefulness to them lies.
Her beautiful, ugly, honest process is interrupted. The one who smells of ashes, his body a living urn, walks in without a word, without knocking. Steps forward, stands behind her.
Long fingers reached down to take up this new piece. Fire leaped in his eyes, but in his hand, holding herheart? Doesn’t matter, she told herself. She would make more; She always did.
After a pause, “Nice.” The man chuckled, and placed it back down before her. “You make it look so easy.” Only a smudge showed from where he touched it, and from the far edge of her vision she could see his pale thumb turned black with a tiny heart that had transferred from her paper,from her own.
Easy as bleeding, she thought. The hardest part is simply making the cut.
Title: Canvas
Word Count: 281
Notes: This thing she’s created on flimsy paper is a feeble, insufficient replica to what’s been seen and done in the mind…
She has always known she was meant to create, not destroy. Manipulate, or perhaps be manipulated, by one of the two, or maybe both, or Nobody at all. After all, they probably manipulate each other enough already. That thought circled itself, then quivered, died.
Namine returns to her art.
(it could mean everything…
or it could mean absolutely nothing at all)
As she leans in, the images come; in the form of diluted inspiration they flow out of her. Like blood, like tears, in an expression of SELF as old as humanity.
Don’t put ripples in [the sea of] time, a muse whispers in her ear.
The multicolored pencils: her fingers.
His memory was her canvas.
To synthesize thought, all emotion, her purpose (in this bleached-white room she was destined, no, determined to fill with drawings) fulfilled only in his memory, which is where her usefulness to them lies.
Her beautiful, ugly, honest process is interrupted. The one who smells of ashes, his body a living urn, walks in without a word, without knocking. Steps forward, stands behind her.
Long fingers reached down to take up this new piece. Fire leaped in his eyes, but in his hand, holding her
After a pause, “Nice.” The man chuckled, and placed it back down before her. “You make it look so easy.” Only a smudge showed from where he touched it, and from the far edge of her vision she could see his pale thumb turned black with a tiny heart that had transferred from her paper,
Easy as bleeding, she thought. The hardest part is simply making the cut.
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