Part of
life is creating art. That’s why I dubbed the less writing-centered posts “Life
is an Art”. People express that art in various ways, almost as many ways as
there are people to express it. I happen to express my art through writing, and
you (as a reader of this blog) probably do as well. Or not, perhaps you express
it in other ways. Fantastic.
Today,
however, I’d like to give you a brief, 1,600 word glimpse at the “art” I
attempt to create when I write.
This short
story, titled “Broken Snapshots” was
a story I wrote for a contest held on a writer’s forum. It’s what I call
“abstract inspirational” by genre, and I placed first in the contest with it.
Because it’s only 1,600 words, it’s fairly short, fairly condensed. The contest
required me to include certain phrases and words, and to use a few pictures as
inspiration for prompts.
When I
first considered entering the contest, I had no idea what I wanted to write.
Then, one night as I was attempting to fall asleep and failing miserably, I had
this idea. An idea to write from the point of view of an object that no one
really considers sentient.
Hopefully,
the object will become obvious as you read.
Do enjoy, Broken Snapshots:
Broken Snapshots
By Aidan Bender
I blink to
life.
All around
me, colors explode. Azure blends with crimson and merges into a chameleon
green. I blink again, and my vision blurs. Everything is so… quiet. Then, I
come into focus and stare.
I wish I
could smile, feel the smile bubble up inside me like a spark.
The sky
stretches out before me, reaching down to the horizon to hold hands with the
land; a flood of poppies and rushes. I blink, to capture the snapshot of
wonder.
Flicker.
Over and
over my vision focuses in and out as I snap moments of that landscape. Inward I
lean, focus again on a single poppy, its delicate petals curling up to kiss the
oxygen I wish I could breathe.
Flicker.
The sun
droops toward its bed and bleeds across the edges of the darkening blanket
below. At last I turn away, allow my eye to close and blackness surround me.
Movement gives me a sense of flying, but I turn inward rather than feel the
rush of euphoric speed. Rather, I gather the snapshots and admire them through
introspection. A slice of a memory: flowers and grass and sky and sun and – far
off in the distance – a windmill. So far I had to strain to admire the lazy
spin of the old-fashioned turbine. Wide blades, squat base, a thatch-roofed hut
even hazier beyond it.
Flicker.
Light
comes again – and this time I feel the smile creep out, even though I have no
mouth. It comes as a blur in my sight and it vanishes as I return to my
business: collecting sight and memory.
Before me,
on a stool, sits a young boy. His blond hair sticks straight up, stiff and
unrelenting as a soldier at its post. For a long moment, the young boy stares
at me with his wide brown eyes, and then his mother steps into view and
straightens his tie.
Poor boy,
forced to wear that awful tie. The checkered red-and-yellow pattern jars
against the blue-and-green vest he wears. The boy grimaces at me – as if it’s
my fault – and tugs at his slacks.
He looks
away from me, to the side, and his mouth moves. Oh, how I wish I could hear.
But he turns back at me and smiles. I shiver a little inside and capture the
moment.
Flicker.
No, not
good at all. He looks constipated and grumpy simultaneously. I sigh and whisk
that snapshot away – no need to remember it. How about a different pose?
A moment
later, he does indeed shift, and smiles.
Perfect.
Flicker.
This time,
it’s a genuine smile that makes his eyes sparkle and a dimple dip the edge of
his cheek. I positively tremble at the perfection of the moment. He’s adorable.
Next, a
person comes from the left and hands him a lightsaber. It pleases him, and I collect
several adequate snapshots. People will enjoy those, even though they aren’t
perfect.
After a
while he begins to fidget and his smile is never as real as the one I first
collected. But I capture a few good memories of him, and as he disappears from
sight, I turn inward to inspect them. One where he is laughing I store with my
favorites, along with that smile of his.
A
windmill, a boy, pictures of flowers and sky and houses and skyscrapers and
people. My collection of memories.
Flicker.
It’s dark,
for a long time. I consider it sleep, though I don’t really need it, in the
strictest sense. I wait patiently, knowing that the light will return sometime.
Somewhere, it’s waiting for me. Or perhaps it’s the other way around. I’m not
really sure, I guess.
Flicker.
There it
is. The light comes back. I frown to myself; the backdrop is different. It’s
always been nature or buildings or else the light blue fade, like behind the
boy from yesterday.
But today…
today it’s a faded white, with tears running vertical. Behind it drapes black
muslin, which hides whatever lies beyond those rips.
How odd…
perhaps I’ll take a memory, just in case.
Flicker.
There, now
I’ll remember this… whatever it is.
I wait –
with impatience buzzing inside me – and close my eye. At once, I open it again
and stare. A girl sits in front of the white, now. She clutches a battered doll
and stares at me with wide blue eyes. Her dress is brown and tattered, little
more than rags strung between hems. I think she’s eight, but she bites her lip
and hugs that doll like she’s three. Her eyes swell with tears and I ache to
tell her it’s all right.
Flicker.
My vision
blurs, then focuses back in. I blink. Did I… I took a snapshot. It happened by
accident, but I can’t just get rid of it. She looks so sad, so… real. A tear
just on the verge of falling to her cheek, the doll clutched to her chest, her
other hand just behind her back.
The girl
leaves, is replaced by an older boy – twelve – with freckles and red hair. He
won’t look right at me, stuffs his hands in his pockets. Bruises mar his arms,
massive blotches of purple that seem to mock their brown, more natural
compatriots that litter his face. His mouth moves as someone else speaks to
him. I think he’s mumbling. I tremble, but I take a memory of him anyway.
Flicker.
So
insecure and vulnerable. He glances at me and away, shifts his feet.
Eventually, he leaves, too, and again is replaced.
A young
woman – sixteen – in a short green dress. She sits primly on a block in front
of the white and smiles. I perk up a bit, take a memory of her at once.
Flicker.
Her eyes
dart away from me, off to the left. As her mouth begins to move, I frown. The
sleeves of her dress are short – it’s a summer dress, after all – and her
slender arms look… bony. Very bony. She looks back at me, her smile fades.
I’d purse
my lips, if I had them. Whoever had spoken to her, they took away that
beautiful little smile. She shifts in her seat, turns to the side. My, she is
skinny. Someone ought to make her eat more; it can’t be healthy to be that
small.
Flicker.
Again, I
take the snapshot without really thinking, but it’s there to stay. She stands
up and walks away, gesturing and talking. Shouting, maybe. I let my vision blur
in and out of focus until the next person comes and sits.
A dark-skinned
girl in a sweater and sweatpants. She grimaces at me, at first, but then she
smiles. I wish I could smile back at her as I take a memory.
Flicker.
At least
she’s happy. But then she’s gone, replaced by an older boy. Nearly a man. He’s
got wisps of peach fuzz – chances are he calls it a beard – on his chin and
cheekbones. Long mangy hair, sallow skin, and big muscles. He wears a
sleeveless shirt as if to flaunt that fact.
I mutter
to myself, feel disgruntled. He’s got a tattoo on his tricep, which he turns
toward me as he sits down, a black and red inking. It’s mostly a skull with
blood dribbling between the teeth, but below it says “we’re off to hell”, and
swirls of smoke underline the words.
How
depressing.
But he’s
here for a reason, I suppose, so I blink to capture the moment.
Flicker.
Next a
young woman sits down – I think she’s eighteen or nineteen. She doesn’t smile,
stares at me solemnly. I blink back at her, wonder at her blank expression. She
wears a long-sleeved shirt and jeans, dry washes her hands as she waits.
Flicker.
Then
someone talks to her; from the way she shakes her head, furrows her brow, it’s
not something she wants to hear. But then she rolls up her sleeves to her
elbows and turns back to me. I shiver, inside, and snap the memory of her
scars.
Flicker.
A boy with
only one leg and a pair of crutches.
Flicker.
Twin blind
girls, wearing black dresses with angel wings, staring at me blankly.
Flicker.
A
dark-skinned boy and a light-skinned boy shaking hands.
Flicker.
A girl in
a wheelchair watches her sister dance.
Flicker.
A newborn
and her mother, a framed picture of a man in a uniform.
Flicker.
I take so
many memories, more in one day than ever before. That night, I don’t even
pretend to sleep. Instead, I ponder the snapshots, the memories.
I feel a
rush of movement, and sink into the delight of flight. It lasts a long time;
there is light again.
All around
me, there are people. Dozens and dozens of people. I stare at them, capture
them in a moment.
Flicker.
I move
forward, flit into a marble building, down a long hall filled with paintings. I
pass images of people and animals and landscapes and buildings. Then I stop,
rest on a pedestal facing a long wall.
If I had a
jaw, it would drop, drop down off the pedestal to the floor.
My
memories hang from the wall.
Images of
poppies and sunsets and hummingbirds and skyscrapers and trees and oceans.
Interspersed with them are the pictures of the people from yesterday. People with smiling faces, sad faces, solemn faces. Broken people, hurting
people.
I would
smile, if I could, but I don’t have a mouth. I’d leap for joy, if I had legs,
I’d weep if I had tears.
But I
don’t.
Instead I look,
and I remember.
Flicker.
How dare you make me cry...
ReplyDeleteThat is not fair, sir.
How dare you make me cry...
ReplyDeleteSorry not sorry. ;P
Delete