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twilight8218

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<div style="border:1px #ccc solid; background-image:url('/images/ray.gif'); font-family:arial; width:200px; padding:5px;"><center><div style="font-size:20px;"><a href="/story/twilight8218/35031">The Blank Canvas</a></div><table><tr><td width="50"><div style="color:#2CC362; font-size:15px; padding-top:4px; background-image:url('/images/profratebg.gif'); background-repeat:no-repeat; width:44px; height:26px; text-align:center; font-weight:bold; vertical-align:middle; padding-top:8px; padding-left:1px; " valign="top">31</div></td><td><div style="height:100px;width:100px; padding-top:9px; background-repeat:no-repeat; background-image:url(/images/storyCover.png);"><a href="/story/twilight8218/35031"><div style="margin-left:9px; __padding:0px; height:90px; width:70px; background-repeat:no-repeat; background-image:url('http://www.testriffic.com/storyfiles/35031.jpg');"></div></a></div></td></tr></table></center></div>

+ 14	Becca (18)
+ 13	Hearing is Believing (2)
+ 11	Diary of Secrets (2)
+ 10	Diary of Secrets
+ 12	Becca (17)
+ 13	Hearing is Believing (1)
+ 20	Hearing is Believing
+ 14	Becca (16)
+ 18	Becca (15)
+ 21	Becca (14)
+ 14	Ravenwood Manor (3)
+ 21	Becca (13)
+ 21	Becca (12)
+ 22	Becca (11)
+ 15	Ravenwood Manor (2)
+ 30	Becca (10)
+ 22	Scream.
+ 24	Ravenwood Manor (1)
+ 36	Becca (9)
+ 26	Ravenwood Manor (Intro)

        (Early 1900’s: Reims, France) -- -- -- -- -- (This story should be in French, but I don’t know French, so just pretend the conversations and everything else are in French…)

 

 

 

 

My breathing came out sharp and jagged. All I could see was the world within the sketch; everything else was just background noise. It was a world of no color, just one of black and white that I had earlier envisioned in my mind; this was the world in which I belonged. I could feel the curious eyes craning over my shoulder to get a better look.

The charcoal pen moved swiftly over the rather empty canvas. Shades of black were blending fantastically, but it still wasn’t enough. Something always had to be missing.

I stopped in the midst of my creation to get a better look but merely grimaced in disgust. The eyes were terribly disproportional. The mouth was curved in all the wrong places and the whole effect did not satisfy me at all. This was not what I had seen in my mind.

Howling with rage, I threw both the canvas and my supplies out into the stoned road. Each made a sharp noise once they had impacted onto the dirty grime. The person whom I was sketching jumped with surprise and immediately tried to find a way out.

“I… should… go…” Her voice was frantic and desperate.

I said nothing in response and instead flashed a hard look in her direction; I too wanted rid of her. She took that as a yes and skipped hastily away. I turned to face the building that was behind me and lunged for it with brute force.  Done with my body, I began to bang my head against the small building; my thoughts scattering with each blow.

My model had been beautiful; she was close to perfect so how could she have turned out so horrid? How could the sketch transformed into something that belonged only in my nightmares? How could I just lose all of my talent?

When I was finally calm enough to breathe evenly I slowly peered over to my scattered utensils and the canvas that lied upon the road. Even at this distance, I could see its hideousness. My jaw flexed and to avoid boiling with wrath once more, I looked down the alley, shoved my hands in my pockets and began strolling elsewhere.

I used to be one of the best, a child prodigy, but now I am nothing more than the rest of the artists I see every day. When I was younger I used to get inspired by the simplest things: yarn, rocks, trees, elders, animals or something that is a very common thing to see. But as the years passed it has gotten harder and harder just to sketch.

Sometimes I paint, sculpt or another way to create works of art, but sketching is my passion. I love capturing the detail and sometimes I get so engrossed in what I do everything in the rest of the world seems like a fantasy and the one I am in the reality.

My talent hasn’t vanished; it is my inspiration that has ceased. Without inspiration, both I and my creations are nothing. The meanings of everything have become so much harder to get out and I can no longer feel what I am doing.

I looked around me to not just the artists, but the real world. The sun was at its highest point in the sky which means that it is once again midday in Reims. A mother was holding her child tightly while patting its back soothingly and another child at her side of hugging her waist with both arms.

This image seemed to bring back memories from my childhood and I laughed because of it. I had left home in the country when I was sixteen because I had wanted to go to the city. It was a decade later, and I still want to go to the city. Reims is fairly large but my heart belongs in Paris. That is where the real artists are and hopefully I could get some inspiration there.

Ah… Paris, just thinking about gave me jitters. If only I could afford a ticket to get there—I don’t plan on walking, mostly because I tend to be lazy and trains are not only faster they are better than my own two feet.

I had sketch books, but I prefer canvases for various reasons, and I have drawn almost everything you could think of. The first drawing I ever sketched was a rose; it wasn’t as good as what I can do now (well when I am inspired) but it was better than most of the children at my age (which was two).

I felt a sudden tap on my shoulder which caused me to turn sharply to the figure behind me. She was a small girl that looked only to be six. Her hair was a wild brown mess and her olive eyes seemed just as wild.

“Yes?” I asked with a small smile; when it comes to children I tend to be kind.

“There’s a funny looking boy looking for you.” She replied pointing to a familiar red haired lad across the way that was shouting my name frantically. His scarlet curls swayed around his round face as he looked from side to side.

“Thank you.” I reply gently and she skips off with a hum.

“OLIVIER!” The boy shouted once more until he finally spotted me. Damn, I should’ve run while I had the chance—I am not in the mood to get my ear talked off.

Adrien—the fifteen years old boy—crossed the street in a hurry only to be honked at by a passing car. But he carelessly kept running until he was close enough to me.

“What, Adrien?” I inquired through a tight jaw once he was at least a foot away.

“I just saw the most…” Adrien ventured into his usual babble that I tended to zone out of. He knew I hated it when he rambled about unimportant things, but that didn’t stop him from telling me the coolest things.

I tried to find something to capture my interest while he went on, but everything was the same as it usually was. The homeless were begging for money, the artists were using their own styles to create numerous things, and the children were at play.

“Olivier, are you even listening to me?” Adrien asked in both a whiney and hurt voice that snapped me out of my own thoughts.

“Truthfully, no,”

“Well, then I guess you won’t ever know what I was talking about. It wasn’t the usual stupid things; it is something that might actual affect you.” He said nonchalantly, but I could tell he was just dying to tell me whatever he had seen.

“Fine,” I clip out with an exasperated sigh.

“I think I found you a model, better than Claire—”

“Claire?” I interrupted and he rolled his eyes.

“Your last model now let me finish. I just walked past this fine specimen and I knew you’d want to see her so…”

“You brought her?”

“No… actually I just went to find you, but I did see her. Trust me, she is… wooing…”

“Well where is she?” Eagerness colored my voice as I curiously wondered whom he was talking about now. I would do anything for a bit of inspiration.

“I passed her on Third Street, but you better hurry, she was moving pretty fast.”

I shoved past Adrien and took a shortcut through a dark alley because they are shortcuts to my destination. My legs powered me to full speed as I turned sharply passed the alley corner; I had just barely caught myself.

“Olivier!” I heard Adrien still shouting after me but I would ask him about whatever he was going to say later—that is if I am in the mood, which I probably won’t be. His panting sounded somewhat close and the fact that he was trying to catch up to me was extremely annoying.

Third Street came up on my right and I frantically scanned the streets for anyone that Adrien could’ve meant. His wheezing was less than a foot behind me now and I felt his plump fingers grasp my shoulder.

“… She… went… up… the… right side…” Adrien gasped between breaths and I once again left him behind. My actions showed how desperate I truly was just to sketch the perfect picture and gain back my inspiration.

I dreaded going up the right side of Sixth Street for two reasons: one—it was uphill and two—past it was the upper class snobs that could care less about the poverty down the way.

The scenery changed dramatically as I passed the uphill block. Buildings were much more elegant while the homes were huge and luxurious. Immediately I felt self-conscious as eyes scorned at my tattered and messy clothes, but I had no time to worry about my appearance, I had to find this woman.

My feet pounded against the pavement as I pulsed through the streets in search of the mysterious model. It probably would’ve helped to have Adrien identify her, but I didn’t have the patience to wait for him, even if he was still desperately trying to catch up. 

 

 

 

 

(Author's Note: I seriously have no idea what Reims, France looks like because I only picked it because it was somewhat close to Paris.)

(I tried very hard not to make it go by fast so you would have to wait and meet the love affliction, but to you readers it may have gone by fast... but I did try) 

(I would enjoy your feedback and rates so please tell me what you think, and if no one likes it I will still keep writing it. Why? Because I think this is my best story yet.)

(Thank you for the minutes you gave up reading the first Ch. to The Blank Canvas!) 

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