Plush and Blood : The Forum :: Mah Art Storeh!

Lexxors · Posted: Sat Jun 28, 2008 8:56 am Post subject:

Well, yes, that's the gist of it... here you are:

Maybe it was just the light, or maybe it was the absence of light. Whatever it was, the notebook gleamed. It screamed. It was mine, and sitting on the shelf, Unused. Unopened. I know there were 70 sheets of college ruled, perforated, untouched paper within (as the cheap cardboard cover proclaimed). It wanted me, needed me, to pick up the pathetic little pencil I used for sketching mundane
masterpieces and grace it's pure pages.

I gave in, yanked it off the shelf, and sat there for some time. Slowly, I flipped the cover open. Slowly, slowly, creeping along on it's metal spine. And the page was before me an eternity later.

It yelled at me. Pathetically. As if tears would spring forth from the page if it didn't touch graphite soon. I picked up my short, green drawing pencil and sketched the first thing that came to my mind.

Lines screeched down the page, audibly. Twisted and curved. Ugly. Gorgeous. Jagged edges met shaded circles. Tear drops met curly-cues. The lead sung against the paper, sometimes a soft ballad and others a metal melody. Gray turned to greens, blues, yellows, and reds. Purple. Pink. White. Black. All colors and no colors. Every single shade that could be imagined. Scenes emerged. Mountains were made and crumbled. People were suddenly put on an earth in another dimension, more beautiful than our own, to create the scene flowing out of my pencil.

It didn't stop flowing. Page after page after page of anger, sadness, happiness. Poverty, famine, glory, joy. Lines, paper. Worlds far greater than our own roared from my mind.

On it went, an hour.

Two.

Twelve.

Twenty-four.

70 pages, that were pure, now were stained and corrupted and enhanced with life. Or death. Or whatever force (known to us or not) drove me. My hand. My mind. My soul. Entwined.

Forty-eight.

My imagination. It reeled. I thought everything. Saw places, people. Heard their alien voices which didn't exist where we are from.

And the pencil, the color from the single piece of graphite tucked neatly in a cylinder of wood, kept moving. It stole the paper's stark white life away. Made it live, breathe, die, exist. Non-exist.

Seventy-two.

Seventy-three.

I didn’t tire. There were times the pages were tickled and laughed, and there where they moaned and groaned in agony at the severe lack of my gentleness.

Seventy-four.

The pencil started to slow, finishing the detail on the 70th page.

Seventy-five.

My hand had cramps, sketching in the last few lines.

Seventy-six.

The pencil slipped from my grasp. The notebook, which cost all of one dollar at the most, had filled with masterpiece. Artwork from worlds no one knew about. The book closed on it's own.

Seventy-seven.

Mother's voice rang out through the bedroom in which I sat.

"You've been locked in here for a few days," Her voice seemed sharp. Daggers assaulted my ears, "And I believe it's time to come out."

I raised my haggard eyes to meet hers and yawned lazily. With a content smile, I spoke.

"Mother, you don't know the first thing about art."
_________________
The Lexi Has Spoken.