Tuesday, March 08, 2005

Unfinished

So, I started this brilliant story (note sarcasm), and I couldn't think of an ending. So I thought I'd let all of you come up with endings. Here it is: the first (completely original) make-up-your-own-endings post! Make up your own ending, post it in the comments section, and let us all read it! The more absurd, the better. To help you get started, I'll post a random ending my brother came up with, and Jess is going to post an ending too. Then, tomorrow or whenever I get around to it, I'll post the ending I ended up writing.... And yes, it's absurd. Don't even ask how absurd it is. Just submit your endings and let the fun begin! (I feel like a carnival hawker. Do I sound like a carnival hawker to you?)

Step right up! Post your ending! Completely free! No jokes! No catches! No secret-contracts-hidding-in-the-subtext-of-this-
blog-giving-me-the-copyrights-to-your-soul!

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He stared quietly out into the rain. He wasn’t sure it should be called rain, but “rain” was the closest he could get. A drizzle? No, that’s not right either. Drizzle sounded so depressing, and these shining star-droplets falling from heaven were anything but. The clouds which caused them, a soft cooling grey, made light seem tangible, a thing to be touched and caught, wrapped up and given away with love.

The plum tree outside his window glowed. “Brown” was not the word to describe its bark - such a word does not convey the tear-streaks of rain, the deepened vibrance, the contrast between glowing green grass. Neither did it convey the life of the tree - pink buds appearing almost overnight, opening so quickly that they surprised, and so agonizingly slowly that one despaired. Always it flowered without his realizing, although he watched carefully, checking on it every day. Every spring anticipating. No word could describe the luminosity of rain, its glimmering, its gift of living.

No picture, he thought, can ever do justice to rain, or water, or fire. No picture can ever do justice to wind, can ever communicate the smell of spring, the smell of fall, the shimmering tangible light of it all. No picture can ever communicate life. He shortened that last thought. No picture can ever communicate. How depressing. I don’t think it’s true either. I just can’t seem to get it right is all....

He looked with dissatisfaction at the painting. It was technically correct - as far as it went. It failed miserably, however, to communicate the feeling of rain. It was too correct, too typical, too expected, and rain, above all, was unexpected. How could one predict which way a raindrop would slide? The pattern of light playing inside it? How could on predict the ways in which a little rain would disrupt your life? He thought, disgruntled, about his cancelled hike. Impossible.

He’d failed utterly to paint his love for rain.

He sighed. Closing his eyes and breathing in deeply, smelling the rain through the open window, he sought, groping, for some way to paint rain. A soft wind touched his face, relieving the oppressive warmth of the room.

Start at the beginning, he told himself. What color?

A truck backfired next door, and some stupid dogs started barking.

6 comments:

Mackenzie said...

Bam! With a look down at the toilet, a wipe and a grunt, he went in search of a beer thinking, “Yep, I’m done.”

Compliments of Aaron.

Liz said...

He breathed deeply. He was not going to go shoot those dogs. Or that truck. Stupid trucks. Destroying the environment; destroying the rain. Stupid neighbors and their trucks, destroying the rain.

He opened the window and leaned out. Mrs. Johnston was still outside, waving as her husband drove away in the rain-murdering truck. "Stop!" the painter yelled. "Don't you people understand I can't get it right? I can't get it right, dammit, we need that rain!" He slammed the window shut, and leaned his forehead against it. It was cool and soothing, like the clouds. They were all doing their best to calm him down, if only the neighbors would stop interfering.

Mrs. Johnston went inside, shaking her head. She really didn't know what got into him sometimes. Pouring herself another cup of coffee, she considered. It was probably something to do with the artistic temperament. Artistry, Mrs. Johnston always said, was something a person went through during adolescence. The few unfortunate souls who never found their way out of it were to be pitied. She thought about her poor artistic neighbor, and wished there were some sort of fund to which she could contribute, to help them find a cure. She was sure there must be scientists somewhere working on it. If only they would publicize a little better.

Mackenzie said...

Wow, that's hilarious. And it's amazing how well it fits. Hm....

Heehee.

Andrew said...

The rain on the picture should be purple, he decided. Why not purple? He always painted things the way they were, the way other people assumed they should be. Why should the rain be that same gray blue? Blue is not a color, primarily. It is a feeling, the somber side to an emotion-colored wheel. Purple might be able to begin communicating the nobility of the rain. But no. No picture can ever communicate, he reminded himself.

He found himself staring at the palette knife again. The one with the "green" handle. He looked away in a hurry, trying to content himself with the view out the window. It didn't work. After a few moments of heartless wandering, his eyes returned to rest upon the green-handled knife. Some thoughts, no matter how vile, could not be repressed.

The picture was almost complete. Its color was all wrong, though. So was the composition, as he soon realized. It was amateur crap. Brown crap. The artist's gaze returned to the palette knife. It wasn't sharp, but it would suffice.

As he slashed at the painting, he wondered it would bleed red. No, probably that same d*** blue all over again.

The contented rain continued to fall, ignorant of murder its love inspired.

Andrew said...

(sorry, missed the word "if" in the second to last paragraph)

Are we voting for our favorites? Or should we wait until our host publishes her's?

Andrew said...

(applause)