Roos Price

only one person replied in my other thread, so i think that forum got a little less foot traffic than this one, anywho, here it is:

Dilanio sat at the desk as he stared down at the blank drawing paper, waiting for an idea to cross him. He touched the tip of his pencil to his paper, his sharp green eyes piercing it. Slowly lifting the pencil, he tapped again, a small pool of graphite starting to form. Drifting focus, his eyes wandered towards the clock, stating 11:00 p.m. Giving up for the night, he conclusively tossed the pencil onto the middle of the paper and leaned back in his chair. Just as he had done this, his synapses suddenly fired like machine guns, a wave of inspiration and adrenaline crashing onto him. He snatched his pencil and began to mediate the firings, transcribing his brain’s clusters into coherent thought as the drawling began and progressed.
Continuing to sketch, he felt something hard to describe. It was as if his mind’s messages were becoming harder to decipher. The realism on the paper became an unintentional Picasso, losing any sense of purpose. Soon the encodings developed frighteningly into something his head couldn’t possibly decrypt, and as the sketch evolved, he felt a terrible lack of control take over. His free hand involuntarily flipped the page, starting on a fresh sheet. The hair on his back rose with the speed of his heart, his pencil strokes quickening nervously as a foreign drawing began to pour out of him. The feelings then increased exponentially, the butterflies turning into what felt like raging beasts, tearing at the lining of his stomach. He was engaged in mental combat with an unknown force that was advancing its position with each wielded stroke of his pencil, winning. Dilanio’s sweating became profuse as his hand raced across the page, his mind conquered.
And then it was over.
He looked down, fuzzily distinguishing his sketch pencil in hand. Relaxing, he let it slip onto the desk, slowly rolling his back out of its hunched position. He closed his eyes, drawing his face towards the ceiling as he regained his senses slowly.
In an instant of realization his eyes shot back open.
“What just happened?” He asked himself, stunned. He ran his fingers through his coarse brown hair, bringing his head down, and rested his eyes on the desk.
“What the hell is this?”
The paper exhibited a foreign blade, about twelve inches in length, surprisingly being quite simple for the strange and extreme turmoil it had caused him. His eyes walked across the page. The detail of life was astounding, as if real. It had a trapezoidal pommel and cross-guard, connected with a worn, leather-wrapped grip, finishing with a blackened blade, appearing hand beaten into shape, various chips lining its serrated edges. He looked again on the whole, feeling a sense of great antiquity. Consciousness fully restored, he his eyes were caught by the guard, faint, intricately engraved lettering revealing itself. His face reeled into the image, reciting the finding:

His eyes narrowed, unsettled by the lack of conclusion.
“Where is the rest of it?” he intrigued, not expecting an answer. His mother interjected across the thin apartment wall,
“The rest of what?”
He jumped, hurriedly tearing out the sheet and turning it over, at the same time whipping around, facing the wall.
“Nothing, mom,” he replied, acting casual.
“I’ve just been awake perhaps a little too long…”
note* at this point there will be a scene change of some sort, this is just the hook i guess

Malone

Hmm...
I like the way you describe his thought process as chemical firings, that was cool. The trance-artistic state kind of reminded me of The Dark Half, but that's a writer not an artist. This was interesting to read, but overall not really my usual genre of interest. It also needs some editing and trimming.
Good start, though. I'll probably read on if you post more.