Thread: A Faustian Bargain

Just one more moment and it would be done. The sun had risen more than several times, always in sync with its lunar companion. They shared the spotlight almost equally as I sat marooned in insignificance, only bathed in their light. A faint smell of lavender hung abhorrent in the air. I sat there on the bench waiting for him.
My thumbs twiddled with the breeze as my vision lapsed into a trance watching the sun completing its constant predetermined cycle. It was when the pallid moon returned to its dark post that I had felt his presence.
“Joe Odalis,” He said without a moment’s hesitation. I nodded; I didn’t expect any less from him.
“That is me,” I replied. I stared ahead; I did not dare to look at the character beside me.
“I understand what you want. But you know how this works I’m sure…” He said. His voice was clear as reason. Not a single syllable was extra in the thoughts he was expressing.
“What are the terms?” I asked, the horizon was swallowing up the lunar orb hungrily once more and my eyes narrowed at the shape. In reply I felt added weight in my lap and gazed down. He did not feel that the terms were important to voice. I stared down at the canvas of the agreement, silenced. I must have re-read the contract a dozen times but each reading produced different word combinations amounting to the same meaning. I was not to be bound by him.
“Let me get this straight,” I raced through my own words, “if my desire is fulfilled, large masses of people will be affected? I mean how is that even proper. They’re not the ones walking into this. I am. Because I goddamn can’t take it anymore - ”
I abruptly stopped, but not because I was cut off by his oration. No, it was the way his aura emitted upon me. I was providing too much excess into his world. All he needed was finality. The calmness seeped into my senses once again, uninvited and yet dominating; I was controlled.
There was a sort of serenity to my motion when I picked up the quill. The two-thronged metallic nib scratched the paper scarlet just a moment before the horizon decided to swallow me whole.
And in that manner it had concluded. The scene had transpired upon the thin skins of my eyelids as they veiled my eyes from the night and ended with the break of dawn and the crack of light. I had woken up and the time was seven in the morning and the bed was perspired in my sweat. I lay still, too afraid to move and disturb my sensitive memory. Eventually, my tranquil moments of ceiling gazing were interrupted by my lurching towards the work desk. What was the date? One look at the leather bound date book and I was surprised to acknowledge that I had only been asleep for seven hours instead of the twenty-seven I thought I had clocked in. Sleep seemed to give more time than it took.
* * *
​ You might think me crazy. But I had never been saner than that morning after the dream, although, thirty-three years of my life were spent swallowed up by rejection. My parents had both held steady careers and left me the house that I was now in. I had decided on a path of an artist but I did not buy into the whole saloon dynamic. If you asked me I would tell you that I was just as capable to paint a tasteful nude Venus as the great masters that preceded me. Alternatively, if you asked me the same question after a good consumption of spirits I might admit that if my life depended on it; I wouldn’t even be able to sketch an anatomically proportionate figure. Why, I would be rendered lifeless within seconds! But I was of an aristocratically proud sort. I would not admit to defeat no matter how many gallery rejections piled up in my study and littered my work desk. And as an aspiring aristocrat quickly running out of money I had become desperate quite beyond measure.
My years of stressful despondent behavior had taken their toll on me. I was a man of slim proportion. My ribcage was a voyeur behind the worn clothing I chose to throw on, it peaked out just faintly enough to be observed while it was observing the world around it. I was not a handsome man although my features did include the sharp pointed nose that was common at the top of the high-end gene pool. My eyes were sunken in and my right eye dominated its companion by about three centimeters.
My first order of business was to go all the way to the back of the house, down the stairs which were armed with a mahogany railing and through the door that lead to my studio. I sighed in anticipation and beheld my many canvases lying distraughtly strewn on the ground and in any and every nook and cranny of my humble studio. I approached the oldest stack of canvases and walked around to stare them in the face.
There they were. The same paintings that I had birthed throughout the many years of life that I had given to my craft. And they gazed back at me, unimpressed. Little did they know that they were now guaranteed successes! Distorted geometric shapes idled in their frames and solid colored canvases hummed in anticipation. It was finally my time and I did not regret a thing. A chuckle escaped my lips. It was the kind of laugh a man gets when he commits to an extremity that grants him a safe niche in life.
A brisk turn of my carcass and I was out of the musty room once more, passing the yearning bristles of my worn brushes and the solemnly twisted oil tubes. ​
* * *
​ My voyage to the center of Paris was quite uneventful. I was met with travelers who were gravely mistaken in judging me, you see. My head was tilted in an upward angle, one that I perceived as elegant. I faintly recalled my own mother teasing me about the way that I carried myself.
​ I spotted a woman and man engaging at a quick pace towards me, this intimidated me off of the center of the street. I gazed back briefly regarding the way the woman had her hand nestled in the fold of the man’s arm. A walking, modern, Caillebotte painting. This pattern of thought was a habit that I had developed to impress potential patrons, one of whom I was headed for this very moment.
​ I burst through the glass door of the law firm of Jean Bernier, a lucrative businessman and one of the most prominent figures in the world of the arts. He stood at the financial end; throwing money at promising artisans and reeling in additional profits to be potentially thrown at another prodigy.
​ “Jean!” I exclaimed, upsetting the few secretaries scurrying about on tea break. My uncharacteristic outburst certainly won me the attention of the well-nourished patron. He turned his head upon his invisible neck, and then his stout body followed suit.
​ “Why Joe old friend. What’s this hullabaloo?” This was not the first time that I had invaded upon a patron’s day job to ask for sponsorship. However, previously, I had traveled through the circle of patrons with far more humble pockets. And although events had put me in acquaintance with some predominantly wealthy sponsors, I had never reached out to them because I was constantly deterred by rejections from the lower strata.
​ “I have affirmation”
​ “Of what sort?”
​ “It is most definitely something to be seen - my works, Jean - they are ripe. Care to sponsor the pickings?” my bony hands produced friction as they rubbed together. My confidence must have been galvanized because Jean’s eyes seemed to hungrily open up as if consuming the promised profit through my own image.
"And what if I do not like what I see?" he said carefully.
"Then I'll pay your usual handsome hourly rate."
​ “Well,” he licked his lips tastefully, “there isn’t a moment to waste. Let’s see them!”
​ We then commenced the journey back to my humble abode. I retraced my steps carefully and precisely, all the while feeding the man’s expectations self-praise by self-praise. By the time that we were a couple of houses away from our destination, my ego was so sufficiently stroked that I felt as smooth as alabaster stone.
​ I entered my dominion with my first victim; we made it to the mahogany railed staircase, and down the creaking wooden steps. Jean’s short legs could not keep up with my anticipatory dash for the studio. Arriving at the center of the metropolis of canvases I had out, I waited for the plump patron. The prospect of my first acceptance by the art world felt tangible to all senses as I anticipated Jean’s descent.
​ I calmly strolled through the arrays of canvases, I would not hesitate to meet my judger’s eyes. This was only going to go one way after all. Why fret?
​ Jean strolled into my studio as if at home. His walk was short and smooth as he traveled between pieces. He looked up at me after the first dozen works that he had observed. I was behind an oddly placed beam at the moment but peaked out to meet his gaze. His beady hazel orbs angled acutely at me. He was taking the mastery in. I did sign the agreement; this was how it was meant to happen!
​ My attention did not remain loyal to Jean as I circled the oddities placed in the room. My brow furrowed as I attempted to force my mind to assemble the complex jigsaw puzzle of my dream. The agreement had a strange catch. And by all logic, if my end of the bargain was held up…the other part would coincide in perfect union.
​ I realized that my companion had gone silent.
​ My eyes slowly lifted in the direction in which I heard shuffling stout feet. Jean had his back turned to me; his hands were clasped behind his back as he observed a particularly large piece of mine. I decided not to disturb his process of thought. Instead, I rounded the corner and approached the man carefully so as to not startle him. As I reached closer I began to observe more. My patron-to-be was nodding with approving sounds at the simple canvas hanging opposite him. I stepped even closer into his vicinity until I was positive that his personal space was being invaded. I heard muffled words attempting to spew through the man’s lips. I displaced my own body so that I could observe the man head on.
​ Jean was lost.
​ The lawyer’s facial attributes seemed to have dispersed in a sea of thick peach skin. There was no trace of beady hazel eyes, or the eyebrows that oversaw them. There was not even a signature of a nose and no semblance that a mouth had ever held a domain there.
"Jean-" I began not knowing what to make of his mumbling.
Instead of an answer I was cut off by louder sounds that were trying to make their way through thick expressionless flesh.
"Jean - there's something wrong with your face."
I was beginning to catch words of praise here and there. The bumbling antics were targeted towards me; I had gained one of the most privileged patrons.
* * *
Only a week stood between Jean Bernier frequenting my studio and the gallery opening that he himself had booked for me. My back was firmly against the wall as I watched the events unravel. It was my debut. On my way here I had passed a raging homeless man on the street who was trying to convince onlookers that the end of time was upon us and I couldn’t help but wonder if I had somehow contributed to the fall of the world. Although, perhaps the reality simply lies in a man in confidence by his own mind’s devil. One who happened on the right place and right time and contributed to urbanization’s faceless conformity.
I stood isolated in my own space as I watched affluent individuals file into the white walled studio and stumble out fleshy voids, no mouths, no eyes, nothing.
And they didn’t even notice what was wrong.


((A note: I am currently working on expanding the gallery scene for the final draft of this piece.)

This is strange, the way you use language seems strange, that is not good or bad necessarily.

Look here:-

Just one more moment and it would be done. what will be done, you never properly establish itThe sun had risen more than several times, more than several is weird, several, a lot, but not more than several or a little less than a lot always in sync full stop after the abbreviation with its lunar companion. They shared the spotlight almost equally as I sat marooned in insignificance, only bathed in their light.They shared the spotlight and bathed you in light, I should use some other metaphore for the first half of that, and why "only" bathed in their light? A faint smell of lavender hung abhorrent Do you really mean this, most people enjoy lavender in the air. I sat there on the bench waiting for him.
My thumbs twiddled with the breeze as my vision lapsed into a trance watching the sun completing its constant predetermined cycle. what a strange and convoluted way to say you twiddled your thumbs, entranced, watching the sun go down. It can't be completing it if it is a constant cycle by the way

I could go on, my approach would be to see what I could lose, for example,

It was when the moon returned that I had felt his presence.
“Joe Odalis,” He said unhesitating. I nodded.
“That is me,” I replied. I stared ahead; I did not dare to look at the character beside me.
“I understand what you want. But you know how this works I’m sure…” He said. His voice was clear as reason, with not a syllable extra.
“What are the terms?” I asked, the horizon was swallowing up the moon again and my eyes narrowed at the shape. I felt a weight in my lap and stared down at the canvas of the agreement, silenced. I must have re-read the contract a dozen times but each reading was different but with the same meaning. I was not to be bound by him.

I'm going to quote your whole post with no changes besides adding paragraphs, just so I can read it. Most people wouldn't bother to do that, I'm afraid.

Originally Posted by Elenagance

Just one more moment and it would be done. The sun had risen more than several times, always in sync with its lunar companion. They shared the spotlight almost equally as I sat marooned in insignificance, only bathed in their light. A faint smell of lavender hung abhorrent in the air. I sat there on the bench waiting for him. My thumbs twiddled with the breeze as my vision lapsed into a trance watching the sun completing its constant predetermined cycle. It was when the pallid moon returned to its dark post that I had felt his presence.

“Joe Odalis,” He said without a moment’s hesitation. I nodded; I didn’t expect any less from him.

“That is me,” I replied. I stared ahead; I did not dare to look at the character beside me.

“I understand what you want. But you know how this works I’m sure…” He said. His voice was clear as reason. Not a single syllable was extra in the thoughts he was expressing.

“What are the terms?” I asked, the horizon was swallowing up the lunar orb hungrily once more and my eyes narrowed at the shape. In reply I felt added weight in my lap and gazed down. He did not feel that the terms were important to voice. I stared down at the canvas of the agreement, silenced. I must have re-read the contract a dozen times but each reading produced different word combinations amounting to the same meaning. I was not to be bound by him. “Let me get this straight,” I raced through my own words, “if my desire is fulfilled, large masses of people will be affected? I mean how is that even proper. They’re not the ones walking into this. I am. Because I goddamn can’t take it anymore - ” I abruptly stopped, but not because I was cut off by his oration. No, it was the way his aura emitted upon me. I was providing too much excess into his world. All he needed was finality. The calmness seeped into my senses once again, uninvited and yet dominating; I was controlled.

There was a sort of serenity to my motion when I picked up the quill. The two-thronged metallic nib scratched the paper scarlet just a moment before the horizon decided to swallow me whole. And in that manner it had concluded. The scene had transpired upon the thin skins of my eyelids as they veiled my eyes from the night and ended with the break of dawn and the crack of light. I had woken up and the time was seven in the morning and the bed was perspired in my sweat. I lay still, too afraid to move and disturb my sensitive memory. Eventually, my tranquil moments of ceiling gazing were interrupted by my lurching towards the work desk. What was the date? One look at the leather bound date book and I was surprised to acknowledge that I had only been asleep for seven hours instead of the twenty-seven I thought I had clocked in. Sleep seemed to give more time than it took.

* * *
​
You might think me crazy. But I had never been saner than that morning after the dream, although, thirty-three years of my life were spent swallowed up by rejection. My parents had both held steady careers and left me the house that I was now in. I had decided on a path of an artist but I did not buy into the whole saloon dynamic. If you asked me I would tell you that I was just as capable to paint a tasteful nude Venus as the great masters that preceded me. Alternatively, if you asked me the same question after a good consumption of spirits I might admit that if my life depended on it; I wouldn’t even be able to sketch an anatomically proportionate figure. Why, I would be rendered lifeless within seconds! But I was of an aristocratically proud sort. I would not admit to defeat no matter how many gallery rejections piled up in my study and littered my work desk. And as an aspiring aristocrat quickly running out of money I had become desperate quite beyond measure.

My years of stressful despondent behavior had taken their toll on me. I was a man of slim proportion. My ribcage was a voyeur behind the worn clothing I chose to throw on, it peaked out just faintly enough to be observed while it was observing the world around it. I was not a handsome man although my features did include the sharp pointed nose that was common at the top of the high-end gene pool. My eyes were sunken in and my right eye dominated its companion by about three centimeters. My first order of business was to go all the way to the back of the house, down the stairs which were armed with a mahogany railing and through the door that lead to my studio. I sighed in anticipation and beheld my many canvases lying distraughtly strewn on the ground and in any and every nook and cranny of my humble studio. I approached the oldest stack of canvases and walked around to stare them in the face.

There they were. The same paintings that I had birthed throughout the many years of life that I had given to my craft. And they gazed back at me, unimpressed. Little did they know that they were now guaranteed successes! Distorted geometric shapes idled in their frames and solid colored canvases hummed in anticipation. It was finally my time and I did not regret a thing. A chuckle escaped my lips. It was the kind of laugh a man gets when he commits to an extremity that grants him a safe niche in life. A brisk turn of my carcass and I was out of the musty room once more, passing the yearning bristles of my worn brushes and the solemnly twisted oil tubes. ​

* * *
​
My voyage to the center of Paris was quite uneventful. I was met with travelers who were gravely mistaken in judging me, you see. My head was tilted in an upward angle, one that I perceived as elegant. I faintly recalled my own mother teasing me about the way that I carried myself. I spotted a woman and man engaging at a quick pace towards me, this intimidated me off of the center of the street. I gazed back briefly regarding the way the woman had her hand nestled in the fold of the man’s arm. A walking, modern, Caillebotte painting. This pattern of thought was a habit that I had developed to impress potential patrons, one of whom I was headed for this very moment. I burst through the glass door of the law firm of Jean Bernier, a lucrative businessman and one of the most prominent figures in the world of the arts. He stood at the financial end; throwing money at promising artisans and reeling in additional profits to be potentially thrown at another prodigy.

“Jean!” I exclaimed, upsetting the few secretaries scurrying about on tea break. My uncharacteristic outburst certainly won me the attention of the well-nourished patron. He turned his head upon his invisible neck, and then his stout body followed suit.

​“Why Joe old friend. What’s this hullabaloo?” This was not the first time that I had invaded upon a patron’s day job to ask for sponsorship. However, previously, I had traveled through the circle of patrons with far more humble pockets. And although events had put me in acquaintance with some predominantly wealthy sponsors, I had never reached out to them because I was constantly deterred by rejections from the lower strata.
​
“I have affirmation”
​
“Of what sort?”
​
“It is most definitely something to be seen - my works, Jean - they are ripe. Care to sponsor the pickings?” my bony hands produced friction as they rubbed together. My confidence must have been galvanized because Jean’s eyes seemed to hungrily open up as if consuming the promised profit through my own image.

"And what if I do not like what I see?" he said carefully.

"Then I'll pay your usual handsome hourly rate."
​
“Well,” he licked his lips tastefully, “there isn’t a moment to waste. Let’s see them!” We then commenced the journey back to my humble abode. I retraced my steps carefully and precisely, all the while feeding the man’s expectations self-praise by self-praise. By the time that we were a couple of houses away from our destination, my ego was so sufficiently stroked that I felt as smooth as alabaster stone.

​I entered my dominion with my first victim; we made it to the mahogany railed staircase, and down the creaking wooden steps. Jean’s short legs could not keep up with my anticipatory dash for the studio. Arriving at the center of the metropolis of canvases I had out, I waited for the plump patron. The prospect of my first acceptance by the art world felt tangible to all senses as I anticipated Jean’s descent. I calmly strolled through the arrays of canvases, I would not hesitate to meet my judger’s eyes. This was only going to go one way after all. Why fret? Jean strolled into my studio as if at home. His walk was short and smooth as he traveled between pieces. He looked up at me after the first dozen works that he had observed. I was behind an oddly placed beam at the moment but peaked out to meet his gaze. His beady hazel orbs angled acutely at me. He was taking the mastery in. I did sign the agreement; this was how it was meant to happen! My attention did not remain loyal to Jean as I circled the oddities placed in the room. My brow furrowed as I attempted to force my mind to assemble the complex jigsaw puzzle of my dream. The agreement had a strange catch. And by all logic, if my end of the bargain was held up…the other part would coincide in perfect union. I realized that my companion had gone silent.

​My eyes slowly lifted in the direction in which I heard shuffling stout feet. Jean had his back turned to me; his hands were clasped behind his back as he observed a particularly large piece of mine. I decided not to disturb his process of thought. Instead, I rounded the corner and approached the man carefully so as to not startle him. As I reached closer I began to observe more. My patron-to-be was nodding with approving sounds at the simple canvas hanging opposite him. I stepped even closer into his vicinity until I was positive that his personal space was being invaded. I heard muffled words attempting to spew through the man’s lips. I displaced my own body so that I could observe the man head on.

​Jean was lost. The lawyer’s facial attributes seemed to have dispersed in a sea of thick peach skin. There was no trace of beady hazel eyes, or the eyebrows that oversaw them. There was not even a signature of a nose and no semblance that a mouth had ever held a domain there.

"Jean-" I began not knowing what to make of his mumbling. Instead of an answer I was cut off by louder sounds that were trying to make their way through thick expressionless flesh. "Jean - there's something wrong with your face." I was beginning to catch words of praise here and there. The bumbling antics were targeted towards me; I had gained one of the most privileged patrons.

* * *

Only a week stood between Jean Bernier frequenting my studio and the gallery opening that he himself had booked for me. My back was firmly against the wall as I watched the events unravel. It was my debut. On my way here I had passed a raging homeless man on the street who was trying to convince onlookers that the end of time was upon us and I couldn’t help but wonder if I had somehow contributed to the fall of the world. Although, perhaps the reality simply lies in a man in confidence by his own mind’s devil. One who happened on the right place and right time and contributed to urbanization’s faceless conformity.

I stood isolated in my own space as I watched affluent individuals file into the white walled studio and stumble out fleshy voids, no mouths, no eyes, nothing.

And they didn’t even notice what was wrong.

Ahh. Much better! Now I can read it!

This work reminds me of 'The Unconsoled' by Kazuo Ishiguro. I'll let you decide whether that's a compliment or not. It has a similar indecipherable, dreamlike quality. Your piece reads like a prose poem. I like that. However, if you're writing poetry--and I think you are here--then you have to know that:

Every. Word. Counts.

I agree with Olly. You should try to tighten this up as much as possible. You use so much poetic language that I have to wade into it to get to your meaning . . . and sometime I hit a deep spot and get in over my head. [Glub]

I have a couple of ideas that might help. But I'm concerned that if you follow my advice you may change the tone of your piece too much. Hmm. Hard to know.

Well, here are some suggestions:

An easy one first: Use contractions. You use some, but I'd use as many as possible. When people don't use contractions, I wonder if they're trying to do a period piece set in Elizabethan England or something. You speak and think in contractions, why not write in them?

Here's the tough idea: Lose all the adjectives and adverbs. Seriously. Show, don't tell. Adjectives and adverbs are, IMHO, a writer's crutch to avoid showing. Sometimes it pisses the reader off. Example?

Originally Posted by Olly Buckle

"A faint smell of lavender hung[,] abhorrent." Do you really mean this[?] [M]ost people enjoy lavender in the air.

See what I mean?

How about this instead:

The smell of lavender cloyed in his throat. See? I changed your adjective 'abhorrent' into a verb, 'cloyed.' I think it's stronger. It uses fewer words, if nothing else.

Adverbs, too. Sometimes adverbs add nothing to the sentence. Like here:

"I abruptly stopped, but not because I was cut off by his oration"

Or here:

"I faintly recalled my own mother teasing me about the way that I carried myself."

The adverbs add nothing.

why not just say "I stopped, but not because he cut me off"? Using active voice instead of passive tends to shorten things too.

Also, adverbs can be a writer's attempt to disguise weak verbs. Like here:

"I was met with travelers who were gravely mistaken in judging me, you see."

How about this instead: "Other travelers judged me with their stares."

Try to revise and only use an adverb if you think there's just no way to avoid it.

I hope this helps!

Olly and Charon have said most of what’s needed. However, there are problems with usage.

Most important in any sort of writing is using the right word. One word that stands out is 'artisan'. Artisans and artists are two different kinds of people practising different crafts in different ways and for different reasons. Given the context, the appropriate word would be ‘artist’. There are other examples of not-quite-right words in the piece.

Prose elevated above everyday conversation is normal in both fiction and non-fiction. However, to attempt to go beyond the supply of words in the writer's everyday vocabulary is to risk usage errors. Many of those errors will be minor. A few will be egregious.

Teachers of English as a second language have funny stories to tell about students digging into a thesaurus in an effort to impress their instructor with a growing command of English. Those efforts can produce hilarious results and provide the instructor with an opportunity to talk about how to use certain words, and how not to use them. When a person whose first language is English makes the same sort of errors, the results are not funny.

Try this. Re-write your story using nothing but the most common words you know, the words you would use talking to a neighbour. Read it aloud. Then compare it with Poe's 'Cask of Amontillado'. See how Poe has elevated the language of his story above street level while keeping it easy to understand. Rewrite your story a second time, still using words with whose use you are familiar, but with that poetic twist you are reaching for but have not yet mastered.

Your story is similar to Poe's because in both cases there is an end without a beginning. Poe does not tell us how Fortunato has insulted Montresor or much of anything else about them. Likewise, your protagonist’s years of struggle are recognised without being described in detail.

If you own a thesaurus, donate it to a school that has ESL classes. There are several good ones in New York.