AHardRain

The rearview sunset is watercolors, red bleeding through violet into blue.

The Painter sighs and gently takes some pressure off the clutch, compensating with a slight depression of the gas petal as his paint-flecked, varicose hand absently toys with the squalid leather stickshift. Traffic.

The truck is filled with the deadening smell of lead paint and mineral spirits, ancient paint chips and dust. Too cold to crack the window. He presses his heavy eyelids closed for a brief moment, his hand reaching through the familiar passenger seat pile of soiled rags, dirty wooden stirs, and crushed cigarette packs until it closes on something solid. The golden locket feels smooth in his callused grip and the thin chain hangs like a whisper across the back of his hand. That goddamn smell. He reaches into his shirt pocket and exchanges the locket for a cigarette. An unsteady hand strikes the match once, twice, then brings the flame close to his face.

Inhale. Exhale. Smoldering progression.

The sun has completed its exodus from the city skyline by the time he eases the truck into the diner’s parking lot. He walks past the empty bar stools and slides into the booth farthest from the door.

“Evenin’. What can I getcha?” His dark eyes find the waitress‘s. She doesn’t return the gaze.

“Rye toast. Four pieces. And hashbrowns.”

The diner is quiet. Teenagers don’t bring their dates here. Just weary lone men, weary lone waitresses, and weary red seats. He pulls the locket from his pocket and sets it on the table. He crunches ice between his teeth. He is smoking his last cigarette as the waitress returns with his food. No words are exchanged. Customer satisfaction is not contingent upon forged smiles and programmed niceties here. He wants a warm meal and a quiet place to sit. She wants three dollars an hour plus tips. It is a naked relationship built on mutual understanding and nothing else. It is simple, honest and elegant.

He finishes the last heavily buttered bite of toast and wipes invisible crumbs from the corner of his mouth with the napkin. He leans back in the booth, one hand resting on his dark temple as the other traces the clasp of the locket. With a soft click it releases and a black, wrinkled thumb guides it open like an oyster shell. There she is. His Muse. She used to always wear that wicked grin.

He had known his Muse since he was a small boy, playing with chalk in the alley behind their building. He was born to a single, needle-scarred mother and his Muse soon became his escape from a syringe littered apartment and his inspiration for life. Friendship blossomed into courtship and they married their last spring of high school. There was no money for the art school he longed to attend and so he took a job as a painter, planning to save money for tuition. Then his mother died, leaving him nothing but phone calls from debtors. Too chivalrous to let his Muse work, he now spent his money paying off his decaying mother’s debts. The planet turned again and again. One day he woke up and realized he was no longer a painting dreamer - he was a dreaming painter. The years continued to tic by. There were ups and downs, painted fire escapes and hidden personal canvases, and everywhere there was his Muse. Then a year and a half ago, everything changed. She was diagnosed with bowel cancer and given three years to live. Too stubborn to stay in the hospital, she told him over and over that she would rather die living than live dead. And so she had, but now she was dying dead. She seemed permanently attached to the toilet bowl, expelling diarrhea or vomit, crying from the pain. She could never leave the apartment and was incapable of performing simple tasks by herself. He had to hire a nurse to care for her during the day while he worked. She despised this helplessness the most. On bad nights she would apologize for being a burden, tearfully imploring her god to take her soon. He promised he would take care of her, and she said she trusted him to do so. And he would lie awake, uninspired, despair hounding him as he struggled to find fleeting meaning in his fading Muse.

The waitress sets the check on the table, derailing him from his thoughts. He closes the locket, counts out a few wrinkled bills, and rises to his feet. The night is still and wintry, the street lights are a diseased yellow, and there is no moon. On the way home he stops at the grocery store and buys a pack of cigarettes, a twelve dollar jug of cheap wine, and a single red rose.

He takes his time driving back to the apartment, his aged eyes tracing the letters on each sign. Stop. Yield. No U-Turn. Exit only. He parks in the street and locks the car doors. Each footfall is heavy with resigned purpose. He stops before his apartment door, sets down his brown grocery bag, and sits on the top step. He eyes the locket as he lights up another cigarette.

Inhale. Exhale. Smoldering progression.

He slowly lifts himself to his feet, the half smoked cigarette falling from his lips to spark on the
pavement before it is stomped out by his heavy heel. The key fits into the hole and the lock turns. He pushes the door open and steps into the musty gloom.

“Baby. I’m home.” His voice is barely more than a whisper. He hears coughing coming from the bedroom. He walks to the bathroom, sets down the rose, fills a glass with water, and takes a plastic bag from under the sink. Those delicate little pills. He had so carefully acquired them last week. As careful as a surgeon. Or an artist. He dumps the pills into his hand, picks up the water and the rose, and walks on into the bedroom.

“Baby?” he whispers.

She coughs and her eyes are slivers. “Hell, what’d you get that little crooked rose for?” The corners of her mouth turn up. Then she coughs again.

“Aw. No reason.” He sets the rose and the water on the nightstand next to his Muse and bends down to kiss her eyelids. “Here. I got some medicine for you.” He takes her hand, presses the small pills into her palm, and closes it.

“Thanks, sugar.” She swallows each pill with a definitive gulp of water. She coughs and rests her head back. Her eyes meet his in the second before they slide shut.

“Sleep tight, Muse. I love you.”

“I know.” Her words are barely more than breath on a cobweb, hanging like dust in the dark air. He kisses her on the forehead, then sits on top of the blanket next to her, his hand on her thigh. Time retreats from the moment. Then her breath begins to come out in heavy, audible drawls. He rises, swallows hard, and walks out into the kitchen, carefully shutting the door behind him.

He pours himself a glass of wine. And another. At some point he realizes his face is wet. He crawls onto the couch and curls up like an unborn child. Sleep falls like an axe blade.

He wakes slowly, his head dully aching from the wine. He walks to the bathroom and showers. He studies his dark face in the mirror. There are bags under his tired eyes and creases where there was once smooth, unyielding flesh. For a moment he stands in a towel outside the bedroom door, then retreats and dresses himself in yesterday’s working clothes. He walks out the front door, unlocks the truck, and stands for a moment in the crisp morning air. He strikes a match and ignites the day’s first cigarette. He feels oddly lighter than usual. It’s almost uncomfortable.

He takes some pressure off the clutch, compensates with a slight depression of the gas petal, and pulls out into the street. What’s that my Muse used to say as I left, back when she’d be up cooking breakfast before work?

“Godspeed.” The word escapes his lips like a prayer. Despite himself, he smiles.

The windshield sunrise is a child’s fingerpainting, red smearing through orange into gold.

gohn67

Hey AHardRain,
First thing that comes to mind, is Muse real? Or is she his muse muse? <-which is what I suspect. Confused me there.

I really like the details you included in this piece. Very appealing images and some imaginative lines

Nice ending sentence. Love the child's fingerpainting.

Liked this, how it is bascially one word sentences. The words are really emphasised, even more so since they have their own paragraph.

My favorite paragraph. Especially the way the first three sentences are ordered. It has cool progession to it and flow. I liked this paragraph a lot.

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BeL

Hey.

Nice writing, nice story. Gohn did the praising, so I'll give a suggestion.

You start many senteces with "He..." and while most times it adds to the "feeling" of the story, you might want to consider changing some of them.

ex:

He pulls the locket from his pocket and sets it on the table. Ice crunches between his teeth. As the waitress returns with his food, he smokes the last cigarette.

Not sure if that's better... anyway, good job!

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enigmaticuser

I'm not very good at reviewing, but practice makes...practiced =)

That last clause seemed a little too busy between the descriptiors for his hand and the stick shift. Just a thought, it made me pause anyways.

That was all really. When I started reading I did get a little bored, I saw the opening couple sentences it seemed unnaturally artsy, but. As I skipped further down I began to get hooked. I read lines like:

And they began to draw me in (I thought you should know how I read it so you can judge how seriously you want to take anything I say). Yeah, so I was drawn in at the last moment really and only then did I read it thuroughly. So I guess that would make me say that the beginning was weak in that it seemed to try too hard, but the story carries itself.
Take it as you want, as I said I'm not a very good reviewer

tricia

i really love this. the description in the paragraph in the resturaunt is really fantastic. i enjoyed the repetition of "he" throuhout the story. while normally i would find it tedious i thought that it gave the story a sense of cohesivness and added to the slow sadness in the piece.

well done.

tricia

AHardRain

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Synaesthesia

this is a fantastic story. has it already been published because it should be.

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AHardRain

Nope, I've never published anything.

Thanks a ton for the compliments though. Hell, I don't even have the slightest clue how I would go about publishing something...but I'll look into it.

Alecks

Quote:

The rearview sunset is watercolors, red bleeding through violet into blue.

Lovely imagery. Great opening line, it immediately sets the tone for a descriptive piece. Well chosen.

Quote:

The Painter sighs and gently takes some pressure off the clutch, compensating with a slight depression of the gas petal as his paint-flecked, varicose hand absently toys with the squalid leather stickshift. Traffic. The truck is filled with the deadening smell of lead paint and mineral spirits, ancient paint chips and dust. Too cold to crack the window. He presses his heavy eyelids closed for a brief moment, his hand reaching through the familiar passenger seat pile of soiled rags, dirty wooden stirs, and crushed cigarette packs until it closes on something solid. The golden locket feels smooth in his callused grip and the thin chain hangs like a whisper across the back of his hand. That goddamn smell. He reaches into his shirt pocket and exchanges the locket for a cigarette. An unsteady hand strikes the match once, twice, then brings the flame close to his face.

I didn’t understand that bit; ‘Too cold to crack the window’. What is too cold to crack the window?
Again, lovely imagery and description. I felt you messed up a little when describing him looking for the golden locket. It’s untidy to read, and not in a way that suits as a literary-metaphor to the mess on the seat either. Also, when he’s lighting the cigarette, shouldn’t his hands be on the wheel?
I felt something should be included about that. We’re told about his hands toying with the stickshift, rooting for a locket, and then swapping it for a cigarette. All whilst driving a lorry. Seems like a bit of a wonderman.

Quote:

Inhale. Exhale. Smoldering progression.

I can understand the dramatic effect you were going for, but it doesn’t work so much here. “He inhales; he exhales; watching the cigarettes smoldering progression” could have worked better. Also, I was a little skeptical about using the word progression for the wearing down of the cigarette.

Quote:

The sun has completed its exodus from the city skyline by the time he eases the truck into the diner’s parking lot. He walks past the empty bar stools and slides into the booth farthest from the door.

You start this off with a lovely piece of description, and then, time-change, and he zooms out of his truck into a bar seat. I thought it went past a little fast. Maybe break it up a bit with some more description? What’s the door like? Is it warmer inside? Is the smell of paint gone?

Quote:

“Evenin’. What can I getcha?” His dark eyes find the waitress‘s. She doesn’t return the gaze. “Rye toast. Four pieces. And hashbrowns.” The diner is quiet. Teenagers don’t bring their dates here. Just weary lone men, weary lone waitresses, and weary red seats. He pulls the locket from his pocket and sets it on the table. He crunches ice between his teeth. He is smoking his last cigarette as the waitress returns with his food. No words are exchanged. Customer satisfaction is not contingent upon forged smiles and programmed niceties here. He wants a warm meal and a quiet place to sit. She wants three dollars an hour plus tips. It is a naked relationship built on mutual understanding and nothing else. It is simple, honest and elegant.

If you’d have put something like this above it would have worked well. Again, your description is a delight to read. Really nice stuff, well thought out and original.

Quote:

He finishes the last heavily buttered bite of toast and wipes invisible crumbs from the corner of his mouth with the napkin. He leans back in the booth, one hand resting on his dark temple as the other traces the clasp of the locket. With a soft click it releases and a black, wrinkled thumb guides it open like an oyster shell. There she is. His Muse. She used to always wear that wicked grin. He had known his Muse since he was a small boy, playing with chalk in the alley behind their building. He was born to a single, needle-scarred mother and his Muse soon became his escape from a syringe littered apartment and his inspiration for life. Friendship blossomed into courtship and they married their last spring of high school. There was no money for the art school he longed to attend and so he took a job as a painter, planning to save money for tuition. Then his mother died, leaving him nothing but phone calls from debtors. Too chivalrous to let his Muse work, he now spent his money paying off his decaying mother’s debts. The planet turned again and again. One day he woke up and realized he was no longer a painting dreamer - he was a dreaming painter. The years continued to tic by. There were ups and downs, painted fire escapes and hidden personal canvases, and everywhere there was his Muse. Then a year and a half ago, everything changed. She was diagnosed with bowel cancer and given three years to live. Too stubborn to stay in the hospital, she told him over and over that she would rather die living than live dead. And so she had, but now she was dying dead. She seemed permanently attached to the toilet bowl, expelling diarrhea or vomit, crying from the pain. She could never leave the apartment and was incapable of performing simple tasks by herself. He had to hire a nurse to care for her during the day while he worked. She despised this helplessness the most. On bad nights she would apologize for being a burden, tearfully imploring her god to take her soon. He promised he would take care of her, and she said she trusted him to do so. And he would lie awake, uninspired, despair hounding him as he struggled to find fleeting meaning in his fading Muse. The waitress sets the check on the table, derailing him from his thoughts. He closes the locket, counts out a few wrinkled bills, and rises to his feet. The night is still and wintry, the street lights are a diseased yellow, and there is no moon. On the way home he stops at the grocery store and buys a pack of cigarettes, a twelve dollar jug of cheap wine, and a single red rose.

Absolutely fantastic. Not a single query, it works so well. Perfectly engaging, and insightful.

Quote:

He takes his time driving back to the apartment, his aged eyes tracing the letters on each sign. Stop. Yield. No U-Turn. Exit only. He parks in the street and locks the car doors. Each footfall is heavy with resigned purpose. He stops before his apartment door, sets down his brown grocery bag, and sits on the top step. He eyes the locket as he lights up another cigarette. Inhale. Exhale. Smoldering progression.

This time, it works better, and lends itself to the time mentioned before. It works.

I’ve nothing new to say for the remainder of it. It’s a gorgeous piece, really top knotch. All the compliments are justified, completely. I thought it was a very artistic piece from the start, and that’s something I like to read.
I’d say I enjoyed it immensely, but that’s so very cliché. It’s a wonderfully crafted piece of prose, rightly deserving of praise.

Alecks

AHardRain

Oh, he's no wonder man....

Just to clear things up a little...he's in traffic, so he isn't actually driving. First he reaches into the pile with one hand (presumably one hand on the wheel as he's inching forwards), finds a locket (he's looking ahead which is why the descriptions of all the things his hands are touching), then once he has the locket he holds it for a moment, then exchanges it (drops it into a pocket and takes a cigarette out of the same pocket) for a cigarette. It's freezing, too cold outside for him to crack the window to smoke. Then, while paused in traffic, he lights a cigarette with both hands.

I didn't give blow by blow descriptions of the things that I didn't think were as important here, because I felt it added more emphasis to those that I did.

Did I go about this in a bad way, or did you just misread something?

Feedback's always appreciated, thanks.

Alecks

I reckon it was mostly my misreading, but I really enjoyed it.
Just found that a little confusing, why wouldn he want to crack the window? And the reader has no idea about that either, we only have what you give us. Then again, it's 2:00 in the morning, so again, chances are it's my fault.

AHardRain

Well either way, no worries and thanks for criticiscm

BeYoNd WoRdS

Wow, great piece. I was reading it thinking, "now this is by a published author." You write like a pro. Having a hard time believing you've never been published. Not that I don't believe you. Just mean that to be encouraging and you should definately look into it.
Don't really have anything new to say that hasn't already been said. Just wanted to add my two cents worth of praise. Thanks for posting this.

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AHardRain

Anyone interested in seeing another story with the same Painter character?