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.

AHardRain

I'm trying to decide between these two Painter stories to submit for a Writer's Workshop application.

Opinions are more than welcome

!

snorrie

Quote:

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

What is a rearview sunset?

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.

This is just a bunch of movements. It does nothing to move the story along and so far there isn’t a hook that would keep the reader’s attention.

Quote:

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.

He wants to crack the window or do you mean crack open the window? Why would he want to crack the window, anyway? Is the smell so bad he can’t take it anymore? You also have a bunch of movements again. This will bore the reader. Movements are find but you need to elaborate why he does these thing and use them sparingly.

Quote:

He walks past the empty bar stools and slides into the booth farthest from the door.

Come on, you’re killing me with telling this poor guys every move. Are you writing a movie script?

Quote:

He pulls the locket from his pocket and sets it on the table. He crunches ice between his teeth.

? Again. I’m telling you, you need to at least elaborate. Why does he set the locket on the table? Is he reminiscing? He can’t stand it being in his pocket? He likes to hear it fall onto the table, maybe watch it spin around because when he was a little kid, his mother and him had good times playing spin the watch and the one who it pointed to had to down a malt? I know you’re tying to set a mood but it’s not working. I still don’t know why I should give a damn about this character.

Sorry. I have to stop here.

Mobius88

I must disagree with snorrie. I liked your detailing of the artist's movements. This story had a lot of depth. My only qualm is that there are so many unanswered questions. I liked your use of details in this story to really bring out the mood. And I think you had to talk about his every move to express how slow and lethargic his movements, and his life, have become. Overall I think this was a very good story with an interesting plot.

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cupajo

Agree with snorrie for the most part, there's some padding in here that doesn't contribute to the story much. However you ultimately have a nice pacing that is consistent with the plot, and by the end I think it gels ok. The shift to the wife's symptoms was abrupt and probably more graphic than was necessary, and in general I dislike any italicized expository sentences in short pieces like this. All that said I liked the story, it kept me reading to the end, and I could identify with the guy. Awfully depressing, but a good read.

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KaiBailey

I'm gonna disagree with snorrie, for the most part, as well.

It's certainly an accomplished work, I feel. I do think it's necessary to describe his every move in order to set the mood for this peice. It's one of things that makes this story so great. At points in the story I was just flat out impressed with your writing. Very heavy writing, though.

snorrie

Good luck everyone. Keep writing movie scripts.

gohn67

Hey AHardRain,

I remember reading this before. I enjoyed it before. And I enjoy it now.

I like your style. It's poetic but not overwhelming. My favorite line is probably "Inhale. Exhale. Smoldering progression. " Great placement and use of fragments. Works great. Also like how you bookend the story with the sun descriptions through the windshield. The descriptions are pretty original.

Also like this part:

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There is a certain monotony to the story. There's a lot of subject verb constructed sentences. He does this. He does that. It's kind of bothersome, but it definitely sets the somber mood of the story. It's a tone setter. Kind of reflects how he feels. Maybe also somehow reflects his life. So I think it works overall.

I don't believe that there's only one way to write a story or that it has to follow any certain formula to be considered a good story. If that were true I probably wouldn't write anymore. I'm referring to your writing style, which I think is unique to yourself.

Good luck with that writing workshop application. Those apps are kind of a crapshoot. At least that's what I hear about apps for grad school MFA programs.

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Amers

I agree with Mobius, this story has depth, yet there are much questions! Is she dying? Why is he leaving her and spends the night on the couch? You just want to know more.. I liked the details, because I'm a detail person myself lol.. It's a great start for a story

AHardRain

She was dying and he killed her (to ease her suffering).

The way this story is written isn't just meant to set the mood - I was trying to give an attention to detail that would mirror a painter's.

Alas, everything isn't meant for everyone!