yaythisisavailable
May 13th, 2014, 03:20 PM
This is the beginnings of a short story about a civil rights movement between right and left-brained people. There will be setting development later on in the story, but for right now, I'm trying to get a feel for the characters and their thoughts towards themselves.
Bridges
“Breathe,” Tafari says, rubbing my shoulders. My hands are covered in red, and a mound of mutilated clay slows to a stop on the pottery wheel. The work of a sculptor is terrible for posture, and my shoulders chronically slump. My brother tenderly straightens my back and kneads my sore muscles, hoping to alleviate the stress on my spine.
“Your work is beautiful, Ash,” he states. Aching joints cry out as firm thumbs rub away tension. The sculptor is being sculpted, I think, ashamed of my vulnerability. Tears sting in the corners of my eyes, and I swat them away with the backs of my hands, undoubtedly smearing clay on my face.
“You’re my brother; you’re obligated like my work,” I reply, resting my arms on my knees. Freckled, tan skin painted with orange is decorated with motley patterns in black ink. A simple, straight arrow shoots from beneath the sleeve of my shirt and stretches to the middle of my forearm, pointing to the word breathe. On the other wrist, written in the same cursive script, is live.
I couldn’t be one of them even if I wanted to be.
My skin is permanently marked with evidence of my roots.
“I’m not obligated to anything,” he says. His touch fades, but I feel him fiddling with the beads in my hair. “I honestly think your work is beautiful.”
“Thanks, big brother,” I answer, unmoving. Green eyes glued to the heap of earth before me. It’s potential, ready to be shaped and spun.
“I have to get going,” he tells me, planting a kiss on the top of my head. “I’ll see you later.” He leaves the studio without another word, wood floors creaking beneath his feet. I’m alone, and I shake, shoulders slumped and back bent. I inhale the musty, herbal air, hoping to feel the oxygen flood to the bottoms of my lungs. The breath is shallow.
Tight chest squeezes shriveled lungs. I exhale.
. . .
The wheel hums as it spins, swirling the clay through my fingertips and creating smooth lines. It’s nothing, not yet. Still formless and useless, nothing more than a distraction.
Art is nothing more than a distraction.
My eyes skim my hands, weary fingers drifting along the clay. Breathe.
Art is useless.
My muscles contract in a fierce, sudden tremor. Fingers crush terra cotta, and the wheel slows to a stop.
You are useless.
“Shut up!” I yell, squeezing my project. Bits of sludge seep through the spaces between my fingers, and I shake off the excess material. Damp hands are dried on canvas pants, and I stand.
The room is cluttered, filled with various pots and vases, all crafted by my hands. The long, scarred, tattooed hands. Artist’s hands. Worthless hands.
. . .
“Hey there, Aberash,” Sidney greets. He’s the only person in the community who uses my full name.
“Morning, Sidney,” I reply, pulling a pair of wide sunglasses from my face and tucking them into the collar of my shirt. The tug on the fabric reveals my inked collar bones, and I pretend not to notice his eyes skimming the curvature of my neckline.
“What can I get for you today?” He asks, wiping his hands on his apron.
“Black pour-over,” I state, swinging my bag onto the counter and taking a seat as Sidney busies himself preparing my drink.
“I really want you to try one of my specialties one day,” he says as he scoops coffee grounds into a filter. Metal clanking, beans sifting, and water steaming.
“You know I’m a purist,” I reply, pulling a notebook from my bag and a pen from behind my ear.
“It will be purely delicious,” he grins at his own joke. Rolling my eyes, I watch the piping hot water stream through the grounds and into a chipped mug.
Rumpled and stained, my notebook holds drawings. I flip to the page near the back containing a sketch of the barista affront me.
“Is it time for me to model again?” He asks, brushing a lock of long, honey hair away from his face.
“If by ‘model’ you mean ‘make me coffee’, then yes. It’s definitely time for you to model,” I reply without looking up. Hot water hisses through the grounds and trickles into the cup. His utensils clank against the concrete counter tops in a sort of unorganized tune. Humming like a bird, he works. Carefully. Skillfully. He’s happy, proud of his accomplishments.
He’s a free-verse poet who works part time at a cheap coffee shop, I tell myself. There is nothing honorable about him.
Stop it.
“Here’s your boring house blend,” he says, sliding the cup across the counter with a smile. I’m sure there are dimples hidden beneath his uneven scruff, but I don’t have the nerve to search his face for the tiny craters. “That’ll be $1.10.”
I count out four quarters and a dime and drop them into the palm of his thick, cracked hand. Short, bare fingernails close around the change. We all have the same hands. Artists hands. Worthless hands.
Stop it.
I draw a smirk on the sketch of Sidney and hide dimples deep within his beard. Ink glides smoothly, breathing life into pages and sucking air from lungs. The world stops, frozen on its axis and my lungs shrivel. I love this. How can I love this?
This is nothing.
Each stroke, each flick of the wrist, each crisp smooth line pushes against my negativity.
This is so much.
Bridges
“Breathe,” Tafari says, rubbing my shoulders. My hands are covered in red, and a mound of mutilated clay slows to a stop on the pottery wheel. The work of a sculptor is terrible for posture, and my shoulders chronically slump. My brother tenderly straightens my back and kneads my sore muscles, hoping to alleviate the stress on my spine.
“Your work is beautiful, Ash,” he states. Aching joints cry out as firm thumbs rub away tension. The sculptor is being sculpted, I think, ashamed of my vulnerability. Tears sting in the corners of my eyes, and I swat them away with the backs of my hands, undoubtedly smearing clay on my face.
“You’re my brother; you’re obligated like my work,” I reply, resting my arms on my knees. Freckled, tan skin painted with orange is decorated with motley patterns in black ink. A simple, straight arrow shoots from beneath the sleeve of my shirt and stretches to the middle of my forearm, pointing to the word breathe. On the other wrist, written in the same cursive script, is live.
I couldn’t be one of them even if I wanted to be.
My skin is permanently marked with evidence of my roots.
“I’m not obligated to anything,” he says. His touch fades, but I feel him fiddling with the beads in my hair. “I honestly think your work is beautiful.”
“Thanks, big brother,” I answer, unmoving. Green eyes glued to the heap of earth before me. It’s potential, ready to be shaped and spun.
“I have to get going,” he tells me, planting a kiss on the top of my head. “I’ll see you later.” He leaves the studio without another word, wood floors creaking beneath his feet. I’m alone, and I shake, shoulders slumped and back bent. I inhale the musty, herbal air, hoping to feel the oxygen flood to the bottoms of my lungs. The breath is shallow.
Tight chest squeezes shriveled lungs. I exhale.
. . .
The wheel hums as it spins, swirling the clay through my fingertips and creating smooth lines. It’s nothing, not yet. Still formless and useless, nothing more than a distraction.
Art is nothing more than a distraction.
My eyes skim my hands, weary fingers drifting along the clay. Breathe.
Art is useless.
My muscles contract in a fierce, sudden tremor. Fingers crush terra cotta, and the wheel slows to a stop.
You are useless.
“Shut up!” I yell, squeezing my project. Bits of sludge seep through the spaces between my fingers, and I shake off the excess material. Damp hands are dried on canvas pants, and I stand.
The room is cluttered, filled with various pots and vases, all crafted by my hands. The long, scarred, tattooed hands. Artist’s hands. Worthless hands.
. . .
“Hey there, Aberash,” Sidney greets. He’s the only person in the community who uses my full name.
“Morning, Sidney,” I reply, pulling a pair of wide sunglasses from my face and tucking them into the collar of my shirt. The tug on the fabric reveals my inked collar bones, and I pretend not to notice his eyes skimming the curvature of my neckline.
“What can I get for you today?” He asks, wiping his hands on his apron.
“Black pour-over,” I state, swinging my bag onto the counter and taking a seat as Sidney busies himself preparing my drink.
“I really want you to try one of my specialties one day,” he says as he scoops coffee grounds into a filter. Metal clanking, beans sifting, and water steaming.
“You know I’m a purist,” I reply, pulling a notebook from my bag and a pen from behind my ear.
“It will be purely delicious,” he grins at his own joke. Rolling my eyes, I watch the piping hot water stream through the grounds and into a chipped mug.
Rumpled and stained, my notebook holds drawings. I flip to the page near the back containing a sketch of the barista affront me.
“Is it time for me to model again?” He asks, brushing a lock of long, honey hair away from his face.
“If by ‘model’ you mean ‘make me coffee’, then yes. It’s definitely time for you to model,” I reply without looking up. Hot water hisses through the grounds and trickles into the cup. His utensils clank against the concrete counter tops in a sort of unorganized tune. Humming like a bird, he works. Carefully. Skillfully. He’s happy, proud of his accomplishments.
He’s a free-verse poet who works part time at a cheap coffee shop, I tell myself. There is nothing honorable about him.
Stop it.
“Here’s your boring house blend,” he says, sliding the cup across the counter with a smile. I’m sure there are dimples hidden beneath his uneven scruff, but I don’t have the nerve to search his face for the tiny craters. “That’ll be $1.10.”
I count out four quarters and a dime and drop them into the palm of his thick, cracked hand. Short, bare fingernails close around the change. We all have the same hands. Artists hands. Worthless hands.
Stop it.
I draw a smirk on the sketch of Sidney and hide dimples deep within his beard. Ink glides smoothly, breathing life into pages and sucking air from lungs. The world stops, frozen on its axis and my lungs shrivel. I love this. How can I love this?
This is nothing.
Each stroke, each flick of the wrist, each crisp smooth line pushes against my negativity.
This is so much.