Grey

Grey

A Story by Original Stories
"

This is an unedited brainstorm piece that I am trying out. idk where i'm taking it so any and all feedback is helpful. Thank you!

"

Winter’s frost kisses her cheeks as she steps outside. Hot chocolate in hand, she feels the snow fall and blanket the lawn. Sipping her hot chocolate, she takes another step. Walking in her own winter wonderland, icicles gleaming and decorating the bridge. Ice shards flowing through the river. The snow covered bridge her only path to freedom. She walks on through her forest. On through the falling snow, she walks. The river’s stream flows around her as she finds her spot. Her bench. Her snow covered bench made of wood and ivory. The ivory carved to look like lions and elephants. She sits and sips her hot chocolate.

 

His dark hair falls over his face. Sweat drips from his chin as he works. He carefully sands his creation. A wooden elephant. Ten feet tall and fifteen feet long and five feet wide, the elephant stands tall. Jason, his name is. He works for hours on his elephant, carving each delicate detail. Every crevice, every wrinkle. He polishes it and paints it. He paints it white with dark black eyes. He decorates its head with gems and pebbles, carefully gluing them on. He knows she would love it. She loves elephants and lions. He puts his tools down and admires his work. He runs his hand over it making sure it was nice and smooth and without splinters. Happy with his work, he leaves.

 

Back in her house, she takes off her snow covered clothes and showers. She changes in front of the foggy mirror before heading down for breakfast. Her hand glides down the thin banister. Her feet find their way down the stairs, step by step. She sits in the fourth seat down the table. Fork on her right and her knife on her left. She picks up her glass of milk, placed in front of her fork, and sips it. She sets down her milk and picks up her fork, pricking her eggs, she eats. She slices her toast in half and butters it. She places the butter back beside her milk, she eats.

The systematical way of life. The best way and only way to live. Everything has a place and should be in it. Everything proper and routinely. Nothing out of place, ever. Every day she walks the same bridge, sips the same hot chocolate, sits on the same bench, descends the same stairs, sits in the same seat, sips the same milk, eats the same eggs, butters the same toast. Nothing out of place, everything in order.

Maids sweep around her. Cleaning each item without sound. Her cook prepares her meals. No sound is heard. The maids clean the banister. They clean her room. They choose the clothes for her to wear. They hang her shirt on her headboard, her pants, socks, and undergarments on her pillow, neatly folded. Nothing out of place. Everything placed in the same spot. No sound heard. No sight seen. No help wanted. Everything given. The systematical way of life. No work, always order. Her way of life.

 

He splashed the bright orange across the canvas. “This is what you need!” He runs his paint brush across the canvas again, this time with a deep purple. The mountains’ color bleed through and down into the river. A new color is created. A murky green. He takes a step back and sighs, realizing his mistake. “Always too quick. Why is the paint always so thin? It always runs…” he excuses away his mistakes. Going in with a new color, bronze this time, he makes his river into a forest. He paints silver elephants gleaming in the golden sun traveling the red road of the earth. The mountains loom over them, standing high in might, glory, and color. Golden tips of the mountains pierce the falling night and rising day. Purple dots the side of the mountain, breaking the orange streak. The elephants walk towards the vanished river. The silver night bleeds down the mountains, tainting its imperfection. Standing back, he examines his work. The silver night blooms into the mane of a lion.

Flaws of life. Hated but can never be escaped. Mountains bleed and create new life. Nothing is ever perfect. Perfection is always wanted. The strive for perfection creates flaws in life. In flaws, there is beauty, for where is beauty without flaws? Without the brokenness in the world, where would beauty be found? Nothing could be compared. The flaws of life are where he lives. Nothing perfect, everything sporadic. Mistakes made into beauty and new life. He lives in the mistakes of life. Everything wrong but yet so right. Nothing in its place but everything beautiful. He lives as the night that blooms into the lion.

He cleans his workspace. Putting the paints back in their bin, back in its shelf. He sweeps the floor clean of sawdust. He cleans his brushes of their paint. He places everything in a cup or a bin. He grabs a towel and cleans his hands. He takes his painting from the easel and places it on the shelf. He then leaves the room, turning off the light and closing the door as he goes.


© 2017 Original Stories



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Well, given its current diptych-like format and certain words you used, the most prevailing thing with what you have so far is the contrast. She's somewhere cold, he's somewhere warm.

(Aside from the sweat, there's also the "sanding". It's certainly not desert or beach sand, but together the words conjure a warm place nonetheless--be it a workshop during winter or a place where it isn't winter.)

After reading, I thought two things. First, are they apart? (As in, climates apart?) Second, it seems like the guy will visit the girl at some point or is looking forward to it, but the reader doesn't know when.

Posted 2 Weeks Ago


Original Stories

2 Weeks Ago

Yes they are apart and no I don't know what I'm going to do with the rest of the story line. I wrote.. read more

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Added on October 25, 2017
Last Updated on November 4, 2017
Tags: winter, girl, guy, elephants, lions

Author

Original Stories
Original Stories

Roanoke, VA



About
I am a young writer and still am in grade school. I am in need of some feedback from people who aren't biased because they know me. Most of my stuff is crap but I like to write and have other people r.. more..

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A Story by Original Stories