A Butterly Flapping Its Wings

It is said that sometimes one single thing, one tiny single unimportant thing, could kill thousands with a disaster on the other side of the world...

The letter was clutched in strong fingers which, had they belonged to a lesser man, might have been trembling.

Application successful.

It wasn't happiness or elation that he felt. There was a vindication that scratched on the edges of his thoughts, but the only thing really resonating in his mind was, 'what now?' It was the first time in a long while since he had heard anything beside the scornful echoes of his father's words.

It was a dream.

Almost a decade had passed since they'd been said. He'd shyly expressed his fondness for art as a schoolboy, and his father had promptly crushed his meek hopes with an iron tongue. "Fool," he had said. "Dreamer, head in the clouds." He'd laughed then, coarse and cruel. "You'd never make it." And the next semester his star-gazer of a son had been enrolled into technical school.

It started with death.

Standing cold and numb as his father was buried, it was his mother that convinced him to apply that first time with her soft words of encouragement and warm embraces to heal a broken will. So he'd sent in to the art school of his young aspirations, and he'd received his reply.

"Unfit for painting," they said. "Not artist material."

Fool.

It was when he stood once again with the mourning bells in his ears that those words came back. Mama's eulogy was read, his life faded away, and he was left just another penniless orphan in the world. Alone, nobody, just a stupid little kid.

Dreamer.

He managed as well as he could, smearing canvases with whatever he scrapped together and flogging them for as much people would cough up. He couldn't hate the crippling rent notices when they were posted, such harmless scraps of paper with the landlord's latest ultimatum. But he could hate himself.

Head in the clouds.

The words clawed through his brain, tearing at his every thought. The second application was shoved in a mailbox like a live grenade; he'd show himself, he'd show them how wrong they were.

You'd never make it.

The assessment period crawled past, day after day, and he sat and thought. He thought about the look on papa's face, the look on everyone's face. But even as waited for his answer he was already thinking of greater things. He would do more than they ever imagined, he would change the world.

Application successful.

"Passion," they said this time. "Spirit, soul. You have it."

He'd won, and all he felt was numb.

Application successful.

He thought again, then, about the father who didn't see him for who he was, about proving to everyone what he could be. He could achieve the dreams of the whole planet, he could slaughter his way to the top and wield power like a brush dipped in kerosene. But there were other thoughts too--memories, of his mother telling him to follow his heart, of his own imaginings of himself. Not a leader, not a fighter, just a creator. An artist.

There were two roads before him, and it was almost audible in the silent apartment as one crumbled to dust.

It was a dream.

He put the letter down with a smile, and turned to his canvas.

31 Years Later--September 1, 1939

Thick oak doors banged open as the President of Germany stepped through into his newly-built office. The opening of the new parliamentary building was a symbol of change and achievement for the government, which had been struggling its slow way upward since coming into power after the Great War. Wandering eyes drifted over the light cream walls, taking in the spacious room before falling onto the painting that hung over the mahogany desk. He stopped dead in his tracks with a jolt.

It is said that sometimes one single thing, one tiny single unimportant thing...

The image was abstract, distorted, a winged creature in flight with a daintiness in its features yet a darkness that lingered beneath. There was something in those bold brush strokes, something intangible and not quite there, accompanied by the icy shiver of barely-lost potential. But as soon as the feeling came it was gone, leaving only the rich-coloured room and the echoes of the hopes and promises that built it.

...could kill thousands with a disaster on the other side of the world...

"That painting there," he asked his aide, "who is the artist?"

"Oh, a graduate of the  Academy of Fine Arts Vienna," the aide replied. "I believe his name is Adolf Hitler."

...or not.

"He's good with a brush," the president said simply, striding to his seat, ready to lead his country on its path to greatness.

And it ended with life.

Author's Note

Adolf Hitler applied twice at the Academy of Fine Arts Vienna, actually rejected both times. September 1, 1939 was the day World War II officially started.

This was written for an English class for a "journey" topic. Bit of an experimental style. Feedback is greatly appreciated.

Reviews

[Satori]

Wonderfully written. I liked the lyrical style and the potential that this story held of possibilities. Even at the end it made me think about the roads not taken and there feels like there is still more.

[kaylynnmelody♥]

This was a very interesting piece of writing. It's not everyday that I get to read something like this. It was very well written.

[Sarusai Hiryu]

Neat, with a wrenching twist.
'Adolt' ... typo, duh, but also a fair jest.

[TheSweet]

Bit of an odd ending with it's lingering in truth - which I wasn't expecting at all. But this is the kind of story I've always wanted to write - with the italics between paragraph style.

What you've done with the style works very well and the story is interesting even though it's skimmed over, there is a slow reveal throughout which I alway find interesting in a story. Thanks for sharing :)

[Jesse Jacques]

I really like how you incorporated some fact in with the story. very creative.

[Nicholas Woode-Smith]

Nice twist. It should be important to note that the head of state of Germany is actually called a Chancellor btw. Other than that, very good.

[Crystal Marie Dreier]

Wow this is soo sad but such a good point to it. Great write and read!

[Calypso]

:)

[Veritatis Cupitor]

"Not a leader, not a fighter, just a creator. An artist."
Great line.

A well enjoyed piece. Every dreamer can relate to this type of scenerio in one form or another. The dreamer is always thought of as the fool. Discouragement is found more so then encouragement. That's why in this world, you have to be your biggest fan.

I like the direction this took. I had a suspicion that the boy would have been some important character, but it wasnt until you mentioned Germany that it clicked. I like that little details throughout were tied back at the end. Things like that always brings about a sense of unity and completion.
The lines in italics at the end are hard to make sense of until you go back and solely read those parts. Not a complaint, just a noting. Overall, nice work.

[Extant]

Wow.
Well, first off, it's actually quite sad to think that if Hitler had been encouraged by his father more, if he had chosen to be a painter, creator (even if he was rejected twice) rather than an evil dictator . . . who would be alive today?
This proves that art can save lives, millions, tirllions of lives, the world. Any artist's work is the product of emotion, but instead of harnessing that emotion for evil we use it to change what is bad, not feed the destruction.
While reading I could see the poet in your lines, Sylvir. Very amazing images and words conjured masterfully.