GreyA Story by Ellie VeniceThis 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 Ellie VeniceReviews
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StatsAuthorEllie VeniceRoanoke, VAAboutI 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..Writing
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