steffy123
New Member
- Joined
- Sep 6, 2008
- Messages
- 11
- Gender
- Undisclosed
- HSC
- 2009
Hey everyone. Here's a story I wrote about a mute graffiti artist (it's implied in the story but never really explicity said)
let me know what kind of mark you think it would get and where I can improve on it.
... personally, I like how it starts, then I think it gets a bit jumpy and heads downhill. Help please :S
He loved it there. The cool, thick smog in the air, the towering skyscrapers that blotted out the sun, the constant hectic atmosphere and the hustle and bustle of businessmen with places to be and things to do. But what he loved most about the big city is that it gave him a voice. And while that voice couldn’t necessarily be heard, it was loud and passionate all the same. Except, the others couldn’t see it the way he did, they had a different word for it. Vandalism, defacement… ugly, urban scrawl with the purpose of evoking a sense fear in a neighbourhood of law-abiding citizens.
That wasn’t his intention though. To him, this was the only way he could express himself. He needed some kind of way to make his thoughts heard and graffiti was the only voice he had. Every subtle movement he made, each colour and technique he applied was a deliberate act of his defiance and an outlet for his frustration. The high he got from painting was like a drug. He was addicted to the intoxicating fumes that made an aggressive hissing noise as they escaped his spray can, together with the vivid, contrasting hues and the adrenaline rush he experienced from the possibility of getting caught. He felt like he left a small piece of himself on every wall he painted. But when his parents took that away from him, there was nothing he could say to stop them.
“Son, we’re concerned for your well-being” they said “if the police catch you defacing public property again, they’ll throw you in jail! We’re trying to protect you. Please understand it’s for the best.”
‘Well being?’ ‘For the best?’ They had no idea they were taking away the only thing that kept him clinging to this miserable life! He should have known it would come to this. Because of his disability his parents often overlooked his ability. They tried to make him communicate his thoughts through other means, but they were all too passive and often he was simply ignored. That’s one of the reasons why he started painting graffiti. Even if they tried to denounce his art as vandalism, if that was the only way they noticed him, the only way they heard him, then so be it. Whether they appreciated it or not, at least he knew he left his mark.
He stared out the car window in mute consternation. This place was nothing like his home. “Well, this is it.” His father announced as they finally reached their destination.
‘This is it?’ He thought, feeling as naked as the barren desert wasteland that surrounded him. There were no walls, no buildings, nothing. The air was hot and dry, a thoroughly uncomfortable mixture he felt he’d never grow accustomed to. It was in stark contrast to the thick, grey tinted, polluted coolness of the city which he felt was infinitely preferable to this.
“This will be our new home. What do you think?” His mother asked, attempting to sound cheery in the hopes of uplifting his spirits. He didn’t know why she bothered to ask for his opinion. Surely she wasn’t expecting an answer; she knew he couldn’t respond even if he wanted to.
The silence that followed was deafening. He missed the cacophony of screaming sirens, gunshots, humming car engines and abusive taxi drivers. It made him feel oddly secure. But everything that surrounded him now only made him feel awkward and out of place.
Only days had passed since he’d first arrived in this hell and already the frustration was overwhelming. The ideas in his head felt like they were in an overflowing prison with no means of escape. He was certain he was going to explode if this monotony dragged out any longer. Mere minutes felt like days. He couldn’t stand it anymore. He had to get out.
The decision he’d made was gravely irrational and he soon found himself regretting it. He’d been wandering the wide expanse of empty land with neither purpose nor direction for quite some time. He could barely make out the house he’d left behind in the distance. The plateau of red dust seemed never ending until he finally spotted what appeared to be some kind of rock formation protruding boldly from the flat land surrounding it. As he approached it he found that they were not just rocks but caves. Finally something he could release his thoughts on! His hand moved instinctively behind him to reach for a spray can. Then, painful realisation struck him. He had nothing to paint with.
A bitter combination of frustration and defeat swept over him. He would rather die in this cave than go back to the hell his parents wanted him to live. Maybe death wouldn’t be so bad. He felt a quantum of solace in being able to pass surrounded by solid walls and ceilings. His head slowly began to drift upwards as he pondered on the thought. As his vision trailed up, his eyes stopped suddenly, entranced by a colourful pattern in the wall he hadn’t noticed previously. Immediately he stood up to get a clearer view. Lines, zig-zags and dots all combined to tell a story... Of course! The aboriginals never relied on aerosol cans to express themselves through art. If he couldn’t buy the paint, he would make it himself. Nature will provide. He experimented with different natural textures, colours and applications. He felt himself becoming one with nature and his new surroundings. His graffiti became art. He empathised with the ancient aboriginals, expressing himself as they did. Telling his story in a way only he knew how.
He took a few steps back to fully appreciate his latest creation. It was very different to what he would normally paint on the walls in dark alleyways. The desert rock he was painting on as his canvas somehow influenced his style. If he were to paint something like this on a building in the city it wouldn’t look right, but here it seemed to enhance the beauty of the landscape. He felt a smile begin to tug at his lips, strangely enough his frustration had disappeared and he was actually begin to like it here. Satisfied with his new creation, he left the cave and headed back home. Whenever he felt the frustration of not able to make his thoughts heard, he would return.
While this land wasn’t quite the same as the big city he treasured, he figured he could eventually grow to love it all the same. Only time will tell.
(I should get brownie points for including something about aboriginals... lol)
let me know what kind of mark you think it would get and where I can improve on it.
... personally, I like how it starts, then I think it gets a bit jumpy and heads downhill. Help please :S
He loved it there. The cool, thick smog in the air, the towering skyscrapers that blotted out the sun, the constant hectic atmosphere and the hustle and bustle of businessmen with places to be and things to do. But what he loved most about the big city is that it gave him a voice. And while that voice couldn’t necessarily be heard, it was loud and passionate all the same. Except, the others couldn’t see it the way he did, they had a different word for it. Vandalism, defacement… ugly, urban scrawl with the purpose of evoking a sense fear in a neighbourhood of law-abiding citizens.
That wasn’t his intention though. To him, this was the only way he could express himself. He needed some kind of way to make his thoughts heard and graffiti was the only voice he had. Every subtle movement he made, each colour and technique he applied was a deliberate act of his defiance and an outlet for his frustration. The high he got from painting was like a drug. He was addicted to the intoxicating fumes that made an aggressive hissing noise as they escaped his spray can, together with the vivid, contrasting hues and the adrenaline rush he experienced from the possibility of getting caught. He felt like he left a small piece of himself on every wall he painted. But when his parents took that away from him, there was nothing he could say to stop them.
“Son, we’re concerned for your well-being” they said “if the police catch you defacing public property again, they’ll throw you in jail! We’re trying to protect you. Please understand it’s for the best.”
‘Well being?’ ‘For the best?’ They had no idea they were taking away the only thing that kept him clinging to this miserable life! He should have known it would come to this. Because of his disability his parents often overlooked his ability. They tried to make him communicate his thoughts through other means, but they were all too passive and often he was simply ignored. That’s one of the reasons why he started painting graffiti. Even if they tried to denounce his art as vandalism, if that was the only way they noticed him, the only way they heard him, then so be it. Whether they appreciated it or not, at least he knew he left his mark.
He stared out the car window in mute consternation. This place was nothing like his home. “Well, this is it.” His father announced as they finally reached their destination.
‘This is it?’ He thought, feeling as naked as the barren desert wasteland that surrounded him. There were no walls, no buildings, nothing. The air was hot and dry, a thoroughly uncomfortable mixture he felt he’d never grow accustomed to. It was in stark contrast to the thick, grey tinted, polluted coolness of the city which he felt was infinitely preferable to this.
“This will be our new home. What do you think?” His mother asked, attempting to sound cheery in the hopes of uplifting his spirits. He didn’t know why she bothered to ask for his opinion. Surely she wasn’t expecting an answer; she knew he couldn’t respond even if he wanted to.
The silence that followed was deafening. He missed the cacophony of screaming sirens, gunshots, humming car engines and abusive taxi drivers. It made him feel oddly secure. But everything that surrounded him now only made him feel awkward and out of place.
Only days had passed since he’d first arrived in this hell and already the frustration was overwhelming. The ideas in his head felt like they were in an overflowing prison with no means of escape. He was certain he was going to explode if this monotony dragged out any longer. Mere minutes felt like days. He couldn’t stand it anymore. He had to get out.
The decision he’d made was gravely irrational and he soon found himself regretting it. He’d been wandering the wide expanse of empty land with neither purpose nor direction for quite some time. He could barely make out the house he’d left behind in the distance. The plateau of red dust seemed never ending until he finally spotted what appeared to be some kind of rock formation protruding boldly from the flat land surrounding it. As he approached it he found that they were not just rocks but caves. Finally something he could release his thoughts on! His hand moved instinctively behind him to reach for a spray can. Then, painful realisation struck him. He had nothing to paint with.
A bitter combination of frustration and defeat swept over him. He would rather die in this cave than go back to the hell his parents wanted him to live. Maybe death wouldn’t be so bad. He felt a quantum of solace in being able to pass surrounded by solid walls and ceilings. His head slowly began to drift upwards as he pondered on the thought. As his vision trailed up, his eyes stopped suddenly, entranced by a colourful pattern in the wall he hadn’t noticed previously. Immediately he stood up to get a clearer view. Lines, zig-zags and dots all combined to tell a story... Of course! The aboriginals never relied on aerosol cans to express themselves through art. If he couldn’t buy the paint, he would make it himself. Nature will provide. He experimented with different natural textures, colours and applications. He felt himself becoming one with nature and his new surroundings. His graffiti became art. He empathised with the ancient aboriginals, expressing himself as they did. Telling his story in a way only he knew how.
He took a few steps back to fully appreciate his latest creation. It was very different to what he would normally paint on the walls in dark alleyways. The desert rock he was painting on as his canvas somehow influenced his style. If he were to paint something like this on a building in the city it wouldn’t look right, but here it seemed to enhance the beauty of the landscape. He felt a smile begin to tug at his lips, strangely enough his frustration had disappeared and he was actually begin to like it here. Satisfied with his new creation, he left the cave and headed back home. Whenever he felt the frustration of not able to make his thoughts heard, he would return.
While this land wasn’t quite the same as the big city he treasured, he figured he could eventually grow to love it all the same. Only time will tell.
(I should get brownie points for including something about aboriginals... lol)
