WRITTEN BY: maichardism
PROMPT: He taunts, she flaunts.
The utters of mockery dignified by feelings of ignominy.
He crawls, she climbs.
The vines of rocks collapsed under the cluster of leaves.
He scours, she hides.
The blanket of the unseen fused with the shades of gloom.
He cries, she laughs.
PROMPT BY: IShipWhatIShip
*****
Warning: Themes of violence, sex, and strong language are present. Reader discretion is advised.
*****
The tip of the pencil touched the paper – hesitantly at first, until the repeated harsh strokes left angry lines that formed no particular image. Richard threw the pencil against the wall in exasperation, hoping it would break, but even the satisfaction of having the power to destroy when creating was a luxury he was sorely denied.
He tore the paper in half, crumpled it into a tiny ball, and took a swig from the bottle of alcohol that sat on the other side of the table.
"Tangina. Tangina, you useless piece of shit," he muttered to himself. He hit the middle of his forehead twice, thrice, and then abruptly stood up. The stool he was sitting on fell to the floor, and the dull sound of wood hitting concrete reverberated in his empty studio.
He furiously paced back and forth, hands rubbing his face as he tried to squeeze something, anything from his brain. As a painter, he had his fair share of days when nothing inspired him. It was usual, common, but as the days turned to months, he grew restless and alarmed.
Richard discovered his love for painting when he was six. It started with sketches on the last pages of his notebook when he was supposed to solve math equations. He drew whatever he saw – a ball left in the sandbox, a cat in the middle of a yawn, a woman kissing her child. The fluidity of motion and the calmness of stagnancy fascinated him, and from that moment he promised he would never stop trying to bring life into art.
Now, at 28, Richard's chest felt heavy at the settling emotion of disappointment and frustration. He was scheduled to have an exhibit in six months, but drought came and the overflowing river of creativity had dried out.
It was difficult to paint the world when it had nothing new to offer his experienced eyes. Everything became lackluster, and the muse had betrayed its artist.
He was in the middle of berating himself and cursing the world when he heard the doorbell ring. Annoyed at his pity party being disrupted, he ignored it first – hoping whoever on the other side of the door would leave soon – but the ringing just became incessant. He sighed and went downstairs.
"How's my favorite painter?" Greeted Sam, his agent for eight years and friend for twelve. "Tinatawagan kita kanina pero hindi mo naman sinasagot."
"Hello to you, too," Richard replied uninterestedly. "I was in the middle of doing something. For someone who has handled artists for years, I assumed na alam mo na not to disturb us habang may ginagawa."
