- My Forums
- Tiger Rant
- LSU Recruiting
- SEC Rant
- Saints Talk
- Pelicans Talk
- More Sports Board
- Fantasy Sports
- Golf Board
- Soccer Board
- O-T Lounge
- Tech Board
- Home/Garden Board
- Outdoor Board
- Health/Fitness Board
- Movie/TV Board
- Book Board
- Music Board
- Political Talk
- Money Talk
- Fark Board
- Gaming Board
- Travel Board
- Food/Drink Board
- Ticket Exchange
- TD Help Board
Customize My Forums- View All Forums
- Show Left Links
- Topic Sort Options
- Trending Topics
- Recent Topics
- Active Topics
Started By
Message
re: Want to help create a /r/nosleep story?
Posted on 3/3/14 at 9:36 pm to MrTide33
Posted on 3/3/14 at 9:36 pm to MrTide33
Muse on this concept...does art imitate life, or does life imitate art?
What happens when something captured in art seems too real.
She was beautiful. The most gorgeous woman Bradley had ever laid eyes on. He remembered the first time he ever glanced her angelic form. It was spring semester, and the magnolia buds had just begun to show in the quad, little nibs of pinkish-white peeking out from the dead brown of winter. He sat there, perched upon a cold stone bench, the mid-morning light filtering in through the trees. His sketchbook lay atop his knees as he tried to capture the beauty of natures rebirth, but each stroke seemed futile, not feeling true.
He was just about to pack his things up and grab a cup of coffee when he heard the most striking voice lilting across the grounds. His head involuntarily swiveled towards that sweet noise when he laid eyes upon the most perfect sight he had ever seen.
She was tall for a girl, almost six feet, and everything about her seemed to him chiseled from a goddess of the north. Her skin was fair, the healthy hue of ripe peach, framed by tresses of the most gorgeous blonde hair he had ever seen, falling past her breasts. He blushed as he thought about those, high and tight and round and firm, every ample ounce of them more perfect than any fantasy pinup he'd ever seen. She threw her head back and laughed at some unheard joke, ice blue eyes twinkling in the faint sunlight, orbs set above a perfectly aquiline nose, soft cheeks, and a smile that seemed as if it could melt even the coldest heart. He found himself staring, jaw hanging slackly at the shock of seeing such an incredible creature right there in front of him. And in the next instant, he began to draw.
Each stroke in the light of pale shimmering sunbeams seemed to be divinely inspired, and as infallible as those things sanctioned by the gods. In that moment he could do no wrong. Each time his eyes glanced at her, her image seared once more upon his mind and his hand obeyed, capturing every perfect feature as she stood there, laughing. There were no mistakes as he drew her then, no hesitation, no second guesses. He had never felt like this before, working at breakneck speed, almost removed from the experience, as if something had taken possession of his facilities, drawing for him. Even when she turned to leave he kept her there in that sublime moment, frozen by the magic of his artwork.
Each day after that he would sit in the same spot and watch her after class as she strolled across the quad, adding a little more to it. The color of her hair, the fullness of her lips, the brightness of her eyes...until it seemed...real. As if he had truly captured her there on the paper. His opus, his masterpiece...
What happens when something captured in art seems too real.
She was beautiful. The most gorgeous woman Bradley had ever laid eyes on. He remembered the first time he ever glanced her angelic form. It was spring semester, and the magnolia buds had just begun to show in the quad, little nibs of pinkish-white peeking out from the dead brown of winter. He sat there, perched upon a cold stone bench, the mid-morning light filtering in through the trees. His sketchbook lay atop his knees as he tried to capture the beauty of natures rebirth, but each stroke seemed futile, not feeling true.
He was just about to pack his things up and grab a cup of coffee when he heard the most striking voice lilting across the grounds. His head involuntarily swiveled towards that sweet noise when he laid eyes upon the most perfect sight he had ever seen.
She was tall for a girl, almost six feet, and everything about her seemed to him chiseled from a goddess of the north. Her skin was fair, the healthy hue of ripe peach, framed by tresses of the most gorgeous blonde hair he had ever seen, falling past her breasts. He blushed as he thought about those, high and tight and round and firm, every ample ounce of them more perfect than any fantasy pinup he'd ever seen. She threw her head back and laughed at some unheard joke, ice blue eyes twinkling in the faint sunlight, orbs set above a perfectly aquiline nose, soft cheeks, and a smile that seemed as if it could melt even the coldest heart. He found himself staring, jaw hanging slackly at the shock of seeing such an incredible creature right there in front of him. And in the next instant, he began to draw.
Each stroke in the light of pale shimmering sunbeams seemed to be divinely inspired, and as infallible as those things sanctioned by the gods. In that moment he could do no wrong. Each time his eyes glanced at her, her image seared once more upon his mind and his hand obeyed, capturing every perfect feature as she stood there, laughing. There were no mistakes as he drew her then, no hesitation, no second guesses. He had never felt like this before, working at breakneck speed, almost removed from the experience, as if something had taken possession of his facilities, drawing for him. Even when she turned to leave he kept her there in that sublime moment, frozen by the magic of his artwork.
Each day after that he would sit in the same spot and watch her after class as she strolled across the quad, adding a little more to it. The color of her hair, the fullness of her lips, the brightness of her eyes...until it seemed...real. As if he had truly captured her there on the paper. His opus, his masterpiece...
3
Posted on 3/3/14 at 9:50 pm to fr33manator
quote:
fr33manator
Did you write that? If so
I've admired your posting style for a while. quote:
Muse on this concept...does art imitate life, or does life imitate art?
It's funny you should pose this question. My working title for this series is "Art Imitates Death" or "Death Imitates Art" (I think this post will be the former and my last post will be the latter)
Posted on 3/3/14 at 9:51 pm to fr33manator
Hot damn!
Posted on 3/3/14 at 10:47 pm to fr33manator
He kept the picture in his pad, enshrined in plastic. And he really had captured her very essence, even more so than a photograph. If tribesmen thought a camera could steal one's soul, they would recoil at what Bradley had accomplished. Every day he watched her, trying to work up the courage to talk to her, to meet her, to show her what he had done. And every day he lost his nerve, scared, horrified of the possibility of rejection.
One bright morning he sat on his bench, the stone now warm beneath his shorts, the flowers in full bloom, filling the quad with colors and life, although not half as much as her smile. He pulled out his art and looked longingly at it as she made her usual way across the quad, this time alone. She was listening to music, and stopped to pick some flowers. Suddenly the notion seized him. This was his chance, this was the time. Gathering every scrap of courage he had inside him, he slung his bag over his shoulder and tucked her picture under his arm as he walked with measured steps to where she squatted, absentmindedly picking some violets blooming in a planter and sticking them in her hair.
He was right there, next to her. He could smell her perfume and it filled him with a sense of wonder, all jasmine and honeysuckle and driving him wild. She seemed to sense him there, and turned to meet his gaze, her luxuriant blonde hair swaying with her motion like golden waterfalls. All his practiced words failed him at that point, and instead he thrust his picture into her hands. She gingerly took it from him and stared, eyes curious, then growing wide with bewilderment. A smile crept across his face. He had done it. She would see how beautiful she was and how artfully he had captured her and...
In a halting motion she popped the earbuds from her perfectly shaped ears and looked at Bradley. Then back at the picture, then back in his eyes.
"You little creep!" She screamed, shattering the grin that had been on his face moments before. "You've been stalking me! I should call the cops you little pervert! They lock people like you up!"
The rage in her eyes was fire, searing Bradley to his core. His lips began to quiver, he could feel the redness and the strain in his eyes as he fought back the revulsion. He couldn't even make out the horrible things she was saying over the pounding of the blood in his ears.
The next thing he knew he was running. The picture was in his hands, a white knuckled grip crumpling the edge of the heavy stock as the wind from his flight made a wippawappawippawappawippa sound. He didn't stop running until he was out of breath, in a place he didn't recognize. An old grove of magnolias and ancient oaks, blocking out most of the sun. The ground here was dark and damp, and the dirt did not puff up as his tears fell, staining the picture and his shoes and the ground around him. In that moment, he felt as if the world was lost. He stared at the drawing. His perfect angel, his goddess. She despised it. In a fit of rage he crumpled it in both hands, balling it up and throwing it at the nearest oak.
The gnarled knots seemed to make a face, understanding his pain. He felt better then, making the long walk back to his dorm...
One bright morning he sat on his bench, the stone now warm beneath his shorts, the flowers in full bloom, filling the quad with colors and life, although not half as much as her smile. He pulled out his art and looked longingly at it as she made her usual way across the quad, this time alone. She was listening to music, and stopped to pick some flowers. Suddenly the notion seized him. This was his chance, this was the time. Gathering every scrap of courage he had inside him, he slung his bag over his shoulder and tucked her picture under his arm as he walked with measured steps to where she squatted, absentmindedly picking some violets blooming in a planter and sticking them in her hair.
He was right there, next to her. He could smell her perfume and it filled him with a sense of wonder, all jasmine and honeysuckle and driving him wild. She seemed to sense him there, and turned to meet his gaze, her luxuriant blonde hair swaying with her motion like golden waterfalls. All his practiced words failed him at that point, and instead he thrust his picture into her hands. She gingerly took it from him and stared, eyes curious, then growing wide with bewilderment. A smile crept across his face. He had done it. She would see how beautiful she was and how artfully he had captured her and...
In a halting motion she popped the earbuds from her perfectly shaped ears and looked at Bradley. Then back at the picture, then back in his eyes.
"You little creep!" She screamed, shattering the grin that had been on his face moments before. "You've been stalking me! I should call the cops you little pervert! They lock people like you up!"
The rage in her eyes was fire, searing Bradley to his core. His lips began to quiver, he could feel the redness and the strain in his eyes as he fought back the revulsion. He couldn't even make out the horrible things she was saying over the pounding of the blood in his ears.
The next thing he knew he was running. The picture was in his hands, a white knuckled grip crumpling the edge of the heavy stock as the wind from his flight made a wippawappawippawappawippa sound. He didn't stop running until he was out of breath, in a place he didn't recognize. An old grove of magnolias and ancient oaks, blocking out most of the sun. The ground here was dark and damp, and the dirt did not puff up as his tears fell, staining the picture and his shoes and the ground around him. In that moment, he felt as if the world was lost. He stared at the drawing. His perfect angel, his goddess. She despised it. In a fit of rage he crumpled it in both hands, balling it up and throwing it at the nearest oak.
The gnarled knots seemed to make a face, understanding his pain. He felt better then, making the long walk back to his dorm...
Page 1 of 1
Popular
Back to top
Follow TigerDroppings for LSU Football News