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Week 5 posts / We Who Paint The Trees - Final Thoughts
« on: September 03, 2020, 06:39:00 PM »
Hey everyone!

Participating in Writer in Motion this year was really fun. I'm still surprised by the story that I ended up with, but I'm really proud of it, too. I'm so glad to have worked with my CPs Sifa and Lauren, who gave me valuable pointers, and Jeni, who was super kind and flattered me by having almost no notes for the story  ;D

In all seriousness, it was great to see everyone's processes and how these stories evolve, and I hope to see you all around the writer spheres sometime soon!

Until next time :)

2
Week 4 posts / We Who Paint The Trees - Editor Draft!
« on: August 26, 2020, 11:31:52 AM »
Hi everyone!

Writer in Motion is almost done, and I just got my edits back from Jeni Chapelle! Didn't have much to change on my end, other than the "splattering and spluttering" part in the second last paragraph and the "jagged, jutting" rocks in the last paragraph, which didn't fit the cadence of the story.

Thanks for the edits, Jeni!
Here's the latest draft :)

---------------------------------------------------------------------

We who paint the trees, the leaves, the single hairs on spider legs, are often better off alone. Single-minded, we trail our brushes along the sunlight streams to fill the world with light. You cannot see us, and we resign our lives to the smaller loves: we, the glimmer in your eye; we that paint the poems you compose; we, your heart and your veins. In details, we show our love to those who need it most.

We love the world we paint, and in our loneliness, we love some things more than others. Some paint the rain at night in dazzling blues, stretch stoplights to colour someone with safety, dye the air with gently strummed chords.
 
And I, who wait for the singing prince, spend my mornings waking roses as I ask them for their thorns. I hold them for the day and return them when the prince departs. Though he cannot see me, I know he sees my work; the bed of flowers he lies on replenishes with every visit, thorns borrowed, stems unbroken. Every day, he returns with a smile.
I paint that too.

Two days go by without the prince, and I paint longest vines along the trees, now-cracked windows on the cabin by the field, dark clouds in the sky above.
On the third, I let all the colours wash away as I think of painting the prince even though he isn't here, but the hollow copy would do me no good.
I wait another day.

In the evening of the fourth, he arrives again, and I paint his smile, tousled hair, paint his hand holding another. A companion he has brought to the field. I return half the thorns I borrowed to spite this new companion. He has my eyes, my hair, and he has the prince who should be mine. The thorns push him onto the prince then quickly into undressed playfulness?and more. I paint this too.

I lose weeks painting the prince and his love-who-is-not-me, hear everything they say to each other in whispered tones and grand declarations, even if I only listen to the prince. My brushstrokes for his companion grow wider and vaguer, until eventually he could be me.

The water for my brush runs out, and I use my tears. I don't remember the Painters I used to know, long faded without their water. Three generations of my kind have passed, but I stay. I stay here for the prince, because no other could paint him as well as I do?and the thought of someone painting him with love hurts twice as much.

The prince returns one night alone, with a focussed frown, and practices a speech I refuse to hear. A speech that will tear him from my heart.
But I paint this too.

He returns with the next sunrise, and I almost don't see his love-who-is-not-me following shortly behind him, blindfolded. They kiss, they laugh, and I quickly borrow the thorns. Though I have no time to wake up the roses, they will know. They will understand.

The prince kneels, and I spray the blush on his love-who-is-not-me's cheeks as he places his hand on his chest. I stain the air with the prince's speech, slower and slower with every verse, and when he fishes in his pocket for the ring, I stop.

I do not paint it.

I do not paint the sharp diamonds, the engraved silver band, or the prince's shock. Instead, I paint a letter that wasn't there, paint lurid details of someone else who is not real, a list of the things I wish I had done with the prince shaped like the confession of a man who has done them, and I paint the love-who-is-no-longer-his-love's hand as it strikes the prince on the cheek. He lies in the thornless rosebush as he cries and his cheek blues.

I paint that too.

Exactly one week later, the prince speaks to me. He curses the fates, the world, every god he knows. He may not know or name me, but the force of his hatred is still mine to bear.

For a twisted moment, I am glad. Though it carries the name of another, it is my confession, my letter that brings tears to his eyes. He drips like a candle, and each tear seals my love further away. He tears the letter in tiny shreds that drift to the ground, but I do not paint them. I do not paint the fists he raises to the sky or his tears over his love-who-is-no-longer-his-love or his dirt-covered sleeves. I wait.

But when he promises to never come back, I paint a dagger, flying through the air.

I paint the deep wound it creates in his chest. I borrow the roses' thorns, and I paint the rain in green. I paint a new slash across his chest, a new cut in his arms, a new scar on his face, a new stream of blood from his leg, and I paint his teeth grinding, his fingernails breaking his own skin.

If I can't have him, no one can.

I paint the trail of blood to the cabin, the handprint on the door, the soaking wood. I paint the cut phone lines, the white bedsheets that waited for him. I paint the key turning in the lock.

And I paint the loving incision in his chest, the beating heart splattering over the walls as it comes to me. I don't have to paint myself, my smile, blood dripping from every strand of hair as I hold in my hands what I always wanted.

The love-who-will-never-be-the-prince's-love returns to the field with flowers that I do not paint, calling out for the prince, asking why he disappeared. He follows the trail of roses into the cabin, and when he finds the prince, he falls down the hill, faster and faster and faster towards the clustered rocks by the beach, already red from the setting sun. A brush is found in his chest.
I paint this too.

3
Week 3 posts / Re: We Who Paint The Trees - CP Edits!
« on: August 18, 2020, 03:58:43 PM »
Thanks, both of you!

4
Week 3 posts / We Who Paint The Trees - CP Edits!
« on: August 16, 2020, 04:28:13 PM »
Hi everyone!

It's another week of Writer In Motion, and since I sent my writing to my CPs a bit before the end of the week, I've already got my feedback and had time to go over it!

The biggest problem is one I expected: clarity. With the almost stilted language and occasional vagueness, there were definitely some parts that needed to be filed and fitted to shape, to be a bit easier to understand?of course without sacrificing atmosphere.

The other big problem they found was the tipping point of the story, and even though this problem is mostly linked to the last one, it's still a point on its own: the second half of the story, starting at the letter, lacked some clarity regarding what's actually happening, so I had to clarify that.

All in all, I think my CPs found a lot of good things to improve and the story is all the stronger for it!
Enjoy!

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

We who paint the trees, the leaves, the single hairs on spider legs, are often better off alone. Single-mindedly, we trail our brushes along the sunlight streams to fill the world with light. You cannot see us, and we resign our lives to the smaller loves; we, the glimmer in your eye; we that paint the poems you compose; we, your heart and your veins. In details, we show our love to those who need it most.

We love the world we paint, and in our loneliness, we love some things more than others. Some paint the rain at night in dazzling blues, stretch stoplights to colour someone with safety, dye the air with gently strummed chords. And I who wait for the singing prince spend my mornings waking roses as I ask them for their thorns. I hold them for the day and return them when the prince departs. Though he cannot see me, I know he sees my work; the bed of flowers he lies on replenishes with every visit, thorns borrowed, stems unbroken. Every day, he returns with a smile. I paint that, too.

Two days go by without the prince and I paint longest vines along the trees, now-cracked windows on the cabin by the field, dark clouds over the field. On the third, I let all the colours wash away as I think of painting the prince even though he isn?t here, but the hollow copy would do me no good. I wait another day. In the evening of the fourth he arrives again, and I paint his smile, tousled hair, paint his hand holding another. A companion he has brought to the field. I return half the thorns I borrowed to spite this new companion; he has my eyes, my hair, and he has the prince that should be mine. The thorns push him onto the prince, then quickly into undressed playfulness?and more. I paint this too.

I lose weeks painting the prince and his love-who-is-not-me, hear everything they say to each other in whispered tones and grand declarations, even if I only listen to the prince. My brushstrokes for his companion grow wider and vaguer, until eventually he could be me. The water for my brush runs out and I begin to use my tears. I don?t remember the Painters I used to know, long faded without their water. Three generations of my kind have passed, but I stay. I stay here for the prince, because no other could paint him as well as I do?and the thought of someone painting him with love hurts twice as much. The prince returns one night alone, with a focussed frown, and practices a speech I refuse to hear. A speech that will tear him from my heart. But I paint this, too.

He returns with the next sunrise, and I almost don?t see his love-who-is-not-me following shortly behind him, blindfolded. They kiss, they laugh, and I quickly borrow the thorns. Though I have no time to wake up the roses, they will know. They will understand. The prince kneels and I spray the blush on his love-who-is-not-me?s cheeks as he places his hand on his chest. I stain the air with the prince?s speech, slower and slower with every verse, and when he fishes in his pocket for the ring, I stop. I do not paint it. I do not paint the sharp diamonds, the engraved silver band, or the prince?s shock. Instead, I paint a letter that wasn?t there, paint lurid details of someone else who is not real, a list of the things I wished I had done with the prince shaped like the confession of a man who has done them, and I paint the love-who-is-no-longer-his-love?s hand as it strikes the prince on the cheek. He lies in the thornless rosebush as he cries and his cheek blues. I paint that, too.

Exactly one week later, the prince speaks to me. He curses the fates, the world, every god he knows; he may not know or name me, but his the force of his hatred is still mine to bear. For a twisted moment I am glad. Though it carries the name of another, it is my confession, my letter that brings tears to his eyes. He drips like a candle, and each tear seals my love further away. He tears the letter in tiny shreds that drift to the ground, but I do not paint them. I do not paint the fists he raises to the sky, or his tears over his love-who-is-no-longer-his-love, or his dirt-covered sleeves. I wait.

But when he promises to never come back, I paint a dagger, flying through the air.

I paint the deep wound it creates in his chest. I borrow the roses? thorns, and I paint the rain in green. I paint a new slash across his chest, a new cut in his arms, a new scar on his face, a new stream of blood from his leg, and I paint his teeth grinding, his fingernails breaking his own skin. If I can?t have him, no one can.

I paint the trail of blood to the cabin, the handprint on the door, the soaking wood. I paint the cut phone lines, the white bedsheets that waited for him. I paint the key turning in the lock.

And I paint the loving incision in his chest, the beating heart splattering and spluttering over the walls as it comes to me. I don?t have to paint myself, my smile, blood dripping from every strand of hair as I hold in my hands what I always wanted.



The love-who-will-never-be-the-prince?s-love returns to the field with flowers that I do not paint, calling out for the prince, asking why he disappeared. He follows the trail of roses into the cabin and when he finds the prince, falls down the hill, faster, and faster, and faster towards the jagged, jutting rocks by the beach, already red from the setting sun. A brush is found in his chest.

I paint this, too.

5
Week 2 posts / We Who Paint The Trees - Selfedit Draft
« on: August 11, 2020, 03:36:48 PM »
Hiya fellow Writers In Motion!

Before I show you my second draft of We Who Paint The Trees, let me tell you a bit about how I polished this story.

My first and biggest problem to watch out for was clunky language (and clarity, more to that later). Though the first draft was poetically styled, it's very easy to fall into the trap of making the language overcomplicated and using too many words so that it sounds nicer. What I worked on here was finding alternatives that were simpler but still sounded very nice (or even nicer in some cases). [This was mostly the problem in the first and second paragraphs, but also later]

Next up was clarity: again, sometimes I used roundabout phrases for simple things to make them a bit more mystical, and I tried to make sure that I didn't sacrifice clarity for atmosphere, so this point was a bit of a balancing act [this was mostly the problem in the third and fourth paragraphs].

Next up was cutting the word PAINT so that it wasn't in there too much until the end, so that that final scene, the onslaught of "paint"s hits much harder. And similarly, I tried to cut up any run-on sentences so that the one or two near the end really smack you in the face.

And lastly, I added one line to the love-who-is-not-the-painter's death. Enjoy :)

P.S. in case you're wondering, it reaches 999 words (shout-out to the hyphenated words, the real hero of this story)
--------------------------------------------------------------------------

We who paint the trees, the leaves, the single hairs on spider legs, are often better off alone. Single-mindedly, we trail our brushes along the sunlight streams to fill the world with light. You cannot see us, and we resign our lives to the smaller loves; we, the glimmer in your eye; we that paint the poems you compose; we, your heart and your veins. In details, we show our love to those who need it most.

We love the world we paint, and those of us who wish they weren?t alone love some things more than others. Some paint the rain at night in dazzling blues, stretch streetlights just a bit to colour someone with safety, dye the air with gently strummed chords. And I who wait for the singing prince spend my mornings waking roses as I ask them for their thorns. I hold them for the day and return them when the prince departs?though he cannot see me I know he sees my work; the bed of flowers he lies on replenishes with every visit, thorns borrowed, stems unbroken. Every day, he returns with a smile. I paint that, too.

Two days go by without the prince and I paint longest vines along the trees, now-cracked windows on the cabin by the field, rain that falls in sheets to the ground. On the third, I let the paint wash away as I think of painting the prince even though he isn?t here, but the hollow copy would do me no good. I wait another day. In the evening of the fourth he arrives again, and I paint his smile, tousled hair, paint his hand holding another. A companion he has brought to the field. I return half the thorns I borrowed to spite this new companion; though he has my eyes, my hair, he has the prince that should be mine. The thorns push him onto the prince, then quickly into undressed playfulness?and more. I paint this too.

I lose weeks painting the prince and his love-who-is-not-me, hear everything they say to each other in whispered tones and grand declarations, even if I only listen to the prince. My brushstrokes for his companion grow wider and vaguer, until eventually he could be me. The water for my brush runs out and I begin to use my tears. I don?t remember the painters I used to know, long faded without their water. Three generations of my kind have passed, but I stay. I stay here for the prince, because no other could paint the prince as well as I do?and the thought of someone painting him with love hurts twice as much. The prince returns one night alone, with a focussed frown, and practices a speech I refuse to hear. A speech that will tear him from my heart. But I paint this, too.

He returns with the next sunrise, and I almost don?t see his love-who-is-not-me following shortly behind him, blindfolded. They kiss, they laugh, and I quickly borrow the thorns. Though I have no time to wake up the roses, they will know. They will understand. The prince kneels and I spray the blush on his love-who-is-not-me?s cheeks as he places his hand on his chest. I stain the air with the prince?s speech, slower and slower with every verse, and when he fishes in his pocket for the ring, I stop. I do not paint it. I do not paint the sharp diamonds, the engraved silver band, or the prince?s shock. Instead, I paint a letter that wasn?t there, paint lurid details of someone else who is not real, a list of the things I wished I had done with the prince shaped like the confession of a man who has done them, and I paint the love-who-is-no-longer-his-love?s hand as it strikes the prince on the cheek. He lies in the thornless rosebush as he cries and his cheek blues. I paint that, too.

Exactly one week later, the prince speaks to me. He curses, he yells, he screams; he pummels the ground with a feverish hatred I could not paint if I wanted to. For a twisted moment I am glad. My confession, my letter brings tears to his eyes. He drips like a candle, and each tear seals my love further away. He tears the letter in tiny shreds that drift to the ground, but I do not paint them. I do not paint the fists he hurls in every direction, or his tears over his love-who-is-no-longer-his-love, or his dirt-covered sleeves. I wait.

But when he promises to never come back, I paint a dagger, flying through the air.

I paint the deep wound it creates in his chest. I borrow the roses? thorns, and I paint the rain in green. I paint a new slash across his chest, a new cut in his arms, a new scar on his face, a new stream of blood from his leg, and I paint his teeth grinding, his fingernails breaking his own skin.

I paint the trail of blood to the cabin, the handprint on the door, the soaking wood. I paint the cut phone lines, the white bedsheets that waited for him. I paint the key turning in the lock.

And I paint the loving incision in his chest, the beating heart splattering and spluttering over the walls as it comes to me. I don?t have to paint myself, my smile, blood dripping from every strand of hair as I hold in my hands what I always wanted.


The love-who-will-never-be-the-prince?s-love returns to the field with flowers that I do not paint, calling out for the prince, asking why he disappeared. He follows the trail of sleeping roses into the cabin and when he finds the prince, falls down the hill, faster, and faster, and faster towards the jagged, jutting rocks by the beach, already red from the setting sun. A brush is found in his chest.
I paint this, too.

6
Week 1 posts / We Who Paint The Trees
« on: August 04, 2020, 02:48:58 PM »
On the way home today, I was struck with an opening and title, and as I thought on it, it evolved into a story, tragic, beautiful, and weird. Here it is.

---------------------------------------------------

We who paint the trees, the leaves, the single hairs on spider legs, are often better off alone. Single-mindedly, we trail our brushes along the sunlight streams to fill the world with light. You do not see us, but you see our signature and appreciate it all the same; we, the glimmer in your eye; we that shade the bitten kisses on your neck; we who can never love like you. A pity, for we see all you love and give it colour, love it too.

We love the world we paint, and those of us who wish they weren't alone love some things more than others. Some paint the rain at night in dazzling blues, stretch streetlights just a bit to colour someone with safety, bring a message to life with a buzz and a flashing light. And I who wait for the singing prince spend my mornings waking roses as I ask them for their thorns. I hold them for the day and return them when the prince leaves again---though he cannot see me I know he sees my work; the bed of flowers he lies on replenishes with every visit, the thorns borrowed, the stems never broken. He comes back with a smile every day. I paint that, too.

Two days go by without the prince and I paint longest vines along the trees, paint the now-cracked windows of the cabin by the field, paint the rain that falls in sheets toward the ground. On the third, I think of painting the prince though he isn't here, wonder if my brush can bring him somewhere he's not, but I wait another day. In the evening of the fourth he comes, and I paint his smile, tousled hair, paint his hand holding another, a companion he has brought to the field. I return half the thorns I borrowed to spite this new companion; though he has my eyes, my hair, he has the prince that should be mine. The thorns push him onto the prince, into playfulness---and more. I paint this too.

I lose weeks painting the prince and his love-who-is-not-me, hear everything they say to each other in whispered tones and grand declarations, even if I only listen to the prince. The water for my brush runs out and I begin to use my tears, even as the others I knew slowly fade without their water, replaced by new painters, I stay. I stay here for the prince, because I know no other could paint the prince as well as I could---or if they could, that would mean they loved him too, and that would be worse. The prince returns one night alone, with a frown, and practices a speech I refuse to hear. This one speech that will tear him away from me for good. But I paint this, too.

The next morning he returns with the sunrise, and I almost don't see his love-who-is-not-me following shortly behind him, blindfolded. They kiss, they laugh, and I quickly borrow the thorns, though I have no time to wake up the roses they will know. The roses will understand. I watch the prince and his love-who-is-not-me turn serious as the prince kneels. He starts the speech I refused to hear and fishes in his pocket for a ring that he thinks he finds, but I do not paint it. I do not paint the sharp diamonds, or engraving, I paint a letter that wasn't there. I paint words with lurid details of someone else who is not real, of all the things I wished I had done with the prince shaped like the confession of a man who has done them, and I paint the love-who-is-no-longer-his-love's hand as it strikes the prince on the cheek. He lies in the thornless rosebush as he cries and his cheek blues. I paint that, too.

Exactly one week later, the prince speaks to me. He curses, he yells, he screams, and he pummels the ground. And when he looks at the letter again, I repaint it. My confession brings tears to his eyes, and I have hope for the short moment until he tears the letter in tiny shreds that drift to the ground. I do not paint them. I do not paint the fists he hurls in every direction, or his tears over his love-who-is-no-longer-his-love, or the dirt on his knees as he falls to the ground. I wait.

And as he promises to never come back, I paint a dagger, flying through the air.

I paint the deep wound it creates in his chest. I borrow the roses' thorns, and I paint the rain in green. I paint a new slash across his chest, a new cut in his arms, a new scar on his face, a new stream of blood from his leg, and I paint his teeth grinding, his fingernails breaking his own skin.

I paint the trail of blood to the cabin, the print on the door, and the soaking wood. I paint the cut phone lines, and the white bedsheets, waiting for him. I paint the key turning in the lock.

And I paint the deep incision in his chest, the beating heart splattering and spluttering all over the walls, coming to me. I don't have to paint myself, the blood does it for me, as I hold in my hands what I always wanted.


The love-who-will-never-be-the-prince's-love returns to the field with flowers that I do not paint, calling out for the prince, asking why he disappeared. He follows the trail of roses into the cabin and when he finds the prince, he falls backwards, down the hill, faster, and faster, and faster towards the jagged, jutting rocks by the beach, already red from the setting sun.

I paint this, too.

7
Week 0 posts / Re: First Impressions: Limbo
« on: August 03, 2020, 12:28:59 PM »
I've found flash fiction is perfect for stepping outside of my comfort zone; hope you find the same :)

8
Cutthroat queer folklore? Now THAT sounds like a story, count me in!

9
Week 0 posts / Re: When the Sparks Don't Come
« on: August 03, 2020, 12:25:33 PM »
Intriguing... I'll have to keep my eyes peeled to see where the character takes you!

10
Week 0 posts / Re: My thoughts on the prompt
« on: August 03, 2020, 12:23:13 PM »
I gotta agree that Dragons make everything better ;)  :dragon:

Can't wait to see your take on the prompt!

11
Week 0 posts / Re: First impressions from the prompt
« on: August 03, 2020, 12:22:08 PM »
Ooh, someone else trying to inject some SFF into this prompt! Excited to see how you do it :)

12
Week 0 posts / Re: My first impressions
« on: August 03, 2020, 12:07:04 PM »
Ooh, can't wait to see how you tie all these elements together - or where else your mind takes you!

13
Week 0 posts / Re: First Timer's First Impressions
« on: August 02, 2020, 09:58:15 AM »
Ooh, I see a melancholic story in the making! Can't wait to see where it takes you :)

14
Week 0 posts / Re: The Prompt - My first thoughts
« on: August 02, 2020, 09:54:03 AM »
Ooh, can't wait to see which direction you go with, maybe even a mix of your different odeas? Romantic drama goes horror?

15
Week 0 posts / Re: My impressions of the Visual prompt
« on: August 02, 2020, 09:22:05 AM »
Love the use of Tarot cards to help find some of the core ideas for the story - a fresh start definitely seems fitting  :)

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