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)
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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.
Topic: We Who Paint The Trees - Selfedit Draft (Read 624 times)