RTK
08-09-2009, 10:38 AM
Hi! My first story is about the process of fashion design, which I'm writing as a present for a friend whose leaving to study fashion design in New York.
My second story is about dreams, and the process through which some of our dreams are realized.
I know some of my grammar is wrong. Some is intended (literary license!), such as disjointed sentences or deliberate contradictions. Others are not, such as wrong tenses etc. I would appreciate people pointing out any flaws they see in my writing =) Without further ado...
Dress.
Colours swirl, a divine palette of a million colours, a maelstrom of vibrancy and life. You sit in the centre of the colourstorm, perched atop your artist stool, legs dangling centimetres off the floor. Your eyes seem distant, a war veteran recalling the horrors of war, or a child dreaming of an idyllic utopian existence. Finally, you reach out and twirl strands of colour, first emerald, than topaz, and finally violet, out from the mass of colours, before placing them carefully into little crystal vials. You absently stroke the fabric already in your hands, the cloth sliding smoothly between your fingers, a slight smile tugging at the corners of your mouth as you recall the rigorous formation process...
The room was darkened, dimly lit by a single orb floating in the sea of black. Cloth rustles faintly as you fiddle with the knobs in front of you, each emblazoned with softly glowing words whispering materials foreign and familiar, ranging from everyday denim and wool to exotic plant fibres and animal skins. In distant glass cubes, the origin of each material can be seen, a brown furred rabbit hopping about, oblivious of its impending doom; the labouring Chinese silkworm, endlessly spinning a cocoon that would never shelter it; or the cotton plant swaying gently in the wind, white buds promising a soft cuddle. You reach a decision, twisting the knobs of silk and cotton to the right, increasing their percentages, while turning a few other knobs slightly, leaving thousands of others untouched. A faint whirring sound is heard as you signal the end of your selection process, deciding on the amount of silk, cotton, and other materials for your cloth. The fabric materializes in front of you, white as snow and as smooth as running water. You pick it up with a contented smile, before striding purposefully into the next room, an atrium filled with a kaleidoscope of colours.
Pulling yourself back into the present, you focus on the task at hand. The penultimate room awaits, where you craft colour and cloth into a tangible creation, a dress meant to flow perfectly. If the selection process seemed whimsical, than the actual crafting process was tedious and tiresome. Minutes stretched to hours, and hours stretched to days, weeks, months. Every detail had to be perfect, every stitch flawless, and every seam unnoticeable even under the scrutiny of the finest microscope. Your eyes strain as you labour in sun and under moon, fingers ceaselessly threading, the vision of a dress resplendent in your mind’s eye. Finally, after an eternity of dreary work, the dress is completed. As you sit back with a sigh of contentment, an androgynous figure stalks in, gives a nearly imperceptible nod of approval, and whisks the dress away.
In front of the exploding flashbulbs of a thousand cameras, the porcelain beauty struts confidently up the catwalk. She is the incarnation of beauty, the avatar of Aphrodite sashaying around in the realm of mortals, your dress adorning her, accentuating her every strength, masking her every flaw. From the side, you watch proudly as your creation is branded into the minds of a million watchers as the epitome of perfection, the ideal dress that would remain an icon for eternity.
DREAM FORGE
The conveyer belt slides ever onward into eternity, bearing upon it the essence of humanity, carrying the prerequisite of sentience. Some were huge, some were tiny, and others filled galaxies, universes... The surface of each sphere shimmers iridescent under the soft moonlight. Otherworldly glows line the belt, tirelessly repairing and extending the pathway, but never ever daring to lay a finger on the ethereal orbs. They exist to create the bridge, to shape circumstance, transforming nothingness into something, an endless void into existence and experience.
At the very start, the requirements of each dream is methodically laid out, materials carefully sourced, measured, and set apart. The astronauts require moon dust, star crystals and dark matter, and millions of other exotic items. Each is measured out in precise quantities, mixed according to a strict timetable and encased in a protective, lustrous coating. The artists, wordsmiths and soundsmiths all require their own special blend of materials as well, their own inspirational source. A scrap of paint from a Van Gogh, a hair from the decaying head of Shakespeare, a vinyl record of the Beatles, all minute but essential. The soldiers and warriors require the heart of a lion, and a fragment of Excalibur for a knight, or a piece of Kusanagi-no-Tsurugi for a samurai. These seemingly inconsequential materials are integral for the dream to exist, required to ensure that every dream was different, unique, and that each could be claimed by you and you alone.
Many mistake the process to be finished, but in reality, it is just beginning. For we have no control over what our dreams are made of, but are the master’s of their fate once they slide unto the conveyer belt of life. As the conveyer belt narrows, the number of days hours minutes and seconds constrained, we let some spheres fall right off, while keeping others at the centre of our focus. The occasional, or perhaps frequent bumps dislodge more of them, sending them plummeting forever downwards into the dark void. Some extremely lucky spheres tumble, only to land on the same belt, which has mysteriously curved under itself and continues ever forward.
Finally, as eyes dim and breathe becomes shallow, the end is in sight. Few would have survived the long, arduous journey, and the remaining few would bear marks of triumph, ugly gashes along their pristine surfaces. But these are shells, to be discarded once the necessity of their protective function ceases. As you fold your hands, close your eyes, and prepare for eternal slumber, the dreams which you kept, which you achieved, which you saw through to the very end, will burst forth from their mortal shells, extend their resplendent wings, and take flight, soaring high above in the azure sky, watching over you as the final tide of darkness washes you away into the ocean of eternity.
Thanks for reading, I hope you've enjoyed them, please please post comments and suggestions for improvement! Thanks!
My second story is about dreams, and the process through which some of our dreams are realized.
I know some of my grammar is wrong. Some is intended (literary license!), such as disjointed sentences or deliberate contradictions. Others are not, such as wrong tenses etc. I would appreciate people pointing out any flaws they see in my writing =) Without further ado...
Dress.
Colours swirl, a divine palette of a million colours, a maelstrom of vibrancy and life. You sit in the centre of the colourstorm, perched atop your artist stool, legs dangling centimetres off the floor. Your eyes seem distant, a war veteran recalling the horrors of war, or a child dreaming of an idyllic utopian existence. Finally, you reach out and twirl strands of colour, first emerald, than topaz, and finally violet, out from the mass of colours, before placing them carefully into little crystal vials. You absently stroke the fabric already in your hands, the cloth sliding smoothly between your fingers, a slight smile tugging at the corners of your mouth as you recall the rigorous formation process...
The room was darkened, dimly lit by a single orb floating in the sea of black. Cloth rustles faintly as you fiddle with the knobs in front of you, each emblazoned with softly glowing words whispering materials foreign and familiar, ranging from everyday denim and wool to exotic plant fibres and animal skins. In distant glass cubes, the origin of each material can be seen, a brown furred rabbit hopping about, oblivious of its impending doom; the labouring Chinese silkworm, endlessly spinning a cocoon that would never shelter it; or the cotton plant swaying gently in the wind, white buds promising a soft cuddle. You reach a decision, twisting the knobs of silk and cotton to the right, increasing their percentages, while turning a few other knobs slightly, leaving thousands of others untouched. A faint whirring sound is heard as you signal the end of your selection process, deciding on the amount of silk, cotton, and other materials for your cloth. The fabric materializes in front of you, white as snow and as smooth as running water. You pick it up with a contented smile, before striding purposefully into the next room, an atrium filled with a kaleidoscope of colours.
Pulling yourself back into the present, you focus on the task at hand. The penultimate room awaits, where you craft colour and cloth into a tangible creation, a dress meant to flow perfectly. If the selection process seemed whimsical, than the actual crafting process was tedious and tiresome. Minutes stretched to hours, and hours stretched to days, weeks, months. Every detail had to be perfect, every stitch flawless, and every seam unnoticeable even under the scrutiny of the finest microscope. Your eyes strain as you labour in sun and under moon, fingers ceaselessly threading, the vision of a dress resplendent in your mind’s eye. Finally, after an eternity of dreary work, the dress is completed. As you sit back with a sigh of contentment, an androgynous figure stalks in, gives a nearly imperceptible nod of approval, and whisks the dress away.
In front of the exploding flashbulbs of a thousand cameras, the porcelain beauty struts confidently up the catwalk. She is the incarnation of beauty, the avatar of Aphrodite sashaying around in the realm of mortals, your dress adorning her, accentuating her every strength, masking her every flaw. From the side, you watch proudly as your creation is branded into the minds of a million watchers as the epitome of perfection, the ideal dress that would remain an icon for eternity.
DREAM FORGE
The conveyer belt slides ever onward into eternity, bearing upon it the essence of humanity, carrying the prerequisite of sentience. Some were huge, some were tiny, and others filled galaxies, universes... The surface of each sphere shimmers iridescent under the soft moonlight. Otherworldly glows line the belt, tirelessly repairing and extending the pathway, but never ever daring to lay a finger on the ethereal orbs. They exist to create the bridge, to shape circumstance, transforming nothingness into something, an endless void into existence and experience.
At the very start, the requirements of each dream is methodically laid out, materials carefully sourced, measured, and set apart. The astronauts require moon dust, star crystals and dark matter, and millions of other exotic items. Each is measured out in precise quantities, mixed according to a strict timetable and encased in a protective, lustrous coating. The artists, wordsmiths and soundsmiths all require their own special blend of materials as well, their own inspirational source. A scrap of paint from a Van Gogh, a hair from the decaying head of Shakespeare, a vinyl record of the Beatles, all minute but essential. The soldiers and warriors require the heart of a lion, and a fragment of Excalibur for a knight, or a piece of Kusanagi-no-Tsurugi for a samurai. These seemingly inconsequential materials are integral for the dream to exist, required to ensure that every dream was different, unique, and that each could be claimed by you and you alone.
Many mistake the process to be finished, but in reality, it is just beginning. For we have no control over what our dreams are made of, but are the master’s of their fate once they slide unto the conveyer belt of life. As the conveyer belt narrows, the number of days hours minutes and seconds constrained, we let some spheres fall right off, while keeping others at the centre of our focus. The occasional, or perhaps frequent bumps dislodge more of them, sending them plummeting forever downwards into the dark void. Some extremely lucky spheres tumble, only to land on the same belt, which has mysteriously curved under itself and continues ever forward.
Finally, as eyes dim and breathe becomes shallow, the end is in sight. Few would have survived the long, arduous journey, and the remaining few would bear marks of triumph, ugly gashes along their pristine surfaces. But these are shells, to be discarded once the necessity of their protective function ceases. As you fold your hands, close your eyes, and prepare for eternal slumber, the dreams which you kept, which you achieved, which you saw through to the very end, will burst forth from their mortal shells, extend their resplendent wings, and take flight, soaring high above in the azure sky, watching over you as the final tide of darkness washes you away into the ocean of eternity.
Thanks for reading, I hope you've enjoyed them, please please post comments and suggestions for improvement! Thanks!