Exercise in Imagination

I just stumbled across a few things I wrote for a creative writing class I took this past spring to fulfill an elective requirement. One of the assignments involved writing a short story based on a work of art found online. I had no trouble thinking of one that sparked my imagination. The painting “Summer Comes” by Kyena was posted on DeviantArt on March 24, 2006, receiving special notice on April 12, 2006 as a “Daily Deviation” or a featured artwork on the popular artists’ community site.

The painting features a girl in a white summer dress in a windy field, holding the strings to two balloons behind her back. One balloon can be seen floating away in the background, where fluffy, white clouds are seen in a bright, blue sky. The point of view is from the ground, looking up through brilliant red flowers, and some of the petals are caught on the wind. It is not hard to imagine that the observer lies in the grass, fallen from his last, desperate attempt to catch the balloon that got away from the girl. The focus of his eyes is not on the distant, rising rogue; he gazes up into the girl’s face, observing the way the light caresses the side of her face and turns her hair to gold. As the subject of an exercise in imagination, this painting has great potential for testing the notion that a picture paints a thousand words.

Summer Comes…

I can still remember the day I met Elizabeth. We must have crossed each other’s path a hundred times the morning of the May Festival, oblivious to each other in the crowds. In among the tent stalls where a turbulent river of humanity divided carnival style games from street-fair merchandise, it was too easy to become overwhelmed. Desperate to escape from the deafening sea of laughter and incoherent chatter, I set off across the field to where my family had settled for our picnic. The sun was being generous with its touch, but stiff, steady breezes relieved the heat of the late spring day. The bright green grass and brilliant red blooms danced, full of the promise of summer. As I walked through the tall grass, the ribbon of the balloon tied to my wrist suddenly came unraveled. The wind seized the flighty thing and I turned and ran back the way I had come in pursuit.

It was a short chase, more of a running leap to grasp the end of the string before it slipped out of my reach. I missed and came crashing to the ground. In defeat, I sprawled face down in the grass and sighed over my loss. I’d had plans for that helium; I never tired of the effect it had on my voice! My disappointment was forgotten an instant later as clear, crystal notes of laughter washed over me. I began to push myself up to glare at the person who dared to laugh at my folly, and confronted a vision in a white summer dress.

The wind tugged on the light fabric as she approached me, holding the strings to two captive balloons behind her back. She had a serious look on her face, showing concern in the wake of laughter. “Are you alright?” she inquired, as I looked up at her from behind the crimson blooms.

The loose ends of the ribbon swaying in the breeze drew my eyes to the string of pink flowers in her hair. I took a deep breath and gave her a reassuring smile. “I’m fine,” I told her, tearing my gaze from her face watching the balloon I had been chasing make good on its escape. I could still feel its ribbon slipping though my fingers during the last leap of my pursuit. “I almost had it on that last jump,” I declared, rising to my feet and dusting myself off.

“It’s just a balloon. No need for any heroics,” she chided me, turning, hands still clasped behind her back holding the strings of her tame balloons as she watched my rogue dance and leap in the wind. Shifting her grip on the leashes of her helium pets, she brought her right hand up to shade her eyes. “It doesn’t take them very long to get up there, does it?” she asked rhetorically as the balloon turned into a faint speck in the sky.

“It was a pretty quick getaway,” I agreed, stepping up beside her and giving the speck a jaunty, farewell salute.

She laughed and reassured me, “Don’t worry, there are more where that one came from.”

I nodded and then smiled, “I was planning to go back after lunch.”

She tilted her head and then looked down the path toward the impromptu picnic grounds. “Are you here with your family then?” she asked.

I nodded again. “Are you?” I probed, unable to read her expression.

She shrugged and then shook her head. “They’re not really the picnicking type. I just had to get away from the crowd.”

I laughed. “I know what you mean,” I told her, glancing back toward all the noise and excitement. I had the unsettling feeling that this conversation was reaching its end. There was only so much you could say to a person in passing, and no guarantee you would ever bump into the same stranger twice. I took a deep breath and before I lost my nerve, I blurted, “Well, if you’re hungry, you’re welcome to join us. I’m sure my Mom brought too much of everything.”

She gave me a wary look. “I’m sorry. I can’t. I don’t even know your name.”

I nodded and let out the breath I had been holding. It was not quite a sigh, and running a hand through my hair, I apologized, “I’m sorry. I didn’t think. My name is Morgan.”

“Nice to meet you, Morgan,” she responded, giving me a quick grin before offering her own name. “I’m Elizabeth.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Elizabeth,” I replied with exaggerated gravity and a faintly British accent. I could tell from the way she was chewing on her bottom lip and edging away that she was about to excuse herself. I did not get the feeling that I had done anything too forward. I had the feeling that she was tempted by my invitation, but cautious. I pointed across the grass to where my family was settled down on a blanket, “We are having lunch right over there if you happen to change your mind.”

She followed my finger and gave my family a good look before she turned to respond, “Thank you. Maybe I’ll stop by to say hi before I go back to the festival.”

“That would be great. Thank you, Elizabeth!” I grinned and with a slight nod I backed off a few steps, watching her eyes, before I turned and walked on. I could feel her gaze on me as I walked away. I did not see her again that day; in fact, I did not see her again for months, but we were barely thirteen that first meeting. It is an awkward age for starting new relationships, but the years ahead of us were filled with opportunities that we might not have recognized if not for that first, awkward encounter.

Source
Kyena. (March 24, 2006). “Summer Comes…” Digital Art. Paintings & Airbrushing. Fantasy. DeviantArt.com. Retrieved online March 27, 2009.

Open Letter to Lindsay Lohan

Hello, Lindsay. I don’t know you and you certainly do not know me! That said, I do not really expect you to actually read this letter, and if you do, I really do not expect anything from you. Still, it is an open letter for you, and regardless of who else reads it, it is meant only for you.

I don’t have a very clear idea why I am doing this, and if anything actually comes of it, I will probably regret it at some point. I’m not even sure how to begin. I am not your friend. I am not even asking to be your friend — I don’t want anything from you. I appreciate what you have done in your life as an artist more than enough. I do have a kind of selfish interest in you, and honestly it’s weird enough to scare you if it is looked at in a certain way. So, I’ll run the risk of weirding you out right up front: I probably would have liked being you.

I’m not talking about the fame and money, and definitely not the problems you’ve had — I’ll get to those in a bit! No, I would have just been happy to have been a normal, red headed girl who was encouraged to take on the world from a very young age. I didn’t get that. I don’t know why that matters, but it does, and there’s not much I can do about it but to be considered — and feel like — a freak, simply because I know who I am and am not able to deny it for my own convenience or anyone else’s. So, yeah, you’re living the life I always dreamed of!

I’m sure you’d tell me that it’s not all it’s cooked up to be. I certainly get that impression from what filters through all the tabloid abuse. I am sorry for that. I mean, I really don’t know you so the only reason I know anything about you is because you have a public life and millions of people are eager to invade your privacy. Maintaining my privacy has been the only thing that kept me sane while my condition was driving me to explore every avenue of self-destruction available to me. It was never my intention to kill myself, or ruin my life — but it doesn’t really have to be, does it?

Life is, well, messy and complicated, and I’m pretty much convinced that it’s a kind of proving ground. We’re here to see what makes us crack, and if we’re lucky we can find our flaws and fix them before we run out of life. I don’t know if there’s any point to it, or any reward. I think that knowing what all of this is for might invalidate the reason for us having to do it. I don’t think it is necessary for us to suffer through this alone — but when there is no one you can turn to, no knowing who you can trust, you face it alone in spite of being surrounded by family and friends.

If anything, it makes you even more alone. It takes that particular dagger and twists it into your gut. I totally get that. Been there. Done that. Someday I’ll write a book about it and become rich and famous! Or… not. It doesn’t matter. I faced my demons and am now perfectly safe in the company of sharp, pointy objects and guns. Like my personal demons, they’re still dangerous, but I know how to keep them from mixing dangerously, and that’s a strange sort of life skill to acquire. I don’t know what you need, Lindsay, honestly; again, I don’t really know you.

I am a stranger, and a strange individual to boot. I am probably the last person you would turn to for help. The point of all this, though, is that I would help. I know a part of me would die if you met a tragic end, so I have gone to this — actually, quite pathetic — effort to send this letter via six-degrees of separation. I am not sure what will come of it. I only know that you need something of the heart, something of the mind and soul, something to restore your center or make you whole. I don’t have it. But if you ask me to, I will help you find it.

I’m not your friend, but if you really need one you can always try asking a stranger.

A stranger.

Now, as for all you potential spectators. I know this is somewhat absurd, and the most likely way for this letter to come to Lindsay’s attention is because one of you is reading it. I am concerned, and I am genuine, and I don’t expect anyone to take my word for it. If you are reading this, and you really are her friend I hope she can get what she needs from you. I’m only providing an option, a very, way out of the way, out of the blue alternative to the long dark night of the soul. A different perspective.