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Hello there, aliens. (I’m being consistent again. Yes!) Below is my entry for the Sawrrie Spring Artistry Tournament.
My code name (that’s so secret she’s sharing it with all aliens): cinnamon oatmeal~
Next time I’ll make my code name my signature at the bottom of my artwork. Next time!
It looks absolutely horrid! Ha, I beat you to it!
Corrie might see this (and feel obligated to comment and like). She might gush and tell me how beautiful it was, but NO! I don’t wanna hear it!
There’s a backstory to this piece of work, which I’ve entitled “A Whiff of Life.”
I enjoyed creating it with little edits here and there. My baby sister (not so much of a baby, but whatever) commented that “It was good.” She never compliments my artwork. Huh.
Then I took out my fine pen. Oh, woe! I never should have done that. My art is ruined. My mortal enemy will forever be those outline pens… until I learn to properly use them, which is not near.
Seeing it now, it’s not…that bad…
But still.
I’ll share it in another post since this one is supposed to be sophisticated. I’m sharing an entry for an art contest. It should, at the very least, look organized!
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Oh gosh, darn it. (This idea was stolen from the Texas Lass. Heehee.)
Her eyes scanned the horizon, and her brows dropped an inch lower than usual. Without words or communication, all that needed to be said was said. Spring was late.
She rested her foot atop the boulder near the verge of the mountainside. Her deep black hair rolled in perfect heaps on her shoulders. For wintertime, her clothes were much too thin, too light. But it didn’t bother her. She was practically queen of the season. Of all seasons, for that matter.
With a nod to the setting sun, she put her foot back in place and headed home. Timmy bounded after her. Her pace was too quick for him to catch her quickly. But slowing his pace once he reached her side, Timmy glanced at her face. The abnormal darkness lining her features didn’t surprise him. She got like that every winter.
It was weird, in his opinion, that her skin became darker and that her hair changed from brown to black during the winters. Shouldn’t it become whiter? That would match the theme of nose-nipping frozenness more. He should ask that to the Wise Old Bear.
“Keep your eyes peeled for the first leaf fall,” she reminded.
But for another time.
He nodded at her, the nameless girl who took him in all those years ago. Who, in all his years, cared for him and never lashed out at him. A change, it was for Tim to be taken into her custody. She seemed cold, harsh, and rude, but she was not. Her show of love was oddâshe loved not through physical affection but through service. She would patch him up wordlessly when he cried in the far past from an unprecedented bruise or an ugly cut. No “Are you all right, Timmy dear?” or “Oh, don’t cry, sweetie. You’ll be fine soon!” Nothing of the sort, and he was all right.
He would sell his soul before anyone would know, but he loved the girl. Like a sister. He would go to a little corner to cry when she would hurt herself. He was pained when she was and worked to fix her up. She had done the same for him; it was only fair.
As they trudged on (their home was not too far away), she finally spoke again, “Mrs. Corda might need some help with the move. Go off to help her, would you? I must go off to the Bears’ home after supper.”
His reply was a small smile and a cordial nod. Timmy loved the people of the woods, though people they were not. Every day, he was ordered around, told to go here, told to go there, all around the woods. How significant a 7-year-old boy would be to the woodlanders remains a wonder. But he did his work cheerfully, and that was that.
Mrs. Corda was the nursery teacher whose dream was to own a small school, though it was nearly impossible. Dreams never do stay within the bounds of reality and possibility, do they? So still, the hopeful Mrs. Corda prayed.
Timmy loved visiting the Bears most and considered begging to join her in seeing them. But he decided against it. He must behave.
They reached their home in the hollow, and Timmy melted at the feel of the fire. After warming up, he went to aid Mrs. Corda in transferring her things from her house to where her class would be held the next day. After the quick task, he dashed home, nearly slipping from the snow by the doorway, before slamming into the wooden door, recovering, and clicking it open.
She looked upâ the nameless girlâblack hair bouncing. On his face shone a toothy grin with a hole in the middle. He lifted his arm in front of him in a blur and so quickly that she had to sit for a bit before her eyes focused. She gasped.
The first leaf. “I found it on the way,” he explained, bouncing by the balls of his feet. She stood and walked over to him. Her eyes stayed glued to the fine specimen in his tiny fingers. Plucking it gently from him, she held it by the stem. The process was slowâshe gaped and turned it by her fingers, looking here and there. Then she brought it up to her nose and took a good, deep whiff. Her shoulders drooped at the fabulous, incredible scentâthe fragrance they feared would not come soon enough. But it did! Oh, it did!
They should’ve trusted Him. The nameless girl had always been in charge of the seasons. She would make sure it was not too hot, not too cold, not too warm, and not too chilly. She fixed the aroma, she woke the nymphs, she calmed the frantic woodlanders, and she made sure all things were in the right. But He created the seasons. He knew when it would come and go. Sometimes she feared He would reel them in at too late a time or too early, but He always, always, always knew better.
These thoughts flooded her mind as the aroma clouded her senses. She looked down at Tim, whose star-eyed gaze locked in hers. She felt the blackness of her hair slipping and her cheeks warming up. Despite feeling drugged by happiness and joy, she smiled at Timmy and whispered, “Spring is here, Timmy. Life is yet to come.”
I was told to fail as a writer, so I did that. This is the first short story I posted here. And it’s titleless.
Welp, you never can be perfect. I’m a living testimony.
Before I go, I must explain that in my art, I never should’ve put black markings on her hair. The only way I fixed it was by incorporating in my story that the blackness of her hair was slipping off and that a lush fiery redness replaced it, as shown in the art. I need you to UNDERSTAND THAT.
Also, I know close to nothing about springtime. In my country, all we have is the dry season and wet season (which both have their share of dryness and wetness). In all truth, they both should be called ber-month season and it’s-so-hot-I-wanna-shave-all-my-hair-off season.
That’s it.
A Christian Kid's Journal 